Chapter 4 - Charlotte
Vincent Covington is a complicated man. This thought bounces around my mind as we drive back to the ranch, the truck bed loaded with my emergency supplies.
Our lunch conversation revealed layers to him I hadn't expected: the avid reader hidden behind the rugged cowboy exterior, the devoted father, the man who offers to pay for a stranger's car repairs without hesitation.
It's something I wasn't prepared for. I came to Cedar Falls seeking simplicity—a clean break from my old life and a job centered on childcare. Vincent's intense dark eyes and unexpected kindness weren't part of the plan.
"Something on your mind?" he asks without taking his eyes off the road.
I quickly look away, heat rising to my cheeks. "Just thinking about everything I need to do once we get back. I should probably review Lily's schedule, get familiar with the house..."
He nods, explaining Lily's routine: breakfast at 7:00, activities throughout the day, lunch at noon, quiet time and additional activities after lunch, bath at 6:00, dinner at 7:00, and bedtime by 8:00.
"What kinds of activities does she enjoy?" I ask.
A smile softens his features. "Anything with the horses. She also loves art—drawing, painting, making a mess." He chuckles. "She's been into building things lately. Has a set of blocks she arranges into elaborate 'ranches.'"
As we talk about Lily's upcoming start in kindergarten, I offer to help prepare her. Vincent seems grateful, admitting his own uncertainty about getting her ready for school.
We crest a hill, and suddenly the ranch appears below—sprawling and picturesque with mountains rising behind it. The main house sits nestled among several outbuildings, fields stretching in every direction.
"It's even more beautiful in the afternoon," I murmur.
As we approach, I notice a small figure running from the stables. Lily races to greet us, bouncing with excitement.
"Daddy! Charlotte! Uncle Cole taught me to trot and I didn't even fall off!" she exclaims as Vincent steps out.
"That's my girl," he says, scooping her up.
Cole Covington approaches behind her, introducing himself with an easy smile.
"You must be the famous Charlotte. I hear you made quite an entrance this morning."
After brief introductions, Lily begs to show me the horses. When Vincent suggests I get settled first, I kneel to her level.
"Your dad's right, but I would love a tour first thing tomorrow morning. I want to meet Butterscotch especially."
This compromise satisfies her. "Okay. Tomorrow morning. Early!"
"It's a date," I agree, and she beams.
Inside, Lily proves to be an enthusiastic tour guide, showing me every corner of the sprawling ranch house. She points out each uncle's room, explaining their personalities with surprising insight. Her own room has purple walls, a bed with a patchwork quilt, and a handmade wooden rocking horse that her father crafted.
"Daddy makes lots of things from wood," she explains proudly. "He made my bookshelf too, and the toy box."
Our tour ends in the kitchen, where Lily shows me where everything is kept. When a timer dings, she jumps up.
"That means Uncle Ethan is coming in to start dinner soon! We need to set the table!"
By seven o'clock, the house fills with the sound of boots as the Covington brothers return. I feel suddenly nervous as I join them in the dining room, aware of being the only outsider in this tight-knit family.
Despite my initial awkwardness, the family dynamic soon pulls me in. They pass dishes family-style, tease each other mercilessly, and share updates about their day with an easy rhythm. Lily is clearly adored by all her uncles, each with a special way of interacting with her.
"So, Charlotte," Jackson says, "Vincent tells us you're from Chicago. Big change, coming to Cedar Falls."
"Definitely a change, but a welcome one. It's beautiful here."
"She walked three miles to get here this morning after her car broke down," Cole announces. "If that's not commitment, I don't know what is."
"It was quite the first impression," Vincent says with what might be a suppressed smile.
"Well, we're glad to have you here," Ethan says. "Lily's been talking about you all day."
"Said you had a nice smile." Cole teases.
"Well, you do," Vincent says unexpectedly, looking directly at me. "Have a nice smile, that is."
The simple compliment shouldn't affect me the way it does, but I feel warmth spreading through my chest.
After dinner, I join Vincent for Lily's bedtime routine. I sit on one side of her bed, while Vincent sits on the other; the three of us are crowded together over a well-loved copy of "Black Beauty."
"Daddy does the horse voices best," Lily informs me seriously.
Vincent looks embarrassed. "I don't do voices."
"You do too!" Lily insists. "Show Charlotte!"
To my surprise and delight, Vincent clears his throat and begins reading in a deep, somber voice that I suppose represents the main horse character. Lily grins triumphantly at me over her father's slight discomfort.
I take my turn reading the next chapter, and though I can't match Vincent's horse voice, I give it my best effort with the human characters. Lily's eyelids grow heavy by the end, and Vincent gently tucks the blankets around her.
"Goodnight, princess," he murmurs, pressing a kiss on her forehead.
"Night, Daddy," she mumbles sleepily, then turns to me. "Night, Charlotte. Don't forget about the horses tomorrow."
"I won't," I promise. "Sweet dreams, Lily."
Vincent and I leave her room quietly, pausing in the hallway outside her door. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking uncertain.
"You did well with her today," he says. "She likes you."
"She's easy to like," I reply honestly. "You've raised a wonderful little girl, Vincent."
"Thank you. That means a lot."
We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with something I can't quite put my finger on. Then he seems to make a decision.
"Follow me," he says quietly. "There's something I want to show you."
Curious, I follow him through the house to the back door. He grabs a flannel shirt hanging on a hook and hands it to me.
"It gets cool at night, even in summer," he explains.
I slip the shirt over my t-shirt, immediately enveloped in warmth and a scent that is distinctly Vincent—cedar, leather, and something uniquely his own. It's far too big, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but I roll them up without complaint.
Vincent leads me across the yard, past outbuildings and corals, to a small rise just beyond the main property. The night is quiet except for the chorus of crickets and the occasional soft nickering from the horses in their stables.
"This was my thinking spot as a kid," he says as we reach the top of the knoll. "Still is, sometimes."
He stops and simply points upward. I follow his gesture and gasp.
The sky above is nothing like the Chicago skies I'm used to. It's a vast, endless canopy of midnight blue, absolutely blanketed with stars—more stars than I've ever seen in my life. They stretch from horizon to horizon, some bright and bold, others delicate pinpricks of light, all together forming a tapestry so beautiful I’m pretty much speechless.
"Oh my god," I whisper, afraid to speak too loudly as if the sound might shatter this perfect moment. "I've never seen anything like this."
"City lights," Vincent says, his voice low. "They hide all this from you."
I tilt my head back, trying to take it all in at once. "It's incredible. Like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet."
He chuckles softly. "That's a nice way of putting it."
"Do you know the constellations?" I ask, still staring upward.
"Some. My dad taught me when I was a boy." He points to a formation. "That's the Big Dipper, part of Ursa Major. And over there—" his arm shifts, "—is Cassiopeia. Looks like a W."
I follow his finger, trying to see the patterns in the dazzling array of stars. "I think I see it. What's that bright one there?"
"That's Venus, actually. A planet, not a star."
"Show me more," I urge, captivated by both the night sky and the quiet passion in his voice.
Vincent points out more constellations—Cygnus, the swan; Lyra, the harp; and Aquila, the eagle.
"Over there," he says, pointing again, "is the Milky Way. Our galaxy, edge-on."
I follow his gaze to see a misty band of light stretching across the sky.
"It's beautiful," I murmur. "Makes you feel small, doesn't it?"
"In a good way," he agrees. "Puts problems in perspective."
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around myself, the night chill finally penetrating the borrowed shirt Vincent had given me.
"Cold?" he asks, noticing the gesture.
"A little," I admit.
He hesitates, then steps closer. "Here."
Carefully, as if afraid I might object, he puts an arm around my shoulders. The warmth of him immediately seeps into me, solid and reassuring.
"Better?" he asks, his voice a rumble I can feel through his chest.
"Much," I say softly, and in a moment of either bravery or foolishness, I let my head rest against his shoulder.
I feel him tense slightly, then relax. We stand like that, looking up at the stars, neither speaking for fear of breaking whatever spell has settled over us.
"My mother loved the stars," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "She used to say they were windows to heaven, where the angels peeked through to check on us."
"That's lovely," I reply, touched that he's sharing something so personal.
"Lily never got to meet my mother, but she still asks if her grandma can see her from up there," he continues. "I tell her yes, even though I'm not sure what I believe myself."
"Sometimes the comfort of an answer matters more than its absolute truth," I say. "Especially for a child."
He's quiet for a moment. "You're good with her. With Lily. I wasn't sure at first, you being younger than I expected, but... you seem to understand her."
"Children aren't so complicated," I say, still leaning against him, watching the stars slowly moving across the sky. "They want security, honesty, and love. The rest is just details."
"Is that what you want too?" The question is so low I almost miss it.
I lift my head to look at him, finding his face closer than I expected, his eyes reflecting starlight.
"I think that's what everyone wants, deep down."
His gaze holds mine, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might kiss me. Part of me—a larger part than I care to admit—hopes he will.