Chapter Forty-Eight
The call came in May, while I was elbow-deep in a feed budget. Western Grasslands Trust. The adjoining property was available. Not all forty acres. Twelve acres around the arena and barn, protected by an agricultural easement and priced at less than half the original listing.
I made the agent repeat the number. Then I asked for forty-eight hours. Then I called Nina. Then the accountant. Then the bank.
Beckett was last. I noticed that order. So did he.
“That’s good,” he said when I told him.
“You’re not offended?”
“Why would I be?”
“Because you were last.”
“I want to be your husband, Mara. Not your legal department.”
I leaned back in my office chair.
“That’s annoyingly healthy.”
“I’m considering putting it on stationery.”
The numbers worked. Barely. The bank approved a loan with a down payment that would leave Harlow Creek comfortable but not careless. I signed the offer the next morning. The trust accepted before lunch.
I stood in the middle of my office holding the email and forgot how to breathe. Tessa screamed when I told her. Luis hugged me. Paige asked whether this meant she could have a dedicated tack room.
“That is your first question?”
“I have priorities.”
Beckett arrived after work with a grocery-store cake that said CONGRATULATIONS, MARA in blue icing.
“You bought a grocery-store cake.”
“I was told elaborate gestures are dangerous.”
“By whom?”
“Everyone.”
We ate it with plastic forks on the hood of my truck. The new property closed three weeks later. At the signing, the bank officer slid the deed toward me. MARA ELLISON, SOLE OWNER. I traced the words with one finger.
Sole owner. Not because I wanted to be alone. Because choice felt different when dependence was not hiding inside it. That night, Beckett and I walked the new arena. The roof leaked in three places.
One stall door hung crooked. The office smelled like mice and old coffee. It was perfect.
“What do you want to do first?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He looked alarmed. I laughed.
“I want to stand here and own it for five minutes before I start making a list.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets.
“I can do five minutes.”
We stood in the quiet. Dust moved through a shaft of evening light. Outside, meadowlarks called from the field. I thought of my grandfather. Of the boarding barn I had bought back.
Of the girl I had been, following him with a notebook. Of the wife I became, so competent no one noticed the cost. Of the woman standing here now. I reached for Beckett’s hand. He looked down at our fingers.
“You know,” I said, “I used to think independence meant never needing anyone.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it means being able to choose who gets to stand beside you.”
His throat moved.
“Do I?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
He squeezed my hand. We made it exactly four minutes before I said, “The roof needs replacing.” He laughed.
“There she is.”
The summer became a blur of construction. Harlow Creek’s second barn took shape one wall at a time. I hired contractors. Not Halvorsen crews. Beckett respected that.
Mostly. Once, I found him on the roof with Luis.
“What are you doing?”
He looked down.
“Holding a tape measure.”
“Why?”
“Luis asked.”
Luis waved from the other side.
“I did.”
“Both of you are too old to be up there.”
“I am forty-one,” Beckett called.
“Exactly. Ancient. Get down.”
He did. Not because I was his wife. Because it was my site. The distinction remained intoxicating. By July, Harlow Creek had twelve additional stalls, a small indoor arena, and a therapy room with windows facing west.
The opening event was deliberately small. No press release. No gala. Families, volunteers, local vets, county staff, and people who had helped build the place. Beckett stood near the back with Luis.
Charlotte came too. She brought no photographer. That was growth. When I cut the ribbon, applause filled the arena. I looked at Beckett.
He was clapping harder than anyone. Later, after everyone left, I found him sweeping cups into a trash bag.
“You know we have volunteers for that.”
“So do I.”
“You’re a billionaire picking up paper cups.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You’ve been talking to Tessa.”
“Unfortunately.”
I took the bag from him.
“Walk with me.”
We crossed the dark field toward the old barn. The night smelled like cut grass and dust. At the gate, I stopped.
“I have a question.”
He went still.
“Okay.”
“Do you still want to be married to me?”
His expression changed so quickly I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
“I have had several months to prepare.”
I smiled.
“I mean this marriage. Not the old one.”
He stepped closer.
“Yes.”
“Even if Harlow Creek keeps growing.”
“Especially if Harlow Creek keeps growing.”
“Even if I never work for Halvorsen again.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I keep separate money and tell you no in front of people.”
“Please tell me no before I make expensive mistakes.”
I laughed. Then I became serious.
“I don’t want to be your easy wife anymore.”
Pain moved across his face.
“I don’t want an easy wife.”
“What do you want?”
He took my hands.
“You. Difficult when you’re difficult. Busy when you’re busy. Angry when you’re angry. Asking for things before you’re starving for them. Telling me when I fail. Letting me try again if you want me to.”
My eyes burned.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Probably.”
“You used to like efficiency.”
“I was an idiot.”
I stepped into him.
“I want to stay.”
His breath left him.
“Mara.”
“Not because you grovelled enough.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Good.”
“Not because you changed enough to earn a prize.”
“Good.”
“Because I like who we are becoming.”
His forehead touched mine.
“I love who we are becoming.”
I kissed him. Then I whispered, “I’m taking divorce off the table.” His hands tightened around mine. For one second, I thought he might cry. He did.
Not dramatically. One tear. Then another. I wiped one away with my thumb.
“You can be emotional.”
“Wind.”
I laughed so hard I had to lean against him. There was no wind.