Chapter Twenty-Four
I spent the next forty-eight hours pretending the kiss had not rearranged the furniture in my head.
This was unsuccessful for several reasons.
First, my mouth remembered it. Second, Beckett did exactly what I had asked and did not mention it.
Third, his refusal to mention it made me think about it more.
By Tuesday morning, I had reread the same boarding contract four times and still could not remember whether I’d changed the winter surcharge clause. Tessa leaned over my shoulder.
“You know the word hay is not going to change if you glare at it.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re having a private crisis in twelve-point font.”
I closed the document.
“What do you want?”
“Your husband is outside.”
My pulse behaved disgracefully.
“Why?”
“Because the universe enjoys me personally.”
I stood.
“What is he doing?”
“Talking to a woman in a red coat.”
Everything inside me went still. I hated that too.
“What woman?”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed with instant interest.
“Ah.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
We were becoming too much like Luis. I walked to the office window. Beckett stood near the main barn beside a tall woman with dark hair and a red belted coat. She held a leather portfolio. He was smiling at something she said.
Not flirting. I knew Beckett’s flirting. Or at least I used to. He flirted rarely, but when he did, he focused. He made the other person feel as if whatever crowded room they were in had lost population.
This was business. My nervous system did not care. The old reflex came fast. Who is she? Why didn’t he tell me?
Does she know we’re separated? Is this what freedom looks like for him? Then another thought followed. It is none of your business if it is. That hurt worse.
I turned away from the window.
“I’m going to the tack room.”
Tessa blocked the door.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are not fleeing your own office because a brunette owns a coat.”
“I’m not fleeing.”
“You’re fleeing with administrative intent.”
“Move.”
She folded her arms.
“Ask him who she is.”
“I don’t have the right.”
“You’re still married.”
“We’re separated.”
“Both can be true.”
“And I kissed him two days ago, which gives me exactly zero authority over his schedule.”
Tessa considered that.
“Fair.”
“Thank you.”
“Still not moving.”
Before I could threaten her with payroll consequences, the office door opened. Beckett stepped in. He took one look at Tessa standing between me and the exit.
“Should I come back?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Tessa said.
He looked between us.
“Helpful.”
The woman in the red coat appeared behind him.
“Mara?”
She smiled and held out a hand.
“I’m Elise Morgan. Beckett said you’d be the person to speak with about equine-assisted programming.”
My jealousy evaporated so quickly it left embarrassment behind. I shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Elise runs the behavioral health foundation in Bozeman,” Beckett said. “They’ve been looking for a rural partner.”
I looked at him.
“You brought her here?”
“She asked Halvorsen Ranch about hosting a program. I told her Harlow Creek was a better fit.”
I stared. He shifted slightly.
“If you don’t want the referral, I can—”
“No.”
I looked back at Elise.
“I’d love to hear what you’re building.”
For the next hour, we sat around my scratched desk while Elise described a pilot program for trauma survivors and veterans. Not riding lessons. Not inspirational photo opportunities. Groundwork. Regulation.
Boundaries. Choice. The kind of work Harlow Creek could actually support if we did it carefully. Beckett said almost nothing. He took notes.
At one point, Elise asked him about insurance requirements. He answered briefly, then redirected.
“Mara will decide what works here.”
It was such a simple sentence. No one in the room reacted. I did. The meeting ended with a site visit scheduled for the following month. Elise left first.
Tessa left second, slowly enough to make it obvious she was leaving us alone on purpose. I made a note to fire her and then remember I needed her. Beckett stayed by the door.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“Why did you refer her here?”
“Because you’re building exactly what she needs.”
“Halvorsen has more acreage.”
“This isn’t about acreage.”
“More staff.”
“Still not about acreage.”
“Better facilities.”
His expression sharpened.
“Do you want me to flatter you or answer honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“People at Halvorsen Ranch do things efficiently because the system is designed around efficiency. People here pay attention because you’re designing around attention. That’s what she needs.”
I looked away.
“That’s flattering.”
“It’s also true.”
He was too good at this now. Not seduction. Seeing. It made me suspicious.
“Did you practice?”
“What?”
“All of this. The correct sentences. The restraint. The thoughtful referrals.”
His face changed. I regretted the question as soon as I saw it land. But he did not retreat.
“Yes,” he said.
I blinked.
“Yes?”
“Not the lines. The restraint.”
He put both hands in his coat pockets.
“I started seeing a therapist.”
I stared at him.
“You hate therapists.”
“I hated the idea of needing one. Apparently that’s different.”
“Since when?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because then it would become another thing I was doing where you had to decide whether to reward me for it.”
That silenced me. He looked toward the window.
“I kept thinking if I could explain why I was like this, it would make it less damaging. Work. Dad. The company. What I learned growing up. Then he asked me whether understanding why a horse kicks makes your ribs less broken.”
I almost smiled.
“Your therapist uses horse metaphors?”
“I may have selected him strategically.”
“Of course you did.”
“Mara.”
His tone softened. I looked at him.
“I’m not trying to become impressive. I’m trying to become safe to be married to. Those are different jobs.”
I looked away for a second. For one wild second, I wanted to cross the room. Instead I gripped the edge of the desk.
“You weren’t unsafe.”
“Not physically.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
I gave him a look. He caught himself.
“Right. Sorry.”
I exhaled.
“You made me lonely.”
“Yes.”
“And invisible.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes I think if I had been less competent, you might have noticed sooner.”
Pain crossed his face.
“I’ve thought that too.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“I rewarded you for carrying more by giving you more to carry.”
The office became too small. He continued quietly.
“Every time you handled something without complaint, I told myself it meant you were fine. Every time you needed less from me, I treated that as proof I was giving enough.”
I looked down.
“I did complain.”
“Not loudly.”
“I shouldn’t have needed to scream.”
“No.”
My eyes burned. I hated crying in front of him now. It felt like giving him access he had not earned. But I was tired of treating emotion like evidence against myself.
“I asked you to come to dinner,” I said. “I asked you to take weekends. I asked you to stop answering your phone in bed. I asked you to come to my appointments. I asked you to sit with me after Granddad died.”
His face went white.
“I know.”
This time I let him say it.
“You came to the funeral and left before everyone was gone because a bull sale was closing.”
His jaw tightened.
“I remember.”
“I told everyone I understood.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“No. I shouldn’t have.”
A tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily. Beckett stayed where he was. His hands did not move.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
No speech. No defense. Just the sentence. I cried harder. That made me furious.
“Go.”
He nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
He opened the door.
“Beckett.”
He turned.
“I don’t want you to stop telling me things because you’re afraid it’ll look like performance.”
He waited.
“If you’re doing real work,” I said, “I want to know. Not because it earns anything. Because if we’re going to decide whether this marriage can exist, I need current information.”
His eyes held mine.
“Okay.”
“And don’t send me therapy summaries.”
A faint smile.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
I cried until I could breathe, then opened the therapy proposal and marked the margins.