Chapter 12
Calla
Iwake up warm.
That's the first thing I notice. The second is the weight of Rowan's arm across my waist. Heavy and unhesitating, like even in sleep he's decided he's staying put.
The bedroom is pale gray with early light. The ridge outside the window is still. The stream is a faint sound through the glass, low and settled.
I lie still for a moment and let myself have it.
This. Him. The quiet.
I haven't woken up feeling like this in eight years.
Like the house has weight to it again. Like the ranch is something shared instead of something I'm holding up alone with both hands and sheer stubbornness.
Rowan's breathing is slow and even against the back of my neck.
I could stay here all morning.
I ease out from under his arm.
He stirs. His hand catches my wrist. Light, not grabbing. Just enough.
"Early," he says. His voice is rough with sleep and does nothing good for my resolve.
"Horses," I say.
He tugs once. Gentle.
I should go. The ranch doesn't wait. The horses need feeding and the burned frame needs assessing in daylight and there are approximately seventeen things on my list that won't do themselves.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed.
Rowan's hand slides from my wrist to my hip. He doesn't pull me in. Just rests his palm there and watches me with those dark eyes that have always seen more than I want them to.
"You're already making lists," he says.
"I'm always making lists."
"Give yourself ten minutes."
"Ten minutes won't fix the barn."
"No." His thumb traces a slow circle against my hip. "But it might fix you."
I look at him. Sleep-warm and unhurried, the morning light catching the line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders against the white sheet. The bruise from Beck's punch has faded to yellow.
The man underneath it is still the one I've loved since I was old enough to understand what love costs.
Ten minutes.
I let him pull me back down.
His mouth finds mine slowly. No urgency, just heat and patience and the luxury of kissing someone when you have nowhere else you'd rather be.
My hand slides up his chest, and he makes a low sound against my lips that undoes every sensible thought I own.
"You're not making this easy," I murmur.
"Not trying to."
I push him onto his back. He goes willingly. Hands on my hips as I settle over him, the sheet tangled between us.
His eyes darken and his grip tightens and I watch his control thin out in real time. I like it. I like that I can do this to him.
The man who never flinches, who stands in front of headlights and takes punches without blinking, coming apart under my hands because I put them on him.
"For a man who claims to be grumpy, you're very cooperative right now."
His hands settle on my hips. "I'm selectively grumpy."
"Is that right."
"I have a list."
"Of course you do."
I lean down and kiss his throat. His jaw. The bruise barely there now. His breath catches and his hands slide up my thighs, and I stop talking because what he does next is very thorough and very specific and involves his fingers and then his mouth.
I forget that mornings on a ranch are supposed to start with horses and coffee and sensible decisions.
Twenty minutes. Not ten.
I don't regret a single one.
Afterward I'm warm all the way through, and Rowan is tracing slow patterns up my spine and the horses are going to have strong opinions about the delayed breakfast.
"The barn," I say.
"Still burned down," he confirms.
"That's not funny."
"A little funny."
I press my face into his shoulder to hide the smile he does not need to see. His chest shakes under my cheek. The quiet laugh he keeps mostly to himself, the one that only comes out when he trusts where he is.
I lift my head. Look at him.
"Don't get used to this," I say.
His eyes soften. "Too late."
Downstairs. Coffee. Try not to smile like an idiot at the kitchen wall.
Mostly fail.
Rowan comes down twenty minutes later.
He pours himself coffee and stands beside me at the counter and we look out at the burned barn frame in the morning light. The blackened posts, the stone foundation holding, the blue sky above it all.
"It's not as bad as it looked last night," I say.
"No." He studies it. "The foundation is solid. Main posts are ironwood. They'll clean up. We can have a frame up inside two weeks if we get enough hands."
"Beck will help."
"Yes."
"He'll complain the entire time."
"Also yes."
I wrap both hands around my mug. "We need lumber. Hardware. I need to call the insurance company and file the arson report."
"One thing at a time."
I glance at him. He's still looking at the barn. Calm. Unrushed. Like a man who has already sorted the list in his head and is waiting for me to catch up.
"You already made a list," I say.
"Yes."
"In your head."
"While you were sleeping."
I shake my head. But the warmth in my chest says something different than the shake.
We work through morning chores together. The rhythm is easier today. Looser, like something that was held tight has finally been allowed to breathe. Rowan moves through the work with the ease of a man who belongs here.
I catch myself humming again. This time I don't stop.
Rowan hears it. Doesn't comment. But I see the corner of his mouth lift while he's measuring feed. The almost-smile that's becoming my favorite thing on this entire ridge.
Beck arrives at nine.
He pulls into the yard, takes one look at Rowan's truck parked square in front of the house, and stands beside his door for a full ten seconds before walking over.
He doesn't say anything about the truck. He looks at the barn frame. Then at me. Then at Rowan.
"Insurance called back yet," he says.
"I'm calling at ten," I say.
He nods. "I talked to three men last night who'll come up Saturday for the rebuild. Tom Hutchins said he'd bring his crew if we feed them."
"Done."
Beck crouches beside the foundation stones and runs his hand along the base. "This is solid. Grandfather built this right."
"Yes he did."
He stands. Looks at Rowan. "You know framing."
"Yes."
"You lead the crew Saturday?"
Rowan holds his gaze. "Yes."
Beck nods once. Then he picks up a shovel and gets to work clearing ash from the foundation perimeter and that's that.
I look at Rowan.
He almost smiles.
The insurance investigator confirms accelerant on the phone. Professional application. He'll be on-site Thursday, but I already know what he's going to find.
I hang up and stand in the kitchen and let the anger move through me clean and cold.
Halford did this. He couldn't pressure me into selling. He couldn't scare me off with late-night headlights or friendly visits with county assessor offers.
So he took a match to something I loved instead. Something my father built. Something that has stood on this land longer than Halford has had eyes on it.
Rowan appears in the kitchen doorway. He reads my face immediately.
"What."
"Investigator confirmed accelerant pattern. Deliberate and professional." I set the phone down. "Halford didn't do this himself. He hired someone."
Rowan's expression goes very still.
"That means he planned it," I say. "Before town yesterday. Maybe before he showed up on my porch."
"He's been watching this ranch for a long time," Rowan says quietly.
"Waiting for the right moment."
"Yes."
I cross my arms. The ridge will look different by fall. I can see it already. The new barn, the morning light, Rowan at the fence line.
The picture has changed. For the first time in years, when I imagine what comes next, I'm not standing in it alone.
"I'm not selling him a single fence post of this land," I say.
Rowan crosses the kitchen. Stops in front of me and cups the side of my face with that careful attention he has, like I'm something worth being precise about.
"No," he says. "You're not."
I lean into his hand for one breath. Then I straighten.
"We need to go back to town," I say.
"Today."
"Today. I want to talk to the sheriff directly. Not a phone call. In person, on record, with Beck as a witness."
Rowan nods. "I'll drive."
"I know you will."
He almost smiles again. Two in one morning. A new record.
Beck is already at the truck when we come outside. He looks at us.
"Sheriff," he says.
"Sheriff," I confirm.
He gets in the back without another word.
The drive down the ridge is different from yesterday. Less loaded. More deliberate. Like we've moved from the question of whether we're doing this to the business of how.
The town comes into view around the bend.
And there, parked outside the sheriff's office like he owns the sidewalk, is Halford's truck.
The skin on my wrists goes cold.
Rowan's hands are steady on the wheel. His jaw sets.
"He's already there," I say.
"Yes."
"He's getting ahead of it."
"Yes."
I look at the truck. At the building behind it. At the door that is about to either help us or fail us depending on which story got there first.
"Drive faster," I say.
Rowan drives faster.