Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
SAGE
The shrill screech of the alarm comes too early. I turn, slap my hand over the snooze button, then lie in bed, indulging in the momentary silence.
Something feels changed. Like the house breathes differently with Silas here.
His towering figure fills my head like last night’s dreams. Everything I want and can never have—easy drawl, emotions simmering just beneath the surface, chestnut hair and mahogany eyes that see too much every time he looks at me.
I stretch, every creak and groan of the ranch house screaming his presence. Cold air goosebumps my skin as I slide into darkwash Ariats and a button-down, black and gray floral shirt. Over that, I pile a black cardigan before sliding into my boots.
Downstairs, chill hits my cheeks as I kneel, working silently to stoke a new fire. Buzz nuzzles under my elbow for his morning pets. “Hey, buddy, want to eat?”
His ears perk up. Metal clanks as I fill his bowl with kibble before softening it with water from the sink. I set it down near the hearth and command, “Eat.” He dives in without missing a beat.
Soon, the aromatic bitterness of freshly ground and brewed coffee fills the air. But tension lingers. It sticks to my skin, fills every crevice as I waver back and forth between comfort and panic. Silas is here again. Unfathomable. Inevitable.
When the floorboards groan, I call, “Coffee’s on.” My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to be, pulse pounding in my temples.
Silas enters, hair damp, green flannel shirt hugging his muscular chest in all the right ways. Our eyes meet, and the air solidifies. So much unsaid hangs in the space between us. I don’t know where to start … or if I should.
He sits down at the table, grabbing a pile of unopened mail. “When were you thinking about tackling these, Sage?”
I shrug, stomach lurching at the thought of so many unpaid obligations.
He grabs the shiny letter opener, making quick work of the envelopes. I bring two steaming mugs of coffee to the table, sitting down to his left.
“Still take it black?”
He nods, a neat pile of unfolded papers growing.
I frown, shame coursing through my veins, “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”
He rubs a hand absentmindedly over the faint stubble felting his chin. “Not you, Walter.”
“Yeah.” I stare at my hands like they hold the secrets to existence. “But I knew better than to let him run things in the first place.”
“Never been up to you or me,” he says, eyes narrowing.
And if things had been up to us? I long to ask but dread the answer. Instead, I take the coward’s path—silence.
He leans back in the chair, taking a sip of coffee. His brows furrow, and I fall in love with him all over again. The older version of him, all man and grump, muscle and desire.
“Weather report says this winter’s about to get nasty. I’ll get with Ralph and the other hands today to discuss what’s still left for buttoning down the ranch.”
“I want to help, too,” I say, not ready to relinquish power to anyone, not even the man I trust more than anyone in this world.
He nods. “Knew you would. Once the winterizing’s done, we’ll hunker down and start thinking about equipment repairs. Cutting new wire for spring mending. The usual stuff.”
We. Never has one syllable hit me so hard. What Silas and I could have been under any other circumstances.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I say, hand shaking.
Before I can react, he reaches over, covers it with his large one. Warmth infuses his touch, comforting, infuriating. Sparks still simmer, like the night under the mistletoe. A lifetime of yearning, waiting for ignition.
“We’ll do this together, Sage. ’Cause you’re as stubborn as ever, far as I can tell.”
“Got that right,” I confirm with a nod.
He pulls his hand back, and I already miss its heat and feel. “Your coffee’s strong as ever, too. Could grow legs and start walking.” He grimaces, takes another swig.
I chuckle.
Outside, I pull up the collar of my scarlet peacoat, fighting the incessant wind. Dark storm clouds threaten in the distance as we work quickly. In the winter pasture, we feed and water the cattle, the smell of pine and manure threading the air.
Next, we mend fences, searching for places wolves and other predators could exploit to prey on the herd. We labor in silence, backs to the other ranch hands and Ralph.
Silas runs a gloved hand along the fence line, testing the tension. “This strand’s loose enough to let a calf through.”
The come-along clicks in steady rhythm, each pull tightening the barbed wire until it sings high and sharp.
Silas braces his boots in the frozen dirt and snow, muscles flexing as he draws the line firm. I press the wire to the post and drive a U-staple home. Three quick blows that ring through the cold air.
The fence thrums between us, tight and unyielding as everything we’ve never said.
He clips the spare length and twists the ends together with fencing pliers, forearms flexing. Then he gives a final tug, nods, jaw firm as the wire lies taut.
We work quickly, efficiently, our shoulders brushing, fingers touching when he hands me more U-staples. My breath hitches, body thrums alive. Even the air, threaded with metal and ozone, sizzles with unmet needs.
“Noticed some grumbling among the ranch hands,” he murmurs as he works. “Behind on wages, too, Sage?”
“Too many bills at once. That’s all.”
He shakes his head, face stern. “I’ll cover their salaries. At least, until you and Walter are back on your feet.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “There’s a rich idea … Walter back on his feet. And here I thought you were a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”
“Usually am. Can you blame me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything I’ve ever wanted gets taken from me.” The self-indulgent confession stuns, vulnerability about his life—maybe about our past—simmering just beneath the surface.
Silas’s parents were killed in an auto accident when he was four years old. His father was one of my dad’s ranch-hand friends, which made adopting Silas seamless.
His eyes sear into me, and I know his parents aren’t what he’s talking about. Questions linger he can’t—or won’t—voice, and I refuse to answer.
“Guess I’m about to join the club with how things are looking around here.”
“Don’t talk like you’re defeated.”
I shake my head. “Then, how do you want me to talk? Like some sunshiny optimist.”
“Like someone who’s built to fight. Who’s going to dig in her heels and turn things around … no matter what it takes.”
“And who are you to lecture me on not giving up?”
His mouth twitches as my words find their mark. “I’ll cover the ranch hand salaries,” he repeats, voice decisive.
I should rejoice at his words. Instead, I bristle. “I asked for your help, not a bailout.”
The wire hums under tension, like my words, a low metallic note that vibrates through the post and up my arm. I lean close to steady it, hammer poised, bridging the narrow space between us.
Each strike rings across the hills—a few clean hits, and the staple bites deep. Silas smells like cedar smoke and cold air, his chestnut hair catching the last shards of daylight.
I tell myself to ignore him, bury this moment deep, but the truth is I like the sound of us working together—sure, deliberate—the fence holding firm because neither of us lets go.
The last echo fades into the quiet, leaving only the creak of wire and the wind sighing through the pines. I lower the hammer, gloves dusted white with frost, and exhale hard. For a second, we just stand there, side by side, the world reduced to breath and heartbeat.
“You shouldn’t have to do all this alone,” he says, jaw tightening.
His eyes soften just enough to make my chest ache. “You think I’m helpless?”
“I think you’re exhausted,” he says, meeting my gaze. “And too damn proud to admit it.”
“Never will,” I counter, though it’s childish.
He chuckles low. “Don’t I know it, Sassy.”
The old nickname hits deep. I have to look away, pretend I don’t feel it. It makes everything about this life even more of a lie.
The wind sharpens by late afternoon, driving needles of snow across the yard. I tug my hat lower and squint toward the bunkhouse. A door slams hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Walter staggers out, coat half-buttoned, a bottle clutched by the neck. His breath fogs the air in sour bursts.
“Look who’s come crawling back.” His voice scrapes like gravel. “Daddy’s favorite son. Saint Silas Hawthorne.”
My stomach knots. “Walter, not now.”
He ignores me, eyes glassy, teeth bared in something close to a smile. “You think you can waltz in here and save the day? Maybe claim what’s left—the ranch, the glory … her?”
He jerks his chin toward me. The words hit like a slap.
Silas stiffens. “Watch your mouth.” His tone is quiet, which somehow makes it worse.
Walter laughs, a brittle sound swallowed by the wind. “Always the protector, huh? Funny, coming from the one Dad should’ve protected her from.”
“Stop!” My shout cracks through the air. The ranch hands have all gone home. It’s only us and the ghosts.
Silas takes a single step forward. The bottle lands with a hollow thud at his boots, amber liquid splattering the powder and leather. The smell of whiskey burns my throat.
“Walk away, Walter,” Silas warns.
“Or what? You’ll knock me flat like you did before you ran off?” Walter’s lip curls. “Go ahead, hero. Prove you’re still the same self-righteous bastard.”
“Enough!” I push between them, palms against Silas’s chest. The muscle under my hands is stone-tight, trembling with fury he’s barely holding back.
Walter sneers but stumbles when the wind catches him. He lurches toward the abandoned bunkhouse, muttering curses that trail off into the storm. The door slams behind him, the sound final.
For a moment, only the moan of the wind fills the yard. My pulse drums in my ears.
Silas drags a hand down his face, breathing hard. “Guess some things never change.”
“He’s sick, Silas.” My voice breaks on the word.
“He’s spoiled,” he murmurs, looking toward the bunkhouse, jaw working. “Dad only had one son—no matter how much he sometimes blurred the lines. No matter how he used our ties against us.”
The words land like snowflakes—soft, but heavy enough to crush.
I turn away before he can read my eyes. The sky’s gone pewter gray, the storm closing in for real this time. Flakes swirl between us, erasing the footprints that brought us here.
Somewhere deep inside, I feel something give way. Not forgiveness exactly, but the first crack in the wall I’ve built to keep him out.
By dusk, the wind has spent itself. The storm leaves behind a world muffled in white and silence. Every sound feels softer now—bootsteps in the snow, the slow creak of wire as Silas and I work side by side along the north fence.
Our breath curls between us, ghosts rising and fading. The only light comes from the dying sun, painting the drifts gold and rose.
“You don’t have to keep working,” he says finally, voice low, rough from the cold and from everything we haven’t said but need to.
I twist a length of wire around the post, gloves stiff with frost. “You don’t either.”
He gives a small huff of air that might almost be a laugh. “Guess we both have terrible instincts.”
“Or unfinished business.” I risk a glance at him. His hair’s dusted white, lashes rimmed with snow, jaw set in that familiar stubborn line. The sight of him hurts and soothes all at once.
We work in rhythm—cut, twist, hammer. The simple tasks settle the adrenaline still thundering through my veins. After a while he speaks again, quieter.
“Dad used to say winter shows a person’s measure. Anybody can run cattle in the summer. Only the strong make it through December.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “He used to say that to me, too. Right before giving me twice the chores.”
“Sounds about right.” His grin flickers, then fades. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Keeping this place alive.”
The praise lands harder than I expect. “I’m not sure I’m keeping it alive. Mostly feels like I’m keeping it from dying.”
“That counts,” he says simply.
A staple drops from my gloved fingers. When I bend to grab it, his hand is already there, steadying mine. The touch lingers—barely a second—but it sends warmth all the way up my arm.
“You’ve got this twisted,” he murmurs, voice softer than the snow. “Let me.”
He tightens the wire, then looks at me, the space between us charged again. “Every rancher needs an extra hand, even the pretty ones.”
“Pretty and helpless. Is that what you mean?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips.
“Helpless as a rattler,” he grumbles. “Still exhausted.” His gaze holds mine. “And still too damn proud to admit it.”
I want to argue, but all that comes out is a whisper. “Maybe.” I draw closer, eyes dropping to his too-kissable lips.
Ralph’s truck rumbles past the pasture, then, a perfect excuse to step back. We both look away, pretending the moment never happened. When the sound fades, the quiet feels different, more intimate somehow.
The sky bleeds pink and violet over the mountains, the kind of light that lasts only a heartbeat before dusk. I rest my gloved hands on the fence rail, letting myself breathe for the first time all day.
Silas straightens beside me, surveying the field like he’s memorizing it. “You’ll get through this,” he says. “We both will.”
I don’t answer. I nod, eyes on the horizon. If “getting through this” means him leaving again, then count me out.
Snowflakes drift between us, lazy and weightless. For a fleeting moment, the ranch doesn’t feel broken at all—just quiet, waiting, as if the world itself is ready to forgive us.