Chapter 6 Cash
Chapter six
Cash
The mare’s ears flick forward, then pin back. Testing me. Waiting to see if I'll flinch when she tosses her head and pulls against the lead rope hard enough to burn my palm through the leather.
I don't flinch but hold steady and let her work through whatever's making her skittish, my shoulders burning from two hours of this same dance.
Sweat runs down my spine despite the morning cool, and my hands ache from gripping the rope.
I should've moved on to fence repair by now, but my body needs the repetition, needs something to do besides reach for my phone and text Sloane for the fourth time today.
The mare settles. I reward her with a stroke down her neck, feeling the tension drain from her muscles, and lead her back to her stall. My phone sits on the tack room shelf where I left it, screen dark.
I grab it anyway, and tap the screen.
Sloane's name lights up with a new text: Can we skip the afternoon ride? I need to handle some work stuff.
The words steal my air. I stare at them until they blur, my thumb hovering over the keyboard while my pulse beats against my ribs. I want to type What work stuff? You're supposed to be resting. I’d like to show up at her cabin and demand answers.
Instead: Sure. Let me know if you need anything.
Her response comes fast: Thanks.
One word, polite and distant. Everything we've built over the past week is compressed into six letters that feel like a door closing.
I set the phone down before I crack the screen and grab the bridle that needs mending. I thread the needle with shaking hands, pulling the leather tight. My body knows this work, can do it without thinking, which leaves my brain free to spiral.
She's pulling away. She won't hold my gaze.
Her shoulders going rigid every time I step close.
Yesterday in town, she was mine. She said it out loud in my truck, let me claim her in front of everyone, and melted into the words in the hayloft.
Now she's retreating back into that armor, and fighting will send her running. Waiting will lose her anyway.
I'm out of good options.
The bridle's fixed. I set it aside and reach for another, but my hands won't cooperate. I sit there at the workbench, useless and shaking.
My phone buzzes. Alban: How's it going?
The question makes my teeth grind together. I respond: She's pulling away.
Three dots appear immediately. Then: Give her space or fight for her. You pick
My thumb hovers. Both feel wrong. Space means watching her pack in two days. Fighting means risking pushing her away faster. But doing nothing means losing her by default, and that's not an option.
Finally: Fight. Tomorrow.
Good. Call me when you need backup.
I pocket the phone, finish with the tack, and head outside.
The sun's overhead, turning the dust to gold and making fresh sweat break across my shoulders.
Across the yard, Cabin 5's door sits shut tightly.
The curtains are drawn. She's probably on her laptop right now, answering emails, falling back into the patterns that nearly killed her.
And I'm standing here watching it happen.
My boots carry me toward the lodge before I decide to move. Inside, Lucinda's at the front desk sorting paperwork. She looks up when I enter, and her expression shifts from neutral to concerned in half a second.
"What happened?"
"Sloane's skipping the afternoon ride. Said she has work to handle." The words taste bitter.
Lucinda's mouth presses thin. She sets down her pen and leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that see too much. "You knew this was coming."
"Doesn't make it easier."
"No." She stands, walking around the desk. She’s shorter than me by half a foot, but right now she feels ten feet tall. "What are you gonna do about it?"
My shoulders pull tight. "What can I do? She's got a life in Seattle. A career. I'm not asking her to choose between me and everything she's built."
"Cash." Her voice goes firm. "She was exhausted when she got here. That career didn't build her. It buried her."
The truth of it feels like a weight on my chest. I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat.
"Give her tonight," Lucinda says quietly. "Let her work through whatever's going on in that head of hers. But tomorrow? You fight."
I nod and manage to croak, "Yeah."
"I mean it. Don't let her talk herself into leaving without knowing what she's walking away from."
The heat feels oppressive when I step out of the lodge. I head toward my house, boots kicking up dust, and try not to look at Cabin 5 as I pass.
I fail. I can’t help it. The curtains remain drawn.
Inside my house, the air is cooler, but not by much.
I strip off my shirt, toss it toward the hamper, and stand in front of the kitchen sink running cold water.
I splash it on my face and neck, letting it drip down my chest, but it doesn't help.
Nothing helps except the plan forming in my head, the words I'll say, the way I'm going to make her listen.
My phone's on the counter. It’s seven p.m. Sloane's probably skipped dinner. I could bring her something, use the meal as an excuse to check on her.
But that feels like chasing. And if she's retreating, chasing will only make it worse.
She needs tonight to realize Seattle's a cage. Tomorrow, I'll show her that the door's been open all along.
I pull a beer from the fridge and drink half in three swallows. It’s cold and bitter, and it does nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
The phone rings. Alban's name appears on the screen.
"Yeah," I answer.
"You sound like hell."
"Feel like it too."
There’s silence on his end but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that says he's giving me space to talk when I'm ready. I walk to the window, beer in one hand, phone in the other, and stare out at the ranch yard going purple with dusk.
"She's leaving," I say finally. "I bet she’s already gone in her head, just hasn't packed her bags yet."
"Did she say that?"
"She doesn't have to. She's pulling away. Her curtains are closed, and she skipped our ride to get work done." My fingers tighten around the beer bottle. "I'm watching her disappear, and every move I make feels wrong."
"Did you tell her you love her?"
The question feels like a slap in the face. "Not yet."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because she's terrified. If I come at her with that now—"
"She'll what? Run faster?" His voice goes hard. "She's already running, Cash. Holding back won't change that."
My windpipe narrows. The beer tastes sour.
"I almost lost Neve because I was too afraid to fight," my brother continues, softer now. "Thought I was protecting her by giving her space. Turned out space was the last thing she needed. She needed me to show up and prove I wasn't going anywhere."
"What if it's not enough?" The question breaks something behind my ribs. "What if I fight for this and she leaves anyway? What if I've been holding on to a memory for half my life and she's already moved on?"
"Then at least you'll know you tried." A pause. "But Cash? You let her walk away without telling her how you feel, you're going to spend the rest of your life wondering what would've happened if you'd been brave enough to say it."
The truth settles in my bones, heavy and absolute. I finish the beer in one long pull and set the bottle on the counter harder than necessary.
"Don't let her get on that plane without saying what you need to say," he says. "You hear me?"
"Yeah. I hear you."
"Good. Now go get your girl."
He hangs up. I stand there holding the phone, staring at Cabin 5 through the window. The lights are on now. She's awake. Probably pacing. Probably working herself into a spiral about all the reasons she needs to leave.
My feet want to carry me there right now, want to kick down her door and make her listen. But Lucinda's right. Sloane needs tonight, needs space to work through whatever's spinning in her head.
Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow I fight.
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds through the open window. Coyotes in the distance. Wind through mesquite. The low call of cattle settling. Sounds I've heard my whole life, but tonight they feel different. Lonelier.
Around midnight, my phone lights up with a text from Sloane: Are you awake?
My pulse kicks hard enough to hurt. I type back: Yeah.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then: Never mind. Sorry. Go back to sleep.
No. Not happening.
Throwing off the covers, I pull on jeans and boots and head out the door. The night air is cool and sharp, stars bright overhead. I cross the distance to Cabin 5 in long strides, taking her porch steps two at a time. I knock.
The door opens fast. She's wearing a fitted T-shirt and jeans, hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are red, lashes wet and clumped together.
"Cash, I said never mind—"
"Too late." I step inside, shutting the door behind me and turning the lock. "You texted. That means you need me. So here I am."
She swallows hard. She backs up a step, arms wrapping around her ribs. "I shouldn't have bothered you."
"Sloane." I close the distance, cupping her face and forcing her to meet my gaze. Her skin is hot under my palms, fever-warm from crying. "You could never bother me. Tell me what's wrong."
"My boss called." Her voice cracks, and a tear tracks down her cheek. "There's a problem with the Harmon merger. They need me back early."
Everything inside me goes cold. The air in the cabin feels too thin. "When?"
"Tomorrow." She swipes at her tears angrily, knocking my hands away. "I tried to tell her I need the full two weeks, but she said if I don't come back early, they'll have to bring in someone else. And if they do that—"
"You'll lose the account."
She nods. Another tear tracks down her cheeks, and her breathing goes shallow and fast. "I know it's stupid. I know I should just tell her no. But Cash, I've spent fifteen years building this career. If I walk away now—"
"What was it all for?" The words taste like acid. I lower my hands. "All the sacrifices. All the years you gave up everything else."
"All the years I gave up you," she whispers.
I feel her confession like a fist around my heart. For a long moment, oxygen won't reach my lungs. The cabin feels too small, her pain too big to contain.
Finally, I step back, giving her space she doesn't want. My pulse hammers against my ribs hard enough to bruise. "So you're leaving."
"I don't have a choice."
"Don't tell me you don't." My voice is low, vibrating with a heat that mirrors the tightness in my frame. "Every time you walk away, it's a decision. You're just prioritizing their expectations over your own happiness. And over us."
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" I close the distance again, backing her against the counter. "They worked you into a collapse, then sent you here to restore yourself so they could work you into the ground again. And this is what you're doing now."
"You don't understand." Her arms tighten around her ribs, knuckles white where they grip the shirt. "This is my life. My career. I can't just walk away because—"
"Because what? Because you're afraid?" My palms hit the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in. "You only matter to them when you're useful. The second you stop producing, they'll replace you."
She flinches like I slapped her. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then why are you going back?"
"Because if I don't, what was it all for? What do I even have left?" Her voice breaks, and her breathing hitches. "Half a lifetime of sacrifice. If I walk away now, it means I wasted all those years on something that didn't matter."
"Or it means you're finally brave enough to admit it never did."
The truth in my words shows on her face. She stares at me with wide, wet eyes, and I watch understanding settle into her bones. Her breathing slows. Her shoulders drop half an inch.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know." My voice is rough in my throat.
“We're doing this together." I brush a tear from her cheek.
"But if you board that plane, I'm not giving you another two decades.
My patience is gone, and so is the lie that this doesn't matter.
" Speaking the truth, I feel the words like physical things.
"The terrifying part is knowing I could lose you because of a job that wants to drain you until there’s nothing left. "
Her breath catches. Stops. Restarts. "I don’t know what I am without that job.”
"Everything, Sloane. You're everything to me. You always have been. And I'll be damned if I let you walk away again without knowing that."
She tries to speak, but the words fail her, leaving only the silent trail of new tears. Her fingers dig into my wrists, anchoring herself to the hands still cupping her face as if I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
Her pulse is a drumbeat against my thumbs. Her breathing is shallow and fast. I watch the war playing out behind her eyes, the duty versus want, fear versus hope, the life she built versus the life she's been too afraid to choose.
"I need time to think," she says finally.
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
My hands drop from her face. I step back, giving her the space she keeps asking for, and my ribs ache with the loss of contact. "Okay. You want time? Take tonight. But tomorrow morning, you're going to have to decide. Because I'm done watching you disappear."
Then I walk to the door, unlock it, and step out into the night before I can change my mind and beg her to stay.
Behind me, her door closes. The lock turns.
And I stand on her porch in the dark, hands shaking, already planning exactly what I'm going to say when the sun comes up.
Because Alban's right. Space isn't what she needs. She needs someone to fight for her when she's too scared to fight for herself. Someone to stand between her and the life that's killing her and say, ‘No, you're worth more than this.’
I've been patient. Been careful. Been respectful of her fear.
Tomorrow, I stop being patient.
Tomorrow, I make her choose. Me or the cage. Freedom or the familiar. The life she's been living or the one she's too terrified to reach for.
And if she chooses the cage, at least I'll know I fought.
Tomorrow, she chooses.
And I'm going to make damn sure she knows what she's choosing between.