Our Forever Fields

1. Chapter 1

Tana

Rain hammers the windshield hard enough to shake the glass, turning the road ahead into a warped smear of headlights, runoff, and blacktop.

My hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles ache.

“Come on,” I mutter. “Don’t do this now.”

The engine coughs.

The whole car shudders under me, then catches again with a whining protest that sounds too much like a final warning. The dashboard lights glow weak and yellow.

I glance at the clock and regret it immediately.

I’m not technically late, but close enough that panic starts needling at the edges of my ribs. Tomorrow I’m supposed to arrive at Wild Mercy looking capable and reliable, not like a woman dragging her whole bad timing behind her in a duffel bag.

Another cough runs through the engine.

“No, absolutely not,” I say.

This job is supposed to be the reset: room included, decent pay, real work, horses that make more sense than people ever will. I can’t lose it before I even get there.

Up ahead, barely visible through the rain, the road starts to curve.

I ease off the gas and turn carefully, but the car answers half a second late. Water sheets over the windshield.

Then the back end slips.

A sound tears out of me before I know I’ve made it.

I crank the wheel, overcorrect, feel the tires catch and skid again.

The shoulder drops away into darkness on my right, and for one sick second all I can think is this would be exactly my kind of ending ...

nothing dramatic or noble, just me in a dying car during a storm, trying too hard to get to a job that might save me.

The tires finally grab hard enough to rattle my teeth.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The next cough decides it.

I start scanning the side of the road for anything. My phone sits in the cupholder with one bar that keeps threatening to vanish. The map froze ten minutes ago.

No service.

Lightning flickers far off, and a sign jumps out of the dark.

LANTERN INN — NEXT RIGHT

Underneath, in smaller white letters already running with weather: BAR / VACANCY.

Turning in here would mean losing time and showing up tomorrow even more wrecked than I already will, but staying on this road in a car that’s on its last legs feels less like determination and more like a character flaw.

“Fine,” I snap, and make the turn.

The road narrows immediately. Trees crowd closer, branches thrashing in the wind. Then, farther ahead, a yellow glow.

Human light.

The inn appears through the rain: a low, two-story building with a covered porch, amber bulbs burning under the eaves and a neon beer sign glaring in one window. Off to one side sits a gravel lot half full of pickups.

My car shudders as I pull in, then gives one long rattling protest that sounds suspiciously like an accusation.

I park crooked under the edge of the porch light and kill the engine.

Tomorrow I’m supposed to arrive at Wild Mercy looking steady and professional. Tonight I’m stranded at a roadside inn in the middle of a storm, one mechanical failure away from sleeping in my car.

I grab my bag off the passenger seat.

“Don’t make this worse,” I mutter to myself, and shove open the door into the rain.

By the time I hit the porch, my jacket is soaked through at the shoulders and the hem of my jeans is plastered to my calves. I yank the door open.

Heat hits first, along with fryer grease, stale beer, and the sweet-burnt bite of whiskey soaked into old wood.

The room isn’t crowded, but it isn’t empty either.

A few people glance up when I come in, just enough to make me aware of myself all over again: rain-damp, travel-worn, carrying one duffel bag like maybe that’s all I own.

A narrow front desk sits off to the side of the entry, empty except for a brass bell and a laminated sign that says RING FOR SERVICE.

“Great,” I mutter.

I set my bag down and hit the bell.

Nothing.

The bartender glances over. “Need a room?”

“Yes,” I say, then force my voice steadier. “If you still have one.”

She jerks her chin toward a back hallway. “Marlene! Got somebody here at the desk.”

A woman in her sixties appears a moment later, silver hair pinned up, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She gives me one brisk, assessing look.

“Storm rate’s eighty-nine,” she says. “You want one bed or two?”

“Just one.”

She slides a paper form across the counter. “Last room on the second floor. Water gets hot if you let it run.”

While she digs out a key, I glance through the window toward the parking lot.

Marlene slides the key toward me. “You with the storm, honey, or running from something?”

“At the moment? Just the storm.”

She nods like she doesn’t believe me and doesn’t care enough to push. “Bar’s open late. The kitchen closes in twenty.”

Food and a locked room ought to be enough to send me upstairs. My stomach, unfortunately, has other plans.

From somewhere deeper in the room, a man’s voice says something low I can’t make out, followed by a ripple of quiet laughter.

I turn my head before I can stop myself.

He’s sitting at the far end of the bar with one elbow braced against polished wood, a short glass near his hand catching the amber light.

He isn’t doing anything to draw attention. That’s the problem. He takes up space in a way that assumes he doesn’t need to announce himself to own it. Just an older guy with silver streaks in his hair, dressed in that sophisticated kind of … snobby-way.

He turns slightly when he feels me looking, and his eyes meet mine like he already knew exactly where I was.

I look away first, which annoys me on principle.

The bartender tracks my line of sight and one corner of her mouth twitches. “Kitchen’s got ten minutes before my cook starts pretending he can’t hear orders.”

“Right, then.” I clear my throat. “Burger. Fries too. And coffee, if you have it.”

“At this hour?”

“At this life stage.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. “Fair enough. How do you want your burger?”

“As fast as he can make it.”

She snorts and writes it down. “Name’s Nessa, in case you decide this is the night you start trusting strangers.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” I say. Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “Montana.”

Her pen pauses. “That your real name?”

“It would be a weird fake one.”

“Texas is full of weird fake things.” She tucks the pad into her apron. “You want the room key now or after you decide whether the burger might kill you?”

I tap the brass key still in my hand. “I already got it.”

“Then congratulations. You’re officially one of Marlene’s overnight problems.”

She disappears into the kitchen window with my order.

“Montana.”

The voice lands low and smooth beside me.

I turn before I can decide not to.

He’s closer now, standing beside the empty stool one seat down, glass in hand.

Up close, he looks even less like somebody who belongs in a roadside bar.

There is nothing loose about him: clean-shaven jaw, dark hair gone silver at the temples, shirt collar sitting open against a throat that still looks buttoned-up somehow.

Even standing there with a drink in his hand, he has the kind of contained stillness that makes the room seem sloppier around him.

“You look like you’re deciding whether this place is a temporary inconvenience or the first circle of hell,” he says.

“I’m keeping my options open.”

Something amused passes through his expression. Brief enough that I almost miss it.

His gaze drops, just enough to take in the damp jacket, wet hair, and duffel at my feet. “Bad drive?”

I let out a short laugh with no humor in it. “That depends. Does nearly losing my car in the dark, during a storm, on the way to a job I can’t afford to lose count as bad, or is there a more technical term?”

“That counts.”

Nessa sets down a mug in front of me, steam curling up between us. “Look at that,” she says lightly. “Mr. Silent over there decided to use words.”

His eyes flick to her. “Try not to sound so shocked.”

I wrap both hands around the coffee mug and let the heat work its way back into my fingers.

He takes the stool beside mine without asking, not in a rude way exactly, more like he’s used to space making room for him once he decides to occupy it.

Something low in my stomach tightens at the ease of it, that quiet assumption of being let in.

“New job with a local ranch?” he asks.

There are probably three ranches within reasonable driving distance. Ten, if I’m being generous. Still, something in the way he says it narrows the field.

I glance at him over the rim of the mug. “Maybe I do.”

A note of amusement touches his face. “Careful. That almost sounded mysterious.”

“It’s not mysterious. It’s called having survival instincts.”

“Do those usually involve stopping at bars in storms and talking to men you don’t know?”

I take a sip before I answer. The coffee is burnt, bitter, and exactly what I need. “No. This is clearly one of my weaker nights.”

That earns me the closest thing to a real smile I’ve seen from him so far.

Nessa drops my burger and fries in front of me. “Try not to fall in love with anything in this building,” she says. “Most of it’s unreliable.”

“Is that a warning or a slogan?”

“Both.” She glances toward the man beside me. “Especially tonight.”

He lifts his glass in her direction without looking at her. “Your people skills continue to impress.”

“They’d improve if you tipped more.” She walks off before he can answer.

I reach for a fry. Salt hits my tongue and my whole body reacts like I’ve been pulled in from open water. Beside me, he waits without fidgeting, and there’s something deliberate in that patience that keeps tugging at my attention.

I side-eye him. “Do you always sit this quietly next to strangers, or is this a special service you offer to women who look half feral?”

“Only the memorable ones.”

“That sounds rehearsed.”

His gaze drops to the fry in my hand, then comes back to my face. “No, rehearsed would’ve been smoother.”

“Usually,” I say, “people tell you who they are pretty fast if you stop waiting for them to do it politely.”

His attention sharpens on that. “And what have I told you?”