Chapter Eight #2
Newt's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me with unexpected shrewdness. "People in this town have a way of underestimating Harlow. Treating him like he's a child."
"I'm not people in this town," I countered, a edge creeping into my voice.
"No," he agreed. "You're not. That's why I'm here." He shifted in his seat, his gaze drifting to the station before returning to me. "You need to understand something about Hetty—about Ma McKenzie."
I bit back a less-than-diplomatic response about exactly what I thought of Hetty McKenzie's methods. "I'm listening."
"She loves Harlow fiercely," Newt said, his voice softening. "When he was a kid, the other children were cruel. Adults weren't much better. They'd talk around him like he couldn't understand, or worse, talk to him like he was a toddler. She fought those battles for him day after day."
I remained silent, unwilling to concede any ground on this topic. Newt sighed, reading my expression correctly.
"I'm not defending how she's treating you, or him," he continued. "But her protectiveness comes from love, not a desire to control. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I challenged. "Because from where I'm sitting, the result looks exactly the same—Harlow being denied the right to make his own choices."
"You're right," Newt admitted, surprising me.
"And she's wrong about this. About you two.
" He paused, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee.
"I know what it's like to have people decide who you should be without asking what you want.
My whole family did that to me before—" he stopped abruptly, then continued more carefully. "Before I found Knox."
I watched a subtle transformation come over him as he mentioned Knox's name—a softening around his eyes, a newfound confidence in his posture. It was the look of someone who had found their center, their safety.
"Knox stood up to his family for me," Newt said quietly. "It wasn't easy. There were ugly arguments, days when Hetty wouldn't speak to him. But eventually, she came around. Not because she changed her mind about what was 'best' for her son, but because she saw how happy he was."
The implications hung between us. I considered his words, turning them over in my mind. "You're suggesting if I openly pursue Harlow, his mother might eventually accept it."
"I'm suggesting that Hetty McKenzie loves her son more than she loves her own ideas about his life," Newt clarified. "It might take time, but she's not your real obstacle."
"What is, then?"
"The same thing that held me back for years," he said, his eyes suddenly direct and knowing. "Fear. Harlow is terrified of disappointing his family. Of being seen as 'bad' or 'wrong.' He's spent his whole life trying to be good enough to make up for being different."
Something twisted in my chest—a sharp, protective pain I wasn't accustomed to feeling. "He doesn't need to make up for anything," I said, the words coming out rougher than intended.
"I know that," Newt said. "And I think you know that. But does Harlow?"
I fell silent, considering. Through the windshield, I could see the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. In less than two hours, I'd be meeting Harlow at the river bend—if he showed up. If he found the courage to defy a lifetime of careful boundaries.
"I appreciate you coming to talk to me," I said finally, meaning it. "But I'm not sure what you expect me to do with this information."
Newt opened the truck door and slid out, then leaned back in to meet my eyes one more time. "Just be patient with him. And with Hetty. They're both doing the best they can with the tools they have."
I didn't respond. We both knew patience had never been my strong suit.
As Newt walked back to his car, I sat motionless, his words settling over me like a weight. He was right about one thing—Harlow's fear was the real obstacle. Not his mother, not the town gossip, not even the cognitive differences that everyone else seemed fixated on.
Fear was something I understood. Something I could work with.
I started the truck, decision crystallizing in my mind. I'd spent my life waiting for permission that never came, for acceptance that was always conditional. I wouldn't ask Harlow to do the same.
Tonight wasn't about getting Hetty McKenzie's blessing or the town's approval. It was about showing Harlow that he had choices—real choices—and that I would stand beside him regardless of which ones he made.
Whatever happened at the river bend tonight, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I was done waiting for permission to claim what was already mine.
I arrived at the old oak tree a full thirty minutes before sunset, too restless to wait any longer in my apartment.
The massive tree stood sentinel at the bend in the river where the McKenzie property line met public land—neutral territory, more or less.
Spring rains had left the grass lush beneath my boots, and the evening air carried the sweet scent of wildflowers mixed with the earthy smell of the river.
I leaned against the oak's rough trunk, its bark catching on my shirt as I stared down the path Harlow would take if he came from the farmhouse.
If.
The word tasted bitter.
I checked my watch for the third time in as many minutes. The golden light of late afternoon painted everything in warm hues, making the river water shimmer like liquid amber as it curved past the grassy bank. A perfect evening for beginnings. Or disappointments.
Unable to stay still, I pushed off from the tree and began pacing, moving from the oak to a fallen log and back again.
My nerves hummed with an energy I wasn't accustomed to feeling—something between anticipation and dread.
I hopped onto the log, balancing on its moss-covered surface before jumping down again.
What if Harlow changed his mind? What if Hetty had somehow discovered our plans? What if the family had closed ranks, keeping him busy with chores or obligations he couldn't refuse?
The McKenzies were a force in this town, their roots running deeper than that ancient oak. And Harlow, for all his physical power, had spent a lifetime deferring to their authority.
I stopped pacing and stared at the path again, willing his broad frame to materialize from between the trees. The quiet sounds of evening surrounded me—birdsong, the gentle gurgle of the river, leaves rustling in the light breeze.
No heavy footsteps.
No Harlow.
My watch showed fifteen minutes until sunset. I sat on the fallen log, trying to calm the racing of my thoughts. What would I do if he didn't come? Storm up to the farmhouse and demand to see him? Wait here all night on the off chance he'd been delayed?
The breeze shifted, carrying a new scent—pine soap, hay, and something uniquely Harlow. My head snapped up, searching the path, but there was nothing. Just my mind playing tricks, conjuring what I wanted most.
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to imagine what it would be like when—if—he arrived.
I'd see him first, probably. Despite his size, he moved with surprising quiet through these woods.
His broad shoulders would appear between the trees, and I'd watch that moment when he spotted me waiting for him—the way his eyes would light up, the shy smile that would transform his bearded face.
I imagined running my fingers through that dark beard, feeling its softness against my palm.
I thought about those massive, calloused hands on my skin, gentle despite their strength.
A sudden rustling in the underbrush made me jerk to attention, but it was only a rabbit darting across the path. I exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension coiled in my body like a spring.
Ten minutes until sunset.
Harlow was more than just physically compelling, though that aspect was undeniable. There was something about him that had seeped into my consciousness from our first meeting—his genuine nature, the way he saw the world so clearly despite how others underestimated him.
He possessed wisdom that had nothing to do with book learning or traditional intelligence. When he'd found me in that overturned patrol car, following some instinct that defied explanation, I'd glimpsed something extraordinary in him that no one else seemed to notice.
I remembered how he'd carried me through the storm, his arms cradling me against his chest like I was something precious.
No hesitation, no complaint, just quiet strength and determination.
And later, in the darkness of the power outage, the way his hand had found mine, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent.
The memory sent heat coursing through me.
Five minutes until sunset. The sky had begun its transformation, streaks of pink and orange bleeding across the blue. I stood again, unable to remain seated. My heart pounded against my ribs with such force I could almost hear it, drowning out the evening sounds around me.
Another rustle from the path. This time I didn't look up immediately, steeling myself for another false alarm. But then came the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping under significant weight. I turned toward the noise, holding my breath.
And there he was.
Harlow stood at the edge of the clearing, backlit by the setting sun, its golden light outlining his massive frame like he was something out of a dream.
He wore simple clothes—worn jeans, a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle, work boots caked with the day's mud. His dark hair was slightly damp, like he'd just washed it, and his beard was neater than usual, as if he'd taken care with his appearance.
Relief crashed through me with such force that I nearly staggered, a physical sensation of tension draining from my body all at once.
My vision tunneled until all I could see was him, standing there uncertain but present.
He'd come. Despite his family's warnings, despite the town's gossip, despite his own fears—he'd come to me.
"You made it," I said, unable to keep the relief from my voice.
Harlow shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wasn't sure what to do with them. "Said I would," he replied, his deep voice carrying easily across the space between us.
I took a step toward him, then another, measuring my approach. His eyes tracked my movement, wariness and want warring in his expression. When I was close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest with each rapid breath, I stopped.
"I wasn't sure," I admitted, finding honesty easier than I expected. "Thought maybe your mother might have found a way to keep you home."
A shadow crossed his face. "She thinks I'm checking the west fence line. Won't expect me back for a while."
I nodded, understanding the significance of his deception. Harlow McKenzie didn't lie—not to his family, not to anyone. That he'd done so to be here with me spoke volumes.
"Thank you," I said simply, "for coming."
His eyes met mine briefly, then dropped to my mouth before darting away again, a flush spreading across his cheekbones and disappearing into his beard. That one glance, filled with such naked longing, hit me like a physical touch.
I'd spent the past week thinking about this moment, imagining how it would unfold. But now that Harlow was standing before me, all my carefully planned words seemed inadequate. What mattered wasn't what I said, but what I did. How I showed him that he was seen and wanted exactly as he was.
The last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, painting golden streaks across his face. In that light, I could see both his uncertainty and his determination—the courage it had taken for him to defy expectations and choose for himself, maybe for the first time.
I made a silent promise then, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast us both in the gentle blue of twilight. No one—not Hetty McKenzie, not this town with its judgments and limitations, not even Harlow's own doubts—would stand between us again.