Chapter 2
Chapter two
Cash
The same cabin. The same woman. Seventeen years later.
Elbows on my knees, I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, trying to get my pulse under control. My heart's been doing this thing since yesterday, where it forgets how to beat steadily. It pounds too hard, then skips, then pounds again as if it's trying to make up for lost time.
I've dated. God knows I've tried. There was Sarah three years ago, a kindergarten teacher from the outskirts of Rosewood County, sweet and uncomplicated.
Lasted four months before she told me I was "emotionally unavailable.
" Then Rebecca, the nurse who came through on a contract job.
Six weeks. She said I was "waiting for someone who wasn't coming back. "
And she was right.
I go to the window. The sky's starting to lighten to that pre-dawn gray that turns everything soft and uncertain. The outline of the cabins are visible from here, dark shapes against darker hills. Cabin 5 has a light on.
She's awake too.
The thought squeezes my ribs. I press my palm flat against the window glass and count the way my brother Alban back in Granitehart Ridge taught me years ago when the nightmares got bad.
Four in. Hold. Four out. It doesn't help.
Nothing helps except the plan I made at three a.m. when I finally stopped pretending I'd sleep.
Two weeks. I have that long to prove this is real. To prove I'm not some spring break memory she's embarrassed about. To prove that what we had wasn't just good. It was right, the kind of right you don't find twice.
I dress in jeans and a work shirt after showering, my hands shaking while I button it.
Ridiculous. I'm forty-five years old, not some kid with his first crush.
But my body doesn't care about logic. It remembers her hands in my hair, the sound she made when I kissed her neck, the way she looked at the sunrise with her face tilted toward the light.
Her horse spooked on the second day, and she played the panic off with a sharp laugh.
She white-knuckled the saddle horn and called it embarrassing, which was her way of apologizing for being human enough to be afraid.
In the kitchen, I make two mugs of coffee, black. Add a splash of milk to one. My phone buzzes on the counter. Alban.
Three rings before I answer.
"You sounded weird a couple days ago," he says instead of hello. "What's going on?"
Bracing my hip against the counter, I close my eyes. "She's here."
Silence. Then: "Spring break girl?"
"Her name's Sloane." The phone shifts in my grip. "She checked in yesterday. Corporate wellness program, here for two weeks."
"Holy shit." Movement on his end, probably getting ready for a mountain patrol. "She came back?"
"She didn't know it was the same ranch." The words are difficult on my tongue. "Didn't know I'd be here."
"But she stayed."
"She didn't have a choice. Her company mandated it."
More silence. Alban's good at letting quiet do the heavy lifting. Finally: "What are you going to do?"
"I've been lying to myself for seventeen years, Alban. Telling myself I moved on. The second I saw her name on the guest list, every wall came down."
"Good."
My eyes open. "Good?"
"When you know, you know." His voice goes firm. "And when you know, you act. That's what Dad always said."
The porch light at Cabin 5 is a lonely beacon in the dark, and I know she’s behind that door, likely halfway to calling a rideshare already. "Suppose I give it everything," I say, the admission aching in my chest, "and she still walks?"
"Have you said the words yet, flat-out told her you fell in love with her back then?"
"No."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"She’s spooked at being here. I can see it in the way she won't meet my gaze. If I press her now, she’s gone before she’s even unpacked. I have to let her find her own way back, or I’ll lose her for good."
Alban’s voice drops an octave, the grit of hard-won wisdom cutting through the static.
"Show her the life she could have. Every sunrise, every broken fence, every night on the ranch.
I almost let Neve walk because I thought silence was strength.
It wasn't. It was just cowardice. Don’t let her go without a mark on her heart. "
His warning anchors itself in my chest, solid and immovable. The indecision that’s been eating at me since I saw her name on the roster finally starves to death. I know exactly what I have to do, and I know I can't wait another hour to do it. I nod even though he can't see me. "I won't."
"Call me if you need backup. Neve will want to meet her."
I almost smile. "Tell your wife she can't have her before I do."
"Fair enough. Now go get your girl."
He hangs up. As I stand there holding the phone, his words echo. Go get your girl. Like it's simple. Like all those years didn't happen. Like I haven't spent every single day wondering where she was, who she was with, if she ever thought about me.
After pocketing the phone, I pick up both mugs. The sky's now that blue-gray just before sunrise. I head toward the cabins, boots crunching on gravel, steam rising from the coffee in the cool morning air.
Her porch light is still on. At the bottom of the steps, I stop and look up at the door. Behind it, she's probably pacing. Probably trying to talk herself into running. I know her. The way she moves when she's scared. The way she builds walls to keep people out.
Up the steps. Two knocks.
The door opens fast, like she was standing right there.
She's dressed for riding in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeve shirt that hangs loose on her.
Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, and she's not wearing makeup.
She looks exhausted and beautiful, and her arms are crossed tightly over her chest like she's holding herself together.
I hold out the coffee. "Black, splash of milk."
She stares at the mug but doesn't take it. "Remind me again how you remembered that?"
"I remember everything, Sloane."
Her throat works. She takes the coffee with both hands and wraps her fingers around it like she needs the heat, but her shoulders stay rigid. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"I should request someone else."
"You could." I set my mug on the porch railing and step closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. "But you won't."
Her eyes flash. "You don't know me anymore."
"Don't I?" Another step. "You're holding that coffee like it's a shield.
You've got your arms wrapped so tight it’s making your shoulders tense.
You're terrified right now. Not of me. Of what happens if you let yourself feel this.
You've spent seventeen years building walls, and yesterday they all came down the second you saw me. "
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Sets the coffee down on the railing with shaking hands. "You don't understand—”
"I understand you're afraid that if you stop running, you'll have to admit you're exhausted."
Her shoulders drop a fraction at the words. Her pupils dilate, and she takes a half-step back, one hand coming up to press against her sternum.
"Drink your coffee," I say quietly. "We're burning daylight."
She takes a long sip, her eyes never leaving mine. When she lowers the mug, there's something different in her expression. Not softness. Not yet. But the armor's cracked.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"You'll see."
I head down the steps and toward the barn. Behind me, I hear her door close, her boots on the porch, the small sound she makes when she realizes I'm not waiting. She catches up as I reach the barn, slightly out of breath.
"Are you always this bossy in the morning?" she asks.
"Only with you."
Inside the barn, the familiar scent of hay and leather and horse sweat grounds me. I saddle two horses, Ranger for me, a gentle mare named Fancy for her. She watches me work, sipping her coffee, and I'm hyperaware of her gaze tracking my hands on the leather and the way I check the girth twice.
"I remember how to ride," she says.
"I know." Leading Fancy out, I hold the reins while Sloane mounts. She swings up easily, muscle memory taking over, and settles into the saddle like she never left. "But it's been a while."
"Seventeen years."
The number sits between us. Mounting Ranger, I nudge him toward the trail that leads to the ridge. Sloane falls in beside me, and we ride in silence through the gray dawn. The air's cool and sharp, smelling of sage and dust and the promise of heat later.
She's stiff in the saddle at first. Shoulders tight, hands gripping the reins too hard. But gradually, incrementally, I watch her relax. Her hips start moving with Fancy's rhythm. Her spine loosens. By the time we reach the base of the ridge trail, she's almost loose.
Almost.
The trail climbs through mesquite and live oak. I don't push the pace. Just let the horses pick their way up while the sky goes from gray to pink to that impossible Texas gold.
We reach the top as the sun breaks over the valley.
Dismounting, I tie Ranger to a low branch and turn to help Sloane down. She's staring at the view, and I watch recognition hit her face. The way her eyes widen. The way her lips part.
"This is—" she starts.
"The same place." Stepping close to Fancy's side, I hold up my hand. "Come on."
She hesitates, then slides down, and I catch her waist to steady her. My hands span her sides, thumbs brushing her ribs, and the contact sends electricity straight to my cock. She gasps but doesn't pull away.
"You remember," I say. Not a question.
She nods. Her hands are on my shoulders, and we're standing too close, the same air between us. The sun's in her hair, turning it gold at the edges, and I observe the exact moment she stops fighting.
"Cash, that was a long time ago—"
"Not for me."
She tries to step back. I don't let her. Just tighten my grip on her waist and wait for her to meet my eyes.
"I've thought about you every day for seventeen years," I tell her. The words scrape out rough and true. "Every single day. You think two weeks is enough to undo that?"
Her eyes go wide. "What do you want from me?"
"Everything."
The word hangs there. Absolute. No room for negotiation.
She shakes her head. "You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do." Cupping her face with one hand, my thumb brushes her cheekbone. "I let you leave once because I thought I was holding you back. Biggest mistake of my life. I'm not making it again."
"Cash—"
Three seconds. I give her three seconds to pull away. She doesn't. So I kiss her.
Slow at first. Just a press of lips, a question. Then she makes a sound, a half-gasp, half-surrender, and opens for me. I deepen the kiss, tasting coffee and something sweeter, something that's just her. My other hand slides to her lower back, pulling her flush against me, and she melts into it.
This isn't like seventeen years ago. That was urgent and young and desperate. This is claiming. Patient and absolute. I'm forty-five years old, and I know exactly what I want, and what I want is her.
She kisses me back like she's been drowning and I'm air. Her hands fist in my shirt, and I feel her blood thrumming wildly against my palm. When I finally pull back, we're both gasping.
My pulse pounds in my ears, and I have to lock my knees to stay upright. She's trembling in my arms, and I rest my forehead against hers, giving us both a moment to recover. Her fingers are still twisted in my shirt, and I cover her hands with mine.
"Two weeks, Sloane. That's all I'm asking. Give me two weeks, and I'll prove this is real."
"And if you can't?" Her voice shakes.
"Then you go back to whatever you left in Seattle, and I'll spend the rest of my life knowing I tried."
She's softer now than she was at twenty-one. She has curves where there weren't any before. I want to map every inch, learn the new geography of her body the way I memorized the old one. The thought makes my hands tighten on her waist, and she shivers.
Finally, she whispers, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Two weeks." She looks up at me with an expression so raw it aches, her eyes caught in the precarious, vibrating space between fear and surrender. "But if this falls apart—"
"It won't."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
I kiss her again, gentler this time. A seal. A promise. Then I step back and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail down the side of her neck. She leans into the touch before catching herself, and the small surrender makes something fierce rise in my chest.
"Come on," I say quietly. "Let's watch the sunrise."
On the crest of the ridge, we watch the morning light claim the valley floor, turning the jagged terrain into a soft tapestry of emerald and amber. The same view from seventeen years ago. The same woman. But everything's different now.
I'm not letting her go.
The morning heats up around us, but the real fever is in the charged, heavy silence that anchors us to the trail.
She's looser in the saddle now, moving with Fancy instead of against her, but I catch the way her thighs grip when we hit rough terrain.
The way she's aware of me watching her. The way her gaze keeps sliding to me when she thinks I'm not looking.
She carries a new sharpness now, a brittle kind of tired that shows in the way she holds her shoulders.
Yet looking at her, I see through the armor.
I see the woman who once delayed her entire life for days just to stay on the ranch with me.
I remember her passed out in her mud-caked boots that last night, the sheer exhaustion of loving me written in the slump of her frame.
When we reach the barn, I dismount first and hold up my hand to help her down. She slides off, and my hands stay on her waist a beat too long. She doesn't pull away, just looks at me with those wide eyes. I see the exact moment she realizes we’ve crossed the line.
Then she steps back, wrapping her arms around herself again. "This is crazy."
"Probably."
"I don't even know what I'm doing here."
"Yes, you do." I don't chase her. Just stand there and wait. "I'm not going anywhere, Sloane."
Her eyes collide with mine, scouring my face for even the smallest hint of a lie she can use as a shield. She won’t find a single crack in the truth because I’m laid bare before her, and I’ve never meant anything more in my life.
"Go see Lucinda and she’ll get you set up for the rest of the day. I’ll see you back here tomorrow at six a.m.," I tell her. "Don't be late."
"What if I am?"
I smile. Slow and dangerous. "Then I'll come get you."
Watching her walk back toward the cabins, I'm already counting the hours until tomorrow morning.
Two weeks.
It's going to be enough.
It has to be.