Chapter Eleven
Poppy touched my hand on the twenty-third day.
It lasted less than a second. Her whiskers brushed my palm, her nostrils widened, and then she snatched her head back as if she had made a terrible mistake.
I stood absolutely still. Tessa, watching from outside the paddock, whispered, “Don’t ruin it by getting emotional. ”
“I’m not emotional.”
“You’re crying.”
“Wind.”
“There is no wind.”
I wiped my cheek with my shoulder and waited. Poppy stretched her neck again. This time, she took the piece of carrot from my fingers. Something warm loosened under my ribs. Not because a frightened horse trusting me was new.
Because this trust had not been demanded, rushed, or purchased.
It had taken twenty-three days of showing up at the same time, moving the same way, asking for nothing she couldn’t give.
I was beginning to suspect every important lesson in my life was going to arrive wearing a halter.
My phone rang in my coat pocket. Beckett.
I stepped outside the paddock before answering.
“Hi.”
“Am I interrupting?”
The question still made me notice it.
“No.”
“I need to inspect the spring box tomorrow with an engineer. The new easement requires baseline measurements before winter. It means crossing your north field for about twenty minutes.”
I glanced toward the ridge.
“You don’t need my permission for the upper parcel.”
“We need your access to the lower valve.”
“What time?”
“Whatever works for you.”
I almost said eight automatically, then checked the Harlow Creek schedule pinned to the office window.
“Ten thirty.”
“We’ll be there at ten thirty.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and the engineer.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know. I want to understand the system before I sign off on the other two easement amendments.”
Not because he wanted to see me. Or at least not only because he wanted to see me. The distinction mattered.
“Fine. Gate code is the same one I sent legal.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated.
“How’s Poppy?”
I smiled before remembering I had never told him more than her name.
“How do you know about Poppy?”
“June. She said you took a county seizure mare.”
Of course.
“She touched my hand today.”
Silence. Then, softly, “That’s big.” He knew enough about horses to understand.
“It is.”
“Good.”
Neither of us ended the call. I could hear a keyboard on his end. He could probably hear Tessa swearing at a wheelbarrow on mine.
“Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Why haven’t you asked to come here?”
The keyboard stopped.
“Because you left me to make this place yours.”
I swallowed.
“You could still ask.”
“I could.”
“And?”
“I don’t trust myself not to make the asking feel like pressure.”
That was the most careful answer anyone had ever given me.
“Tomorrow is business,” I said.
He accepted the boundary.
“But you can stay for coffee afterward if you want.”
The line went so quiet I checked the screen.
“I’d like that,” he said.
I ended the call before I could hear too much in his voice. The next morning, Beckett arrived at ten twenty-eight. Of course he did. He parked beside the barn instead of the house. The engineer, a woman named Cora Mills, climbed out with survey equipment and a tablet.
Beckett wore work boots and an old canvas jacket I remembered from before our wedding. The sight of it hit me unexpectedly. He had worn that jacket the winter Granddad died. I had cried against that shoulder until the canvas went dark.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
Cora shook my hand and got straight to work.
For forty minutes, we inspected the lower valve, traced the line, photographed junctions, and discussed flow capacity.
Beckett asked useful questions and did not speak over either of us.
When Cora finished, she packed her equipment and left for the upper spring box. Beckett remained by the fence.
“Coffee?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to mine.
“If the invitation still stands.”
“It does.”
We walked toward the farmhouse. Halfway there, Poppy came to the paddock rail. Beckett stopped.
“That’s her?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the mare’s narrow frame, scarred hip, and cautious eyes.
“She’s beautiful.”
I glanced at him. Most people said poor thing first.
“She will be,” I said.
“She already is.”
Poppy watched him. Beckett did not approach the fence.
“Does she tolerate men?”
“Not close.”
He nodded and kept walking. The kitchen suddenly felt too small with him in it.
The Halvorsen house had been built to absorb people. High ceilings. Wide rooms. Furniture that made six-foot men look ordinary.
Here, Beckett had to duck slightly beneath the old doorframe. His knees nearly touched the underside of Granddad’s kitchen table when he sat. I poured coffee.
“Still black?”
His mouth tilted. “Still.” I placed the mug in front of him. He looked around.
The farmhouse was cleaner than the night I arrived but still imperfect. Paint samples leaned against one wall. A stack of invoices occupied a chair. The refrigerator had become a battlefield of feed schedules, contractor cards, and a photograph of Otis sent by Mrs. Carver.
“You look happy here,” he said.
The words did not sound like an accusation.
“I am.”
He looked into his coffee.
“I’m glad.”
I sat across from him.
“Are you?”
He met my eyes.
“I hate that you had to leave to be happy. But yes.”
The answer was too honest to dismiss.
“The postnup came back from Nina,” I said.
“Okay.”
“She changed the future joint-investment section.”
“If you approve it, I approve it.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“My lawyer will.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He waited.
“You used to read every contract yourself.”
“I still do.”
“Then why are you agreeing in advance?”
His fingers circled the mug.
“Because the point of that agreement isn’t for me to negotiate the strongest position. It’s to make sure you have one.”
I looked down. This man could be infuriating even while saying the right thing.
“You cannot become perfect now,” I said.
His eyebrows rose.
“I’m serious.”
“I assure you, I am not in danger of perfection.”
I almost smiled.
“If you turn into some impossibly attentive version of yourself for six weeks, I won’t trust it.”
His expression sobered.
“Neither would I.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He leaned back.
“I started seeing someone.”
My stomach dropped. He saw it happen and his eyes widened.
“A therapist. Jesus, Mara. A therapist.”
Heat flooded my face.
“You could have led with that.”
“I thought I did.”
“You absolutely did not.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, fighting a laugh. I glared at him until I started laughing too. The sound filled the small kitchen. For a few seconds, I couldn’t remember why laughing together had become rare. Then the laughter faded and I noticed how he was looking at me.
Not like an employee. Not like a problem. Like his wife. My pulse shifted.
“Therapy,” I said quickly.
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Last week.”
“Why?”
“Because Luis told me if I asked him one more time what I should do to get you back, he was going to hit me with a shovel.”
I barked out another laugh.
“That sounds like Luis.”
“He also said if I only changed to get you back, I’d become the old version of myself the minute I felt safe again.”
My smile disappeared.
“That also sounds like Luis.”
Beckett nodded.
“So I’m trying to figure out why I made work the only place I believed I was useful. Why I treated being needed by everyone as more urgent than being present for one person.”
I stared at him.
“Do you know yet?”
“No.”
The answer reassured me more than a polished explanation would have.
“Good,” I said.
He smiled faintly.
“My therapist said I should get comfortable saying that.”
We finished our coffee. At the door, Beckett paused.
“Thank you for letting me in.”
The words were simple. They carried more than the farmhouse.
“You’re welcome.”
He walked to his truck. Poppy stood at the fence again. Beckett gave her a wide berth. She watched him go. So did I.