Chapter Twenty-Six
“Excellent,” Tessa said, staring at the dark control panel. “I was worried today might be manageable.”
I pulled on insulated gloves.
“Fuel line?”
“Maybe. Luis is checking.”
The barn lights were out, but daylight filtered through the high windows. Most of the horses were calm. Poppy was not. Wind hammered the north wall hard enough to make the metal siding pop. She circled her stall, snorting.
“We need power before dark,” I said.
“Road’s closed.”
“I know.”
“Repair company says earliest tomorrow.”
“I know.”
Tessa looked at me.
“You have a plan?”
“I’m developing one through denial.”
My phone buzzed. BECKETT. I stared at the screen. Tessa saw it.
“Answer.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Storm exemption.”
I picked up.
“Hi.”
“You lose power?”
No greeting. No preamble. Exactly the man I knew.
“Generator’s down.”
“Fuel line or starter?”
“Luis is checking.”
“How many portable heaters do you have?”
“Enough for the office, not the barn.”
“I’m bringing the mobile generator.”
“Road’s closed.”
“To regular traffic.”
“Beckett.”
“Halvorsen plow is already clearing the south access for livestock emergencies.”
“Do not come here if it’s unsafe.”
“I’m not proving anything. We have equipment. You need equipment.”
I closed my eyes.
“Fine.”
“Forty minutes.”
He arrived in fifty-seven behind a ranch plow, towing a trailer-mounted generator big enough to power half of Harlow Creek. Travis drove the plow. Beckett jumped out before the truck fully stopped. Snow immediately coated his shoulders.
“Where’s Luis?”
“Generator shed.”
He headed there without trying to hug me, kiss me, or turn the emergency into intimacy.
Three hours later, the barns had power. The mobile generator sat humming beside the equipment shed while ours waited for a replacement fuel pump.
Travis left with the plow to reopen a path toward Halvorsen Ranch.
Beckett stayed because the road closed behind him again.
“You’re trapped,” Tessa announced with delight.
“I’m aware.”
“We have one guest room.”
I glared at her.
“We have two.”
“One has saddles.”
“Move the saddles.”
“In this economy?”
Beckett looked between us.
“I can sleep in the office.”
“You’ll freeze,” I said.
“I’ve slept outside in worse.”
“You were twenty-two.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
At four, the storm worsened. We did evening feed early. Beckett worked beside Luis without instruction. Not because he suddenly knew our routines. Because he asked.
Which horses got soaked feed. Which stall door stuck. Which mare needed her blanket checked twice because she destroyed straps. He listened. He did not take over.
The distinction felt enormous. At six, we ate canned chili in the office kitchenette. Tessa disappeared upstairs with suspicious speed after announcing she was exhausted. Luis claimed the bunk room. That left Beckett and me at the tiny table.
Snow struck the window in bursts.
“You planned that,” I said.
“What?”
“Tessa abandoning us.”
“I don’t think anyone controls Tessa.”
“Fair.”
We ate in silence for a minute.
“How’s Poppy?” he asked.
“Better now that the lights are steady.”
“Can I see her?”
“After dinner.”
He nodded. That little obedience did something ridiculous to me. After we cleaned up, we walked to the barn. The storm had turned the yard into white static. Beckett stayed half a step behind me.
Inside, Poppy stood with one hip cocked, calmer than she had been that morning. I opened her stall door.
“Don’t come in yet.”
He stayed outside. I rubbed her shoulder, then stepped back.
“Now.”
Beckett entered slowly. Poppy watched him. He stopped six feet away.
“Hi,” he said softly.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a face.”
“You sound different with horses.”
“Better?”
“Less defended.”
I went still. He grimaced.
“Therapy homework. Sorry.”
“No.”
I looked at Poppy.
“You’re right.”
We stood on either side of her stall. After a minute, she stepped toward Beckett. He held still. She touched her nose to his jacket. Then, incredibly, stayed.
His eyes found mine. No triumph. No look what I earned. Just wonder. I smiled.
“You can scratch her neck. Slowly.”
He lifted one hand. Poppy flinched. He froze. She relaxed. His fingertips touched her mane.
One stroke. Two. Her lower lip softened.
“She’s letting me,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you finally stopped trying to make her.”
The words hung between us. He looked at me. I looked back. The barn disappeared for a second. Not literally.
Just the way the world narrows when another person understands the sentence underneath the sentence. We left Poppy ten minutes later. The walk back to the house was worse than the walk out. The wind had shifted. Snow hit us directly in the face.
Halfway across the yard, I slipped. Again. This time Beckett caught my hand instead of my waist. I held on after I was steady. Neither of us mentioned it.
We reached the house still holding hands. Inside, warmth wrapped around us. I looked down at our gloves. Then up at him.
“I have towels upstairs.”
“Okay.”
“Your clothes are soaked.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I thought women liked vulnerability now.”
“Not pneumonia.”
He smiled. I found an old pair of Granddad’s flannel pajama pants in a storage box and one of my oversized sweatshirts. Beckett stared at the sweatshirt.
“This says Harlow Creek High School Debate Team.”
“Wear it or freeze.”
“You were on debate team?”
“Captain.”
“That explains so much.”
“Bathroom’s there.”
He changed. When he came out, I laughed so hard I had to sit down. The pants stopped three inches above his ankles. The sweatshirt was tight across his shoulders.
“Enjoy this,” he said.
“I am.”
“Deeply?”
“Profoundly.”
He sat on the opposite end of the couch. The generator hummed outside. Wind shook the windows. We watched an old western because the internet was down and Tessa owned exactly six DVDs. Halfway through, I fell asleep.
I knew this because when I woke, the credits were rolling and a blanket covered me. Beckett was still sitting at the far end of the couch. Awake.
“You could’ve moved,” I said.
“You were asleep.”
“Your neck looks broken.”
“Worth it.”
I sat up. The blanket slid to my lap.
“What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
Neither of us moved. The room was lit by one lamp. His face looked softer in it. I remembered the kiss. He probably did too.
“Beckett.”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
He did not move immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“I asked you to come here.”
He shifted closer. Not all the way. I closed the remaining distance. Our knees touched. My heart started pounding.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered.
“Neither do I.”
“That’s new for you.”
“Terrifying, actually.”
I touched his face. He closed his eyes. The reaction was so unguarded it made me ache. I kissed him. Slowly this time.
Not from impulse. Choice. His hand came to my jaw only after I leaned into him. The kiss deepened. Heat moved through me with the familiarity of home and the strangeness of a room renovated while I was away.
He pulled back first. I stared at him.
“Why did you stop?”
His breathing was uneven.
“Because I need to ask what you want before I start assuming I know.”
I almost cried. Instead I laughed once, shaky.
“I want you to kiss me again.”
He did. Later, when his hand slid under my sweater and stopped at my waist, he asked again.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
Every yes felt deliberate. Every pause felt like repair. We did not go upstairs. We did not have sex. At one in the morning, we sat tangled under the blanket, my head on his shoulder, his hand resting open on my thigh.
The restraint mattered. Not because sex would have been wrong. Because stopping meant neither of us could use physical closeness to skip the work.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
My body went rigid. He felt it.
“You don’t have to say it.”
I sat up.
“Why did you?”
“Because it’s true.”
“It was true before.”
“Yes.”
“And it wasn’t enough.”
His face tightened.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“That’s what scares me.”
“Me too.”
“Love didn’t stop you from neglecting me.”
“No.”
“So I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the fact that you still love me.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Don’t use it as evidence. Use what I do.”
I looked down at his hand. Open. Not holding me in place.
“Okay,” I whispered.
The storm kept us trapped until noon the next day. When the plow finally cleared the road, Beckett changed back into damp jeans and his now-dry sweater. At the door, he paused.
“Thank you for letting me stay.”
“You brought a generator.”
“Still.”
I nodded. He opened the door.
“Beckett.”
He turned. I took one step toward him.
“I love you too.”
His eyes closed. For one second, his whole face broke open. Then he looked at me. I lifted a hand before he could speak.
“Don’t make it evidence.”
He swallowed.
“I won’t.”
The words solved nothing. That was why I trusted them more.