Chapter 35
The silence feels different when you’re the one holding it. It’s heavier, sitting behind my teeth like something sharp I could spit out if I wanted to. But I don’t. I can’t.
Ever since that night at The Dew Drop and that almost-kiss.
Most of that night is a complete blur, except for the moment his mouth hovered over mine, and he breathed me in like he was already drowning in me.
I haven’t known how to look at him, let alone how to exist in the same space without that split second of his jaw clenching, like wanting me hurt, replaying in my thoughts over and over again.
I can’t.
This push and pull between us, having gone too far, those two words have lodged under my skin.
So now I give him nothing.
If he wants distance, I will build it higher than he ever could. Gone are the days of easy smiles, teasing remarks, and dusting against each other in the barn. He can have the same treatment as any other ranch hand passing through.
The morning starts like any other—mud clinging to the hem of my jeans, calves bawling for feed, the air still cold enough to bite the inside of my nose. Early spring in Montana is a liar. Warm one day and cold the next, it pretends softness and then reminds you that winter isn’t done yet.
I keep my head down through chores as Knox tries to rope me into an argument about whether we should go to Odessa or Tulsa for our first event of the season.
Easton is across the yard, stacking feed sacks into the back of the flatbed.
I can feel him there without looking, and right now I appreciate the distance.
Deacon steps out of the shop with a clipboard tucked under his arm and a scowl already formed. “We’ve got a problem on the perimeter. Hank Carlson was driving down the road and noticed that the East fence line had taken a beating from the last windstorm. It’s probably down in more than one spot.”
Knox groans. “How bad?”
“Obviously, we can get to the section Hank called about by road by truck, but we’ll have to ride the rest.”
The east side is on the far stretch of the ranch—thousands of acres rolling into timber and rocky breaks. It’s a weeklong check if you’re not experienced, at least three nights of camp if you are. Probably four.
“I’ll take Knox,” I chirp quickly.
Deacon’s eyes cut to me, then to Easton. With irritation furrowing his brow, his gaze drags back to me. “No,” he states flatly. “Knox is staying here to help me move yearlings.”
My stomach tightens, and I swallow so hard I’m pretty sure the gulp echoes through the barn.
“You can take Easton. I don’t know what the hell happened between you two”—he gestures between us, his tone sharpening—“but I’m fucking sick and tired of you and whatever this is. Fix it or kill each other, I don’t care. But do it out there while you’re working.”
Heat floods my face at his audacity, because clearly, there is nothing between us.
With a huff, I turn on my heel and head toward the tack room. If I’m going to be trapped in the wilderness with him for days, I’ll need more than silence to armor myself.
We pack without speaking.
Bedrolls. Canvas tarp. Coffee tin. Dried beans and jerky. A skillet blackened from a hundred fires. Extra fencing wire and pliers. Medical kit. Matches sealed in a plastic bag.
The routine is familiar. Yet, the air between us feels electric and brittle.
I saddle Daisy first. She tosses her head restlessly, sensing my tension. I murmur to her and tighten the girth with a little less tenderness than usual. Easton takes his time readying Ranger, but I don’t wait for him. I swing into the saddle and nudge Daisy forward before he’s even mounted.
If I ride ahead, I don’t have to see his face.
The land opens up as we head east—rolling hills freckled with melting snow, the grass here not yet green but no longer dead. The sky stretches impossibly wide in that endless Montana blue, making you feel both infinite and insignificant. Hoofbeats drum steadily beneath me, his behind mine.
The silence between us is thick enough to choke on.
We ride for hours without a word, stopping where the fence dips or leans.
Not bothering to wait for him, I dismount and begin checking wire tension, replacing staples, and retightening posts where frost has shoved them crooked.
We work like strangers who happen to know each other’s rhythms too well.
Easton is straightening a post ahead of me while I pull wire. I crank it hard, and my gloves slip. The metal snaps back and bites into my palm. “Damn it,” I snarl, quickly balling it into a fist in pain.
He races along the fence line before I finish swearing, tearing off his gloves and outstretching his hand for mine even as he reaches me. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” I huff, stubbornly.
“Teagan.”
I hold out my hand reluctantly. The cut isn’t deep, but it bleeds steadily.
He curls my fingers into a fist and wraps his hand tightly around it before leading me over to Ranger.
After fumbling to pull the medical kit from one of his saddle bags with one hand, he rifles through it to find the supplies he needs.
We don’t speak a word as he cleans and wraps my wound. He pours Bactine over my palm. His touch firm and careful, he presses a sterile pad of gauze to it.
By the time dusk settles in, the sky has shifted to streaks of lavender and orange along the horizon. We make camp near a stand of sparse timber where the land dips just enough to break the wind.
I unsaddle Daisy and rub her down, focusing on the familiarity of it as Easton builds the fire. Flames catch quickly, licking up through dry kindling before settling into a steady burn. The sound of crackling wood fills the space where words should be.
We sit on opposite sides of the flames, silence stretching between us. It feels different out here, bigger and harder to ignore. The night air bites colder than I expected. I pull my jacket tighter around me and scoot closer to the fire in hopes it will warm me.
Easton shifts across from me and clears his throat. “Teagan.” I don’t bother to look up. “You can’t just not talk to me.”
A bitter laugh rises before I can stop it. “That’s funny.”
He exhales sharply. “You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.” I lift my head finally, meeting his unreadable gaze across the flames. “You’ve been giving me the silent treatment off and on almost you got here, Easton. I’m just catching up.”
“That’s not fair.” His shoulders tense.
“Fair?” I shake my head. “You don’t get to nearly kiss me and then act like I imagined it.”
His eyes drop to the fire. The muscles in his forearms flex where they rest on his knees. “I didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?” My voice cracks despite my effort to hold my emotions in check.
“I tried… I couldn’t,” he stammers. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember.” He drops his face into his hands before dragging them both down it, the man sitting before me suddenly looking older than his years.
“I lost my wife.” His voice is rough and hesitant. “It was a little over a year ago. She was supposed to be with me, but I was running behind. She was going to meet me, only she never made it. A drunk driver made sure of that.”
The bluntness of his confession steals the air from my lungs and leaves me feeling like shit, suddenly realizing why he was so angry, in what little I remember, picking me up from The Dew Drop.
The fire pops between us.
“My world fell apart, and I found solace in the bottom of any whiskey bottle I could get my hands on,” he admits. “I drank. Hard. For a while, I didn’t care if I lived.”
The pieces all start to click into place: his distance, need for control, and the careful way he moves through the world, like everything is one wrong step from collapse.
“I don’t drink anymore,” he adds. “Not a drop. Because I know what happens when I let myself feel too much and don’t know where to put it.”
The wind shifts, carrying the smoke toward me and burning my eyes. Not wanting to look away, I struggle to keep them open.
“I don’t dislike you,” he professes. “Jesus, Teagan. That’s the problem.
I think about you more than I should, and I notice everything…
The strands of hair that always fly free from your braid.
The tiny flecks of gold rimming your pupils.
How you ride like you’ve got nothing to prove.
The way you look at the horizon, like you know there’s a whole other world out there. I don’t dislike you…”
I blink, the smoke no longer the only source of tears welling in my eyes. My heart pounds so hard and violently, I’m certain it’s going to burst from my chest.
“But I love my wife,” he breathes, his voice breaking slightly.
The honesty breaks me, and a rogue tear trails down my cheek. I draw in a slow inhale, the cold air settling deep in my lungs.
“You think wanting me would send you back there?” I ask softly.
He laughs without humor. “I think losing you would.”
The honesty in his words split me open.
He meets my gaze then, and there’s no deflection left in him.
“I know it’s not the same,” I say quietly. “Losing a spouse isn’t the same as losing a parent. I’m not pretending it is.”
His eyes hold mine, cautious but open.
“But when my mom died…” My voice wavers before I steady it. “It felt like the ground dropped out from under me. Like the world kept moving, but I was stuck in the moment before it happened.”
The fire pops softly, and embers float through the air, catching on the breeze.
“I was eleven. Everyone kept telling me I was young. That I’d adjust. Like grief is something you grow out of, if you just wait long enough.”
He watches me carefully as I swallow around the memory.
“I didn’t want to adjust,” I continue. “Adjusting felt like agreeing she was gone. Like if I laughed too loud or had a good day, it meant she mattered less. That I didn’t miss her.” My fingers twist anxiously in the cuff of my sleeve.
“I used to sit in her truck after we buried her. Just sit there and breathe in the lingering smell of her perfume. Because if I could still smell her, she wasn’t fully gone.”
The admission hangs between us, leaving me fragile and exposed.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a wife.” My voice is softer as I struggle not to cry. “But I know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t stop existing just because their body does. You don’t ever stop loving them. You just carry them differently.”
His throat moves on a swallow.
“And I know what it’s like to feel guilty for surviving them. I thought if I ever let myself be happy again, it meant I was leaving her behind,” I admit. “Like I was choosing the world over her.”
A small, humorless smile touches my lips. “Turns out, grief doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t shrink just because you stop living. The world just carries on without you. I make a conscious effort to live every day to the fullest. For her. I want my life to be big enough for the both of us.
“You’re twenty-two…” He laughs dryly, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes to dry them. When he looks at me again, there’s something unguarded in his expression, something close to awe. He shakes his head faintly. “And you carry it like that.” His voice softens. “You continue to amaze me.”
My throat tightens, but I manage a small shrug as the wind threads through the trees, low and steady, carrying the scent of smoke and thawing earth.
The world beyond our small circle of light feels vast and uncertain, but here, this space between the two of us is stripped down to something painfully real.
“Tell me about Rosie,” I whisper. And he does.
Sitting across from Easton while he speaks about the woman he still loves, I feel myself falling even harder for him.
The way he loves is otherworldly—steadfast, consuming, achingly loyal.
Any woman who gets to hold a piece of that heart will be unimaginably lucky.
If he ever finds a way to give me a fraction of what he shared with Rosie, I know it would change my world entirely.