8. Healing and Heartelt
Healing and Heartelt
Drae
The porch feels colder now, the silence wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
I look toward the guesthouse and see Samantha walking on the porch and then stepping back inside.
I started to say something, maybe apologize for last night, but didn’t.
I glance at the guesthouse door again, half-hoping Samantha will step out again.
A single light glows from inside, her faint silhouette moving about, tidying up, maybe lost in her own thoughts.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I walk back toward the main house, each step weighed down by the things I didn’t say. My boots crunch softly against the gravel, and as I pass the barn, a flicker of light catches my eye.
I push open the door, stepping inside. The familiar scent of hay and leather greets me, grounding me in the steady rhythm of ranch life.
The new filly is curled up in the corner of the stall with her mother, the soft rise and fall of their breathing a soothing rhythm.
Emmy’s touch is evident here—a blanket neatly tucked under the filly, a bowl of fresh water nearby.
I should go inside, try to sleep, but my mind is restless. The words she spoke to me earlier about my doubts I have trying to properly care for Emmy still linger.
You’re more than enough, Drake. You just need to give yourself some grace.
I take a slow breath, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
Grace. It’s never been something I’ve been good at giving myself.
Maybe that’s why the weight of everything—the ranch, Emmy, the letters—feels heavier than it should.
Maybe I’ve spent so long holding things together that I don’t know how to let anything go.
A soft nudge against my knee pulls me from my thoughts. I glance down to see the filly peering up at me. A wry smile tugs at my lips as I reach out, scratching behind her ears.
“You’ve got good timing, kid.”
The next morning, the house hums with the easy rhythm of routine. Emmy bounces around the kitchen, barely sitting still long enough to finish her breakfast. Samantha is in the house and moves effortlessly around her, flipping pancakes, laughing at her endless questions.
“Can we call her Daisy?” The new filly? Emmy asks, syrup clinging to the corners of her mouth.
Samantha glances at me with a knowing smile. “What do you think, Drake?”
I shrug, but there’s no hiding my amusement. “Daisy it is.”
Emmy cheers, and for a moment, everything feels easy. Light. Like the storm of last night never happened.
Samantha slides into the seat across from me, a fresh cup of coffee cradled in her hands. She doesn’t say much, just watches the way Emmy beams with excitement. And when her gaze drifts back to mine, there’s something there—steady, reassuring.
We don’t talk about last night. But we don’t have to.
The day is full of work—mending fences, tending to the horses, keeping Emmy entertained. She follows us around, determined to be helpful, even if it means handing us tools that are far too big for her.
At one point, Samantha shows her how to tap a nail into a board. Emmy’s small hands grip the hammer, her face scrunched in fierce concentration.
“Think I’ll be as good as Daddy one day?” she asks, looking up at me.
A lump forms in my throat. “Better,” I murmur. “You’ll be better than me in every way.”
Samantha looks at me then, her eyes soft with something I can’t quite name. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
Later, after Emmy is tucked in for the night, I find myself on the porch again, whiskey in hand. Samantha steps out of the guesthouse, wrapped in a blanket.
“Mind some company?” she asks.
I shake my head, watching as she settles beside me.
“You’ve been quiet today,” she says eventually.
“Just thinking,” I admit, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “About what you said last night.”
She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t push for more. She just waits.
“And?” she prompts gently.
“And… I think you’re right,” I say, my voice low. “I’ve been carrying a lot for a long time. Don’t know how to put it down.”
She watches me for a beat, then places a hand on my arm. A simple touch. Warm. Grounding.
“Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting, Drake,” she says softly. “It just means making room for something new.”
The words settle deep, hitting a place I didn’t realize needed them. I turn to her, searching her expression.
“How do you do that?”
Her brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make everything feel… lighter,” I murmur. “Like I can breathe again.”
A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Maybe because you’re finally letting yourself.”
I don’t respond. I just watch her, the way the moonlight catches in her hair, the quiet confidence in her eyes.
I want to tell her how much that means. But the words don’t come.
Not yet.
After Samantha heads back to the guesthouse, I sit on the porch alone, staring at the box of letters I’ve brought out with me. The urge to open it is stronger now, the weight of its contents less suffocating.
I don’t open it—not yet—but I know the time is coming.
For now, I let the night wrap around me, Samantha’s voice still echoing in my mind.
The next morning, we tackle the fallen section of fence in the south pasture. The work is hard, the midday sun relentless. Samantha wipes sweat from her brow, cheeks flushed from the heat.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she teases, nudging me with her shoulder.
I chuckle. “Not exactly first-date material, huh?”
She smirks. “Not unless splinters and sunburns count as romantic gestures.”
The easy banter feels good—natural. Like the weight between us has shifted. Not gone, but lighter somehow.
As we ride back to the house, Emmy greets us on the porch, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Can we go see Daisy?” she asks, tugging at my hand.
“Of course,” I say. Then I glance at Samantha. “You coming?”
She smiles. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Together, we walk to the barn, where Daisy and her mother rest. Emmy climbs onto the gate, her small hands gripping the top rail as she watches them.
“She’s perfect,” she whispers.
Samantha stands beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. And for a moment, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—things don’t have to be as hard as I make them.
That night, after Emmy is asleep and the house is quiet, I find myself outside the guesthouse again.
The light inside is still on. I see Samantha moving around, phone pressed to her ear.
She looks tense. Frustrated. The conversation is heated, her gestures sharp.
I hesitate, my hand halfway to knocking. But I don’t.
Instead, I step back, exhaling slowly.
Tomorrow, I tell myself.
Tomorrow, I’ll find the words.
But deep down, I know they won’t come easy—not for someone like me.
And yet, for the first time in a long time, I think I might be ready to try.