Chapter 9 Emma
T he barn air is thick with hay, sweat, and the pungent scent of swine, the sharp tang of manure mingling with the earthy musk of straw. It’s nothing like the sanitized steel-and-concrete world I left behind in New York. This is raw, visceral, alive . The chorus of grunts and high-pitched squeals from piglets fills the warm air, a chaotic symphony of new life.
Eric warned me about the messiness of birthing, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of tiny, pink piglets wriggling against their mothers, their delicate bodies still damp from birth. It’s beautiful and messy and completely captivating.
Derek and Blake move through the chaos with a seamless rhythm, their hands deft and sure as they tend to the two sows. Derek’s voice carries over the barn noise, barking orders with the confidence of a man who’s done this a thousand times. Blake, quieter but no less skilled, works beside him, gently handling each piglet with practiced care. Eric fills in the side stall with fresh sawdust bedding.
Off to the side, Misty and Eric’s sister, Annabelle—fresh from San Francisco—meticulously tally birth weights, their pens scratching against clipboards. Meanwhile, I remain utterly useless, standing like an observer at the edge of some secret, primal ritual.
In five hours, I absorb more gossip than I have in a year back home. I learn that Misty is dating Blake and that she’s lived in Lord’s Valley her entire life. She’s an orphan, though no one seems to know the full story—she doesn’t talk much about her childhood, and when she does, it’s in vague, clipped sentences that trail off. I also learn that Annabelle has a not-so-subtle crush on Blake’s father, Derek. And, because I like to contribute to the chaos in my own way, I introduce the farmhands to a bit of city convenience: pizza delivery.
The idea is met with skepticism.
"I can’t believe you actually ordered pizza," Eric says, shaking his head with a grin. “Pretty sure that’s a first for Lords Valley.”
We return home beneath a moonlit sky, exhaustion weighing heavily on my limbs.
"It was the least I could do," I say, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. "I can’t believe you delivered piglets."
I don’t want to move, and neither of us makes a move to say goodnight as we linger in the upstairs hall. Eric leans casually against his doorframe, his bare chest gleaming under the hallway light, sweat still clinging to his skin from the long day. I press my back against the wall, watching him yawn. He stretches his arms above his head, making things so much worse for my ability to concentrate. The soft glow from the hallway light catches on his skin, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every sharp line of definition.
My fingers twitch against my sides.
Look away, Emma.
"And you didn’t even throw up," he teases.
"Barely," I admit, rubbing my forehead. "But I got to meet your sister, so it’s a win."
A yawn overtakes me, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Exhaustion clings to my limbs, but the last thing I want is to step away from this moment. Eric lets out another massive yawn, like he’s about to swallow the world whole. "Glad you had a good time," he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.
He’s just standing there , half-naked and completely unbothered. If he knew half the things running through my mind, he wouldn’t be yawning—he’d be acting on them.
“I still can’t believe I spent my night delivering piglets. Do you realize this is the most action I’ve had in months?”
“That is possibly the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.” He smirks, taking in a slow yawn. “Should I be worried about your self-control around me, then?”
I nudge him with my foot. “Trust me, cowboy, if I jump you, you’ll see it coming.”
“Noted.” He stretches his arms above his head and my gaze lowers to the v-path below his navel. I lick my lips.
“I like a little warning before a woman takes advantage of me.” He grins.
“Speaking of warnings… You’re clean, right?”
He raises a brow and chuckles. “You’re the first woman to bring up STDs during a conversation about piglets, but yeah, I get tested regularly. You?”
I shrug, because honestly, I have no reason to get tested. “Yep. All good. Birth control too. So if I ever do decide to take advantage of you, at least, we won’t have to panic about consequences.”
He smirks, and his eyes darken. “You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you’re serious, Emma.”
My pulse kicks up as I hold his gaze. “And what if I am?”
He shakes his head.
"It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be the same. We should get some rest, but…"
He trails off, his voice dropping, and I push off the wall, feeling the weight of the moment press against me. I turn toward my room, but before I open the door, I pause, glancing over my shoulder. My hip juts out just slightly, a subconscious dare.
"But?" My voice comes out softer than intended, a whisper of something unspoken.
"But I can’t stop thinking about how I should have kissed you in the stable," he admits.
My breath stutters.
"You wanted to kiss me?"
He nods, stepping forward, closing the space between us. "The mood was right, and you were rubbing against my dick with your knee. All the signs were there."
Heat floods my face. " I was not! "
He chuckles, low and rough. "Emma, I know what a rubbed dick feels like."
I step close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body and drag my hand slowly up his thigh, over his sweatpants, until my fingers brush against the thick ridge of his erection.
His breath hitches.
"You have no idea what a well-rubbed dick feels like," I murmur, my voice dripping with promise. "Because you’ve never been rubbed by me ."
I pull my hand away before he can react, stepping back toward my room.
"Goodnight, cowboy," I whisper, letting the words linger between us. "Today was incredible ."
Two steps away, his voice reaches me, rough and full of wicked amusement.
"Goodnight, my darling Emma. I’ll cash in your offer soon," he calls. "But that was a pretty good preview."
I shut the door behind me, sealing myself in before Eric can call my bluff. My lungs strain for air as I lean against the wood, heart hammering. My feet feel like lead as I drag myself toward the bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a sigh. The day lingers on my skin, and in my bones in a chaotic swirl of exhaustion, anticipation, and longing.
Sleep creeps in, pulling me under, but my mind refuses to let go. Lords Valley tugs at me, wrapping itself around my heart in ways I never expected. Could I really belong here? I picture a future of mornings wrapped in crisp country air, afternoons spent chasing piglets, and my nights tangled up in Eric—until the distant roar of an engine snaps me from my dream.
Blinking against the haze of sleep, I rub my eyes and push off the bed. I shuffle to the window just as headlights sweep across the yard. Grandpa Albert’s old turquoise truck rumbles into the driveway, its engine sputtering like it’s holding on out of sheer stubbornness. Rust and peeling paint do little to hide its history—this truck has lived. And as Grandpa hops out, waving up at the house, I realize something else.
So have I.
"Good morning!" Grandpa Albert’s voice booms as he waves toward the house. His usual ease is wrapped in something urgent .
I rub my eyes. "It’s nine o’clock !" I call down.
"Come downstairs!" he hollers back. "Breakfast is ready!"
“On my way!” I call out the window.
I change in a hurry and run downstairs where I find a bouquet of sunflowers on the kitchen counter with a note from Eric.
Gone to Blake’s. Pigs aren’t done yet. See you later. XOXO
I shake my head, grinning. Piglets are, apparently, a full-time commitment. Shrugging into a blazer, I head outside, where Grandpa Albert stands proudly beside his truck, running a hand over the rusted hood.
"Where did you get this beauty?" I ask, giving him a warm hug.
"Emma, meet Suzy. She was my wedding gift to Eric’s grandmother." His voice is thick with nostalgia.
I smile, running my fingers over the chipped paint. "That’s a beautiful gift."
"She coughed up some oil and gave up on me a while back, but Derek fixed her up." He pats the hood with affection. "Heard you had a late night."
"First time I ever saw piglets born." I laugh. "I don’t think Eric will make it to breakfast either."
"No, he’s at Blake’s," Grandpa Albert nods. "Which means I finally get you to myself."
I raise an eyebrow. "So we’re driving Suzy five hundred yards ?"
"You wouldn’t deny an old man the pleasure, would you?" His grin is infectious.
The truck coughs to life, every inch of her groaning, but she moves. It’s charming. As we roll toward the house, Grandpa Alebert’s grin widens. The clunky vehicle rattles along the uneven road, transporting me to a world vastly different from the polished cabs I’m used to. The world away from the glass and concrete of New York feels grounding, and I realize that I’m falling for this place.
For the people.
For him .
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk away.
"Did you grow up on the ranch?" I ask, watching as Grandpa Albert scans the horizon like he can see straight into the past.
"Sure did," he says, eyes distant. "Times were easier back then. Prices were lower, and the farm gave us everything we needed. Now?" He shakes his head. "Expenses pile up faster than the crops grow."
He gestures toward the thick tree line stretching east. "We even had a drilling rig two miles past that forest. Hit oil when I was ten. My mother just about had a heart attack when I came home covered in the stuff. Couldn't figure out why I was so damn greasy until I showed her."
"You had oil on your farm?" I lean in, drawn in by the story.
"Sure did. Didn’t last long, though. Dried up after a year, but it was enough to upgrade the farm." His hands rest easy on the wheel, shifting gears like second nature. "Put some of the money into investments. That turned out well enough."
I absorb the weight of his words, imagining a young Albert stumbling into his mother’s kitchen, dripping in crude oil. A fortune found and spent in the name of survival.
“Misty said Huntz lived north of here,” I press, my voice careful.
Grandpa’s jaw tightens. "He did. But he's gone now." He slows Suzy into neutral, letting her roll down the hill toward the driveway. His face turns toward me, deep lines etching his expression. "Haven’t seen him in years," he admits, voice carrying a mix of relief and something else—something heavier. "And it's better that way."
“But Misty saw him yesterday,” I push, watching for a reaction.
Grandpa exhales, cutting the ignition. "That’s because the sheriff’s office is also the post office and the town hall. Huntz just comes to pick up his mail, and that's it." He steps out, the truck groaning under the shift in weight. Circling around, he pulls open my door, offering me his arm. "It’s better to move forward than to keep looking back, Emma."
I loop my hand through his, his words settling like an unspoken warning. "I'll do my best," I promise, even if I’m not entirely sure it’s a promise I can keep.
As we walk toward Joanne and Ethan’s house, he pats my shoulder, his smile warm, hopeful.
"I’m glad Eric finally settled down," he says, his voice rich with satisfaction. "I can’t wait for you two to make the announcement this weekend."
His words should feel like comfort, but instead, they weigh me down like a stone. This lie—our carefully constructed engagement—wraps itself around me tighter, pressing against my ribs until I can barely breathe. I steal a glance at Grandpa, at the joy lighting his face, and make a silent vow.
I’ll make this real.
For Grandpa.
For me.
Eric wants me… I know he does. He just needs a little push, and a little time, and I still have a few more days here. A few more days, and he’ll be mine. Then, love will come. It has to. And then, we won’t have to break Grandpa Albert’s heart.
Or mine.
Joanne greets us at the doorstep with a motherly embrace, pulling me into the warmth of her home. The kitchen is alive with scents that feel like a hug—freshly baked pies, warm pancakes, sizzling bacon, and the deep, rich aroma of brewing coffee. My stomach tightens in response.
"Emma, darling, come out to the greenhouse with me," Joanne says, linking her arm through mine. "We need cherry tomatoes."
I follow her outside, crossing the dewy grass toward the sprawling glass structure at the back of the yard. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of basil and rosemary, the warmth wrapping around me like a second skin. Vines curl from the ceiling, flowers spill from hanging pots, and leafy greens flourish in wooden crates. It's like stepping into a hidden garden paradise.
“How was your evening?” she asks.
"The piglets were amazing," I say, reaching for a vine of ripe tomatoes and popping one in my mouth. It’s sweet, juicy and actually has flavor. "I have to admit, the country life is growing on me more than I expected."
Joanne chuckles, scooping her apron into a makeshift basket for our harvest. "I’m happy to hear that. Not everyone adjusts so easily. But there's something special about this place."
I hesitate before broaching the subject that’s been sitting heavily on my mind since yesterday. "I hope I’m not overstepping, but Misty mentioned… John Huntz. And your baby." I swallow hard, unsure if I should continue. "I’m so sorry for your loss."
Joanne stills, her fingers hovering over a tomato, her expression distant. The air between us shifts, thickens. The grief is palpable, curling around us like an unseen force.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly, my stomach sinking. "I shouldn’t have brought it up."
Joanne exhales softly, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "It's all right," she murmurs. "Yes, I lost a baby girl. But that was a long time ago."
I shake my head. "I don’t believe grief ever stops ."
Her smile falters, but she nods. "You're right. It comes and goes, some days harder than others. We named her Sky ." Her voice catches on the name, and I feel my chest tighten in response. "Sometimes, it feels like she's still with us."
"That’s a beautiful name."
Joanne gives my hand a gentle squeeze before shifting the conversation. "Eric doesn’t talk much about himself, does he?"
I huff a small laugh. "Not really."
"That’s Eric, all right," she muses. "But he’s been different since you arrived. More open. More present. He even stops by in the mornings just to say hello."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Really?"
Joanne nods. "You make him very happy."
The words lodge in my throat, unexpected and dizzying.
He makes me happy too.
But before I can say it out loud, Joanne straightens, patting the tomatoes in her apron. "Come on, let’s get these inside before breakfast gets cold."
I follow her back to the house, but my mind is spinning. Eric doesn’t just want me here—he’s changing because of me.
The thought sends a thrill through my chest.
The breakfast table is a feast, a spread of golden eggs, warm bread, jars of homemade jam, and enough bacon to feed a small army. Even the smell is tempting, though the memory of the piglets and my vegetarian stomach has me sticking to fruit and pancakes instead.
Poor piglets.
As we eat, Grandpa Albert regales me with stories from his youth, painting a vivid picture of life in Lords Valley. Across Pebble Lake, Eric has a family of firefighter cousins. I mentally catalog every detail, each thread of information weaving a richer tapestry of the family I’m slipping into.
As I finish my scrambled eggs, I glance at my watch, calculating how long until Eric returns.
Grandpa Albert smirks. "You miss him that much ?"
My cheeks heat instantly. "Always."
"Distance is healthy," he muses, spearing a piece of bacon. "Besides, I have something important to discuss with you."
I raise a brow. "Oh?"
"The sheriff’s office is a mess."
I nearly choke on my juice. " Oh , I know."
He chuckles. "We could use someone with computer skills to organize the town’s records. The budget isn’t large, but it’s enough to make a difference."
I set my fork down, considering. "I’d love to help. But I need to go back to New York first. My father’s not well."
"Of course, there’s no rush." His expression turns thoughtful, his eyes studying me with quiet intensity. "You know, Eric’s never been one to keep secrets from his family. I’m surprised he didn’t tell us about your engagement sooner."
My stomach drops.
I force an easy smile. "We wanted to keep it quiet at first."
Grandpa leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Where did he propose?"
My mouth goes dry.
"Central Park," I say smoothly. "Same spot as our first date."
"And when ?"
"When he came to New York," I answer quickly, my pulse hammering.
He studies me for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I’m glad he decided to settle down. I just need to know you love him ." His voice softens. "That you’ll stand by his side and help him keep this ranch going."
The weight of his words settles over me like a heavy quilt.
"I love him," I say, the truth slipping out before I can stop it. "And I promise to stand by his side."
Grandpa’s face softens. "Good. Remember that when my heart gives out." He laughs, but there’s something serious in his eyes.
A lump rises in my throat.
"You know where I stand," I murmur. "I’ve been in love with Eric since the first time he saddled me onto Shadow."
His brows lift slightly. "You’ve loved him that long?"
I smile, surprised by how easy the answer is. "Yes. That long."
"And Eric?" His eyes narrow playfully. "When did he fall in love with you ?"
He hasn’t.
I force a small laugh. "You’d have to ask him that."
Grandpa eyes me, but then his face breaks into a knowing smile. "Seems to me my grandson’s head over heels in love with you."
I wish that were true.
"Has he shown you the cherry trees yet?"
I frown. "No."
Grandpa nods sagely. "Well, once he does, you’ll know it’s real ."
Something about his certainty makes my stomach flutter.
He pats my hand. "Emma, I just want you two to be happy. And to keep this ranch out of auction."
Auction?
My stomach flips.
I hadn’t realized the ranch was in such deep trouble.
“The account’s been draining like a leaky faucet," Grandpa admits. "But with you around, I can see Eric bringing the Waters name back to good standing."
The announcement this weekend isn’t just for show. It’s everything .
I have until Sunday to make Eric fall in love with me.
No pressure.
Grandpa squeezes my hand, his eyes misty. "The love you two share reminds me of Estonia and me."
I inhale sharply, surprised at the emotion in his voice.
"I‘ve been waiting for the right person for a long time," I whisper. "And Eric… He’s the one."
Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Grandpa Albert’s weathered hand covers mine, his grip firm yet comforting. His deep sigh carries the weight of years, of experience, of knowing things I don’t yet fully understand.
“All I want is for you both to be happy,” he says, his voice softer now, as if he’s passing me something sacred.
I cup my palms over his, the warmth of his touch anchoring me. My voice is barely above a whisper, but it holds a truth I can’t deny. “I love Eric with all my heart.” The words slip out effortlessly, surprising even me with their weight. If only I could say them to Eric himself. If only I knew what his response would be.
With a soft sigh, I add, “And I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”
The words hang between us, a delicate mixture of truth and wishful thinking.
Grandpa Albert studies me for a long moment, then nods, satisfied. “Good.”
He shifts in his chair, his tone taking on a new gravity. “Now, tell me about your father.”
The lump in my throat returns. “Stage four colon cancer,” I say, the words thick, heavy. “He doesn’t have much time.”
The sadness in his eyes mirrors my own. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He squeezes my hand before letting go, giving me space to breathe. “Wouldn’t you rather be by his side right now?”
My chest tightens, the familiar war raging inside me.
“I should be,” I admit, my fingers tracing the round edges of my untouched sweet bun. “This round of chemo is… It’s killing him. I should be there, but Eric needs my help?—”
His brow lifts. “What help does he need?”
“I promised I’d find Huntz.”
Grandpa exhales slowly. “Emma, Huntz isn’t lost. Everyone in this town knows where he is.”
I swallow. “I also need to be here for the Fest. For Eric’s announcement. It’ll make our engagement official. It’s important.”
Grandpa bites into his sweet bun, chewing thoughtfully. I take a bite of mine, the buttery dough melting on my tongue, but it does little to ease the nerves tightening my stomach.
“If you need to leave before then, I understand,” he says gently.
His words hit me like a blow.
“What?”
“Family is everything,” he continues, his voice kind but firm. “You won’t get this time back with your father.”
I set my fork down, the conversation suddenly too much. “Soon,” I promise. “I’ll go home soon. Probably right after the Fest, and we’ll figure out the rest.”
“Eric should go with you,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He should be by your side.”
I wish it were that simple.
“My brothers aren’t exactly comfortable with our age difference,” I admit, feeling the weight of the lie pressing against my ribs. “They don’t even know we’re together.”
His frown deepens. “Estonia was fifteen years younger than me,” he says, his voice taking on a nostalgic warmth. “And she was the finest wife a man could ask for. Age is just a number in matters of the heart.”
“That’s what my father tells me,” I smile, feeling a rush of affection for the two men who’ve been quietly guiding my heart. “Thank you for being so understanding. You make a great grandpa.”
He gives me a playful wink. “Tell me, Emma,” he says, his tone shifting. “Could you see yourself putting down roots in Lords Valley?”
The question catches me off guard.
I glance outside, where the land stretches endlessly, golden fields swaying gently in the morning breeze. This town is unlike anything I’ve ever known. It’s slower, simpler, and full of a richness I can’t quite explain.
“It’s beautiful here,” I say honestly, surprised by the longing in my own voice. “There’s a peace in Lords Valley that you just can’t find in the city. And the people… They’re real. Grounded . It’s refreshing.”
Grandpa nods approvingly. “That’s what drew me back after college. I could’ve gone anywhere, but something about this place…” He trails off, gazing into the distance. “It’s home. When I die, I want my ashes spread over these lands.”
A lump rises in my throat.
I squeeze his hand. “Well, let’s not talk about that just yet, okay? You’re still riding a bicycle like you’re training for the Tour de France, and Eric told me you’re still riding horses.”
He chuckles. “I’ll ride until the day I die.”
“Okay, enough with the dying talk,” I say, shaking my head. “What I’m trying to say is, you have time .”
He leans in slightly, his expression serious. “Emma, what I have is today . Hopefully, I’ll have tomorrow, and the day after that, but none of us know when our time is up.”
Chills skate up my spine, but I force a smile. “Then let’s make today a good one.”
The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and we finish our meal, laughter filling the air. Grandpa Albert’s stories paint a picture of a life that was hard but deeply fulfilling, and I find myself enchanted by every word.
As we clear the table, he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.
“Emma, you’re part of this family now,” he says. “And we take care of our own. If you ever need anything, you come to me. Joanne and Ethan will love you like a daughter.”
His words are like honey, thick and warm, seeping into the cracks I didn’t realize existed in me.
Back home, I’ve always been an afterthought— the Silver girl, the younger sister, the one who had to prove her worth. But here?
Here, I belong .
Here, I matter .
And maybe, just maybe, this engagement with Eric doesn’t have to be fake.
Maybe it could be real .
“Excuse me, but if I stay any longer, I’ll be late to my meeting with Eric,” Grandpa glances at his watch.
I finish my last bite of Grandpa Albert’s homemade biscuits and gravy, thank him and Joanne for breakfast, and step outside.
Fresh country air fills my lungs, crisp and laced with the earthy scent of damp soil. In the distance, cows bellow lazily, their deep calls blending with the morning chorus of birds hidden among the trees. The farm stretches before me like a living canvas—rolling green fields dotted with bursts of wildflowers, golden sunflowers standing tall along the garden’s edge. Grandma Estonia’s pink carpet roses still spill over their trellis, stubbornly clinging to the last days of bloom.
Everything here breathes steadiness, a quiet rhythm of life so different from the chaos of New York.
But when I step inside the house, the warmth of that peace vanishes, because Eric isn't home.
My stomach twists, disappointment settling deep. His absence hums louder than anything outside.
My chest tightens as I scan the quiet space. The kitchen feels too still, too empty. On the back table, a bowl of freshly picked apples catches my eye. I grab one, turning toward the open shelf where cookbooks are stacked in uneven piles. My fingers trail over the spines, brushing against an old leather journal nestled between them.
Curious, I pull it free, but as I do, a stack of papers tumbles loose, scattering across the floor.
"Gotcha! Shit!"
A book box crashes down, scattering notes—and three wads of cash—onto the wooden planks.
My pulse kicks up.
I quickly gather the papers, neatly stacking them back on the shelf, but my hands hesitate over the notebook. The cover, marked Family Recipes , is worn and stained from years of use. Flipping through, I land on Grandma Estonia’s famous apple crumble recipe.
I smile.
"I'm gonna put my own spin on this."
I may not know how to cook, but I can follow instructions. Right now, I need an anchor, and baking is it.
The process soothes me. The rhythm of slicing apples, the warm scent of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the kitchen. The golden topping crisps in the oven, the scent curling into something homey . Something that feels right .
The timer's chime signals and the crumble is ready. As I carefully extract the golden, bubbling dish and set it on the cooling rack, a sudden, loud neigh pierces the air. The sharp sound sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body.
I freeze, straining to listen as another urgent neigh echoes, its insistence slicing through the stillness. My stomach twists. I scribble a hasty note to Eric, slip on Annabelle’s boots, and hurry toward the stables.