Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
SILAS
The storm’s gone, but the silence it leaves behind feels almost holy.
Snowmelt drips from the eaves, steady as a heartbeat. Pale light seeps through the frost on the window, painting the cabin in silver and gold. For the first time in years, I wake warm. Not because of a fire. Because of her.
Sage sleeps curled against my side, one hand splayed over my chest like she’s keeping me here, making sure I don’t vanish when the world comes calling again. Her hair’s a tangle of gold against my arm, her breath soft and even.
I lie still, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell. The weather outside may have passed, but in here, the wreckage still feels fragile. Beautiful, but fragile.
What have we done?
The thought flickers—quick, sharp—but it fades just as fast. Because whatever name the world gives it—sin, mistake, betrayal—it doesn’t feel wrong. Not now. Not when she fits against me like she was made for this place in my arms.
She stirs, lashes fluttering. “You’re awake,” she murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Couldn’t stop watching you,” I admit. “Snow’s stopped.”
Her gaze drifts to the window. “Looks like it.”
“Merry Christmas, Sassy. Sorry I don’t have any gifts for you.”
“You’re the best gift of all,” she says, beaming as I lean in for a kiss.
The sunlight catches her eyes, green and gold. Same as the first day I met her, before either of us knew how hard life would make us fight for each other. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe we can stay like this.
But reality creeps back in with the cold. I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Still no signal. The little circle spins and spins, same as my damn thoughts.
“Nothing?” she asks.
“Not yet.” I set it down again. “Ralph’ll have everyone checking fences, getting the herd settled. He’ll think we froze out here.”
Her expression softens. “He’ll be glad we’re okay.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Once he gets over being furious.”
We share a smile that doesn’t quite reach our eyes. Because we both know what waits beyond the cabin door isn’t just the ranch … it’s judgment.
Sage traces the cut at my temple with her fingertip, gentle as the snow outside. “You’re still bleeding a little.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s what scares me.”
Her concern hits harder than the branch ever could. I catch her hand, press a kiss to her palm. “You won’t have to be scared anymore, Sassy. Not of Walter, not of the ranch, not of what people’ll say.”
She shakes her head, a tiny, sad smile curving her lips. “You think they’ll understand?”
“No,” I say simply. “But we don’t need them to.”
Outside, the roof lets go of its first heavy sigh, snow sliding off in thick sheets. Light floods the room, and she turns toward it, face soft and unguarded.
I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and pull on my jeans. “We’ll have to ride back soon. Check the herd, make sure Ralph didn’t freeze himself solid. Maybe get a Christmas tree on the way.”
She giggles. “A tree. I would like that.” It’s the first real hope I’ve heard in her voice since my return.
“I imagine ornaments are kicking around somewhere?” I arch a brow.
“Our ornaments. All the memories from childhood, from our life before.” The corners of her mouth dip.
I cup her cheek, slide my thumb over her inviting bottom lip. “And all the hope of the life we still have to make … together.”
“Together. I like the sound of that.” Sage wraps the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You really think anyone’ll believe we just waited out a storm?”
I grimace, running a hand through my hair and pacing in the small space. “Probably not. But they can believe whatever they want.” I meet her gaze. “I’m done hiding what’s mine.”
Her breath catches—half shock, half something deeper. “Silas…”
I cross the room, tilt her chin up until our eyes meet. “Let them talk, Sassy. Storm’s gone. Time to see what’s left standing.”
Instead of fighting, she nods, new resolve sparking in her gaze.
Outside, the world glitters clean and new. The broken limb that nearly killed me lies half-buried in the snow, the sunlight catching on its frozen bark.
Some storms destroy. Some reveal what’s strong enough to survive.
And looking at her now, I know which kind we are.
By the time we saddle the horses, the air’s gone razor-clear.
The snow under our boots squeaks, crusted from the night’s freeze, and every breath comes out white and sharp. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at. It’s the kind of morning that makes a man think anything broken can be rebuilt.
Sage stands beside Buffalo, tightening the cinch strap with steady hands, face half-hidden by her turned-up collar. She moves quietly, efficiently, but I can read the storm still turning behind her eyes. The same one that’s in me.
Twilight noses my shoulder, impatient to move. I pat her neck. “Easy, girl. We’re going home.”
Sage glances over. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
We start down the ridge, hooves crunching over snow crust and frozen mud. The valley spreads below, glass-bright in the morning light, fences traced in silver wire. The world looks softer after the storm—like even the land’s tired of fighting.
Along the way, we stop for a small spruce I hack at with an axe. Nothing impressive. Not without a chainsaw to cut through thicker trunks. But her face beams like it’s the National Christmas Tree. I tie it behind Twilight, dragging it along. Still a beginning—a humble one.
Neither of us talks for a while. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s reverent, heavy with everything we said last night and everything we still have to face.
When we reach the winter pasture, the herd’s huddled together, steam rising off their hides. Ralph and two ranch hands are already out there, bundled up like scarecrows, working the gate. He spots us and waves an arm.
“’Bout time you two crawled outta that shack!” His voice carries over the snow. “Figured you froze to the wall!”
Sage blushes beneath her collar. I give her a quick, crooked grin meant to calm her nerves, but my heart kicks hard. Ralph’s no fool.
“We’re fine,” I shout back. “Fence held?”
“Mostly. Walter’s the one who didn’t hold. Took off before first light. Left the tractor running till it flooded.” Ralph spits into the snow. “That boy’s a damn disaster.”
Sage stiffens in her saddle. “He could be hurt.”
“Or drunk.” Ralph shrugs. “Either way, he’s gone.”
Her eyes meet mine over the horses’ ears, guilt and worry flickering together. I ride closer, reach across the space to brush her gloved hand.
“We’ll find him,” I say. “But first things first. We get the herd safe, then we deal with Walter.”
“Before that,” she says, eyes meeting mine. “We put up our Christmas tree. I’m tired of putting off our lives for him, Silas.”
I nod, bittersweet mixing with joy.
Ralph’s watching us now, squinting against the sun, suspicion or curiosity—or maybe just plain knowing—etched in every line of his weathered face.
“Looks like the storm did some good after all,” he says, jerking his chin toward the repaired stretch of fence. “Held better than it has all season.”
“Guess we got lucky,” I reply, forcing my voice steady.
He snorts. “Luck’s one word for it.”
When he turns away, Sage exhales softly, shoulders sagging. “He knows.”
“Like everyone else is about to know,” I say with a crooked smile.
She mirrors it, sunlight warming her cheeks.
The wind picks up again, softer now, brushing the snow into thin veils that dance across the pasture. The ranch hums back to life around us. Lowing cattle, distant hammer strikes, the world reminding us it still exists.
Sage looks toward the main house, smoke curling from the chimney, windows bright against the snow. “What happens when we walk through that door together?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “There’ll be questions. Judgment. Maybe worse.”
She nods, quiet. “And us?”
I reach over, catch her reins, pull her horse close enough that our boots bump. “Us stays the same,” I say. “Storm or sunshine. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
For a moment, she just stares at me, eyes wet, shining like spring thaw. Then, she gives a small, fierce nod. “Then, let’s go home.”
We ride on through the melting snow, side by side, toward whatever waits.
Behind us, the line shack stands small against the ridge, half-buried but still standing. Proof that some things, once tested, don’t break.