28. Cala
A YEAR LATER.
Neither of us is really into TV but today was one of those I-might-actually-collapse kind of days on the ranch. So yeah, I’m giving myself permission to melt into the couch, drool a little, and let the brain-numbing box do its thing for a while.
First, we had an emergency—one of the cows couldn’t get up. The vet came out and said she’s probably pregnant.
Of course, everyone turned to stare at the new bull like he was the main suspect, and the bastard just looked away and walked off.
He walked away from the problem. Like one of those heartless guys who ghost you and then pretend you don’t exist. The poor cow looked at him like she was ready to file for child support.
It was a whole drama.
Then I found a bug problem in the garden.
Nothing major, but the thought of anything hurting my plants makes me lose my mind.
So, I threw myself into fixing it—like, full-on plant mom mode.
Maybe I got a little obsessed, but not enough for Oliver to notice I’ve been spending less time inside the house just to babysit my veggies.
The thing is, he’s changed.
He doesn’t need to run outside anymore. Now he wants to spend time with me—usually locked away in our bedroom—but that restless energy he used to carry is gone.
And the nightmares? Haven’t seen them in months.
That alone makes me ridiculously happy.
I smell him before I feel him—his cologne, warm and woodsy, hits me first. Then his hands land gently on my shoulders, his lips brush the top of my head, and he walks around the couch to sit beside me.
The news is playing in the background, but I’m not really listening. My eyes are fixed on the fireplace, on the way the flames dance and curl like they have secrets to tell.
“Tired?” he asks, resting his arm across my shoulders and pulling me closer.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s been a crazy day.”
“I told you we should hire someone to help. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”
“My mom helps me,” I mumble, half smiling.
“Liz can’t lift a pebble, Cala,” he says with that low chuckle of his. “You need real help—the kind that keeps you from getting so exhausted you can barely function. I’m selfishly thinking of all the energy you could be saving… for me.”
His hand slides down my thigh and rests there, warm and possessive, while his mouth trails slow kisses along my neck. Sparks. Literal sparks shoot through my body.
I laugh softly. “You’ve never heard me say I was too tired for that.”
He laughs too—but suddenly, it fades.
His grip loosens, and his eyes stay glued to the TV screen.
I turn my attention to the reporter’s voice—something in her tone makes my stomach twist.
“Apparently, one of the kids recorded the man on his phone and showed the video to his mother, proving that his accusations were true. Here’s what his father had to say…”
The broadcast shifts to a man in his forties, seated in a modest, middle-class living room. His features are drawn and weary, a visible testament to the toll recent events have taken. He appears hollow, broken—someone struggling under the weight of grief and frustration.
Responding to a question that isn’t audible to viewers, the man explains, “Our lawyers have advised us to gather as many witnesses as possible.” As he speaks, he casts a glance toward someone off-camera, hinting at the presence of others who share his concern.
A woman’s voice, off-screen, interjects with a single word: “Why?”
The man’s response comes laced with bitterness. “Because the man has connections,” he says. “What he did to my son—won’t be enough to put him behind bars for life. My son doesn’t lie. That man needs to be kept away from society.”
Turning directly to the camera, his voice trembles but is fueled by a fierce determination. He delivers an urgent appeal: “If you’ve ever had contact with Eder Davis, please call the number on your screen. Any testimony helps. Help my son sleep at night.”
I glance sideways at Oliver. His eyes are wide open, lips pressed tight, breath unsteady.
Then the footage rolls—a grainy black-and-white clip of a child in a bedroom, the old man shoving him onto the bed, yelling at him to sleep.
Oliver bolts up, walking straight toward the TV.
“Oli…” I whisper, following him carefully.
“It’s him,” he growls.
“Your nurse?” He nods once.
“Oh, God…” I cover my mouth, watching the video replay over and over.
Oliver’s fists clench so hard his knuckles turn white. His eyes stay locked on the screen as the report wraps up.
“If you have any information about this man, please contact—”
I quickly grab my phone and jot down the number.
“What are you doing?” His voice snaps like a whip—so full of anger that I take a step back.
“Saving the number, just in case—”
“In case of what? I’m not calling.” He shuts off the TV and tosses the remote onto the couch. “And neither are you, Cala.”
“Oliver…” I plead softly. “You can’t let him keep doing this. He didn’t stop with you. God knows how many kids he’s hurt. You can’t just look away.”
“Oh, I can,” he spits, jaw locked tight. “Watch me.”
Then he turns and storms up the stairs, every step echoing like thunder through the house.