Chapter 11 Juliana
JULIANA
The truck rumbled down a gravel road, windows cracked to let in the crisp fall air.
Golden light filtered through the trees, dappling the dashboard in warm patches and turning every leaf into something out of a tourism brochure.
If autumn in Colorado had a marketing team, this would be their promotional shot.
And for once, Juliana wasn’t thinking about her planner.
Not too hard, anyway.
They crested a gentle ridge and the trees thinned out, giving way to a breathtaking view that stretched for miles.
The overlook wasn’t marked—no sign, no railing, no convenient gift shop.
Just a wide, flat outcrop of red rock that jutted out above a valley of green pastures, speckled with boulders and copses of trees.
Beyond that, a distant range of gray mountains stood like sleeping giants, their peaks just beginning to blush with the coming sunset.
It was the kind of view that made people write poems. Or buy windchimes and Adirondack chairs.
Juliana raised her eyebrows at the expanse, momentarily forgetting to be unimpressed. “Okay. I hate how pretty this is.”
Gideon just grinned, like he already knew she’d say that.
She glanced over at him, one leg tucked under her in the seat, elbow propped against the window. “How old were you when you knew you wanted to work on the ranch?” she asked, her voice a little softer now, curious.
Gideon shrugged. “Depends. You mean knew as in accepted it? Or knew as in my dad stuck a shovel in my hand when I was six and told me to earn my keep?”
She grinned. “Character-building. Excellent parenting from Barry.”
“Oh, for sure. I was mowing pastures before I hit double digits. But I didn’t really get it until I left for a while. I did the whole college, backpacking, go-find-yourself-stuff.”
“And?” she prompted.
“And I missed this. The land, the space, the slowness of it all. It made sense to me. Still does.”
She nodded, unexpectedly thoughtful. “That must be nice. Having something that makes sense.”
“You don’t?” he asked.
Juliana hesitated. “I feel like maybe I used to. My job was everything. Events, weddings, galas . . . It was predictable in all the right ways. You plan, you execute, you move on to the next. Like puzzle pieces snapping into place.”
“But?”
“But I stopped knowing who I was when my other half ran off to Paris with my best friend.”
He was quiet for a beat. “Leo,” he grunted.
She made a face. “Don’t say his name like he’s a real person. He’s more of a . . . walking cautionary tale. A PSA for why you don’t ignore red flags just because a man owns a yacht and knows how to pronounce charcuterie.”
Gideon chuckled, but his expression stayed soft. “What about before him? Why the need to control the puzzle in the first place?”
Juliana’s smile faded. “My parents split when I was six. My mom blamed my dad’s lack of ambition.
My dad blamed her obsession with money and perfection.
I was the human buffer between two people who never learned to compromise.
Everything felt so out of control and my preteen years were full of chaos, being shuttled from house to house and forgotten at school or dance lessons.
So . . . I became the planner. I could remind everyone where to be and when.
List out what to bring and how my day was supposed to go.
If I could control everything, nothing would fall apart. No more than it already had, anyway.”
She didn’t realize she’d gone quiet until she noticed him watching her, one hand loosely resting on the wheel.
“What?” she said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Just thinking how glad I am you climbed into that pineapple truck.”
Juliana rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest was impossible to ignore. She was about to deliver a fresh round of sarcasm when her stomach gave a warning twist. She ignored it.
“Yeah, well,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the seat. “I think I deserve some kind of medal for that level of poor judgment.”
Gideon smirked. “You mean getting in a truck with a stranger in a foreign country?”
“Exactly. I guess my stranger danger lessons got skipped when I was a kid. Honestly, I mean deviating from the plan in general. You were not on the itinerary.”
“Neither was the marriage license,” he said, eyes crinkling as he glanced over at her.
Juliana snorted. “Don’t remind me. I’m still trying to figure out how I skipped straight from snack bar tea buddy to accidental husband.”
“Island magic,” he said sagely, like that explained anything.
She gave him a flat look. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He shrugged. “Call it what you want. You asked me, after all.”
“You were very persuasive. With your dimples and your whole live a little energy. I blame the humidity. And possibly the hibiscus tea. Probably laced with some island mushroom.”
He laughed, full and unfiltered.
After a moment, he grew quieter. “I really am glad. I didn’t expect any of this . . . but I feel like maybe God meant for it to happen.”
Juliana didn’t answer right away. Her instinct was to deflect. Toss out a joke or change the subject.
“I’m glad too,” she admitted, then quickly added, “Not about the accidental marriage part. Just . . . the rest. Meeting you.”
He nodded, like he understood. Because somehow, he always did.
Of course, that’s when her stomach twisted again—stronger this time. But she gritted her teeth and pasted on a smile. If she ignored it hard enough, maybe it would go away. He let her words settle for a moment, his thumb tapping gently against the steering wheel.
“So,” he said, voice softer now. “What do we do, Jules?”
She glanced at him, ignoring the little trill of pleasure the nickname sent through her. “About what? Your questionable taste in roadside cuisine or the small fact that we’re legally, spiritually, and tropically married?”
He gave her a look. “You know what I mean.”
She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that more than I want to admit.”
“Same,” he said. “I keep coming back to the ceremony. Not the orchids or the leis or the very aggressive ukulele solo. Just . . . the vows.”
She looked down at her hands. “We didn’t know they were binding.”
“But we still said them,” he replied. “We still stood there and promised things. That has to mean something, right?”
Juliana shifted uncomfortably, more from the conversation than her stomach. Maybe.
“I believe marriage matters,” she said, eyes still trained on the window. “I believe it’s sacred. I just . . . This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
“I know.”
“I was supposed to get married with spreadsheets and signature cocktails and a harpist in the corner. Not with my hair frizzed out and a reckless stranger by my side. No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, that same gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I happen to think you frizzed out and unscheduled is kind of stunning.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed.
He let a beat pass before he spoke again. “We don’t have to rush anything. I’m not asking you to make some forever decision today.”
Juliana blinked, surprised by the relief that washed over her. “You’re not?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I’ve seen what happens when you make decisions under pressure. You end up eating level-four spicy curry in a parking lot.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You really know how to romance a girl.”
He turned to face her more fully. “I’m willing to give it a real shot. Not out of obligation. Not because some island paper says we should. But because I like you. I respect you. I want to know what happens if we actually try.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her stomach was doing somersaults, but this time she wasn’t entirely sure it was the curry.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, voice low.
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to make the wrong choice just to prove I can follow through.”
“Juliana,” he said gently, “not every plan needs a five-year projection and a forty-item checklist. Some things you learn by walking through them.”
“I don’t walk into things blind.”
“Then don’t,” he said simply. “But maybe hold my hand while we figure it out.”
She laughed once, soft and almost sad. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still sitting here.”
Her hand found her stomach again, the ache sharper now. She winced.
“You okay?”
“Yup,” she lied. “Is it a little warm in here?”
Gideon shrugged. “No, I don’t think so.”
She should have known the second Gideon flashed that stupid grin and said, “Gas station Indian food,” that her stomach was going to file a formal complaint.
Now, sitting in the passenger seat of his ancient truck, Juliana was sweating through her blouse, trying to remember if it was possible to die from food poisoning.
“Are you sure it isn’t hot in here?” she asked, voice dangerously thin.
Gideon gave her a sideways glance, unfazed. “No, it really isn’t. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She gave a weak smile and leaned her head back against the seat. “I’m fine. So, what? You want to just . . . date your wife?”
“Pretty much.”
“And what if we reach the end of the road and figure out we never should’ve taken the pineapple truck detour to begin with?”
He shrugged. “Then we’ll know. And we’ll walk away knowing we tried. Or maybe we’ll look back and realize it wasn’t a detour. It was the start.”
Juliana closed her eyes for a beat. She didn’t have the answer. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to pretend she did.
“Okay,” she said at last. “We try.”
He turned to her, smile spreading wide. “Yeah?”
She let the silence stretch, warm and almost unfamiliar. For a second, she imagined what trying might look like. Letting someone in. Letting him in.
Her stomach gave a warning twist. Perfect.