8. Luke
LUKE
Iwatch her taillights disappear down the ranch road and stand there like an idiot in the cold, replaying every second of what just happened.
She thinks she'd ruin my life.
Like chaos is something I can't handle. Like I haven't spent the last decade managing complicated logistics and difficult personalities and Dean's entire rodeo circus.
Like I'm too fragile for someone who rambles when she's nervous and steals my hoodies and makes terrible jokes about filing systems.
I finally force myself to move, heading back inside to finish the work I abandoned when I followed her outside. But the office feels emptier now. Colder. Like she took something with her when she left.
You deserve someone who has their shit together.
The words circle in my head while I close out booking confirmations and send emails that probably could've waited until morning. But sitting here alone feels better than going home to an empty cabin where I'll just lie awake thinking about the way she looked at me. The way she stopped me.
The way she said she cared too much to let me make a mistake.
By the time I finally lock up and head home, it's past midnight and I'm too tired to do anything but fall into bed fully clothed.
Tomorrow I'll figure out how to act normal around her.
Tomorrow I'll remember all the reasons keeping my distance is the smart thing to do.
Tonight I just let myself want something I shouldn't have.
The next morning arrives too early and too cold, frost coating every surface like the world forgot how to thaw. I make it to the office before sunrise out of habit, starting coffee and settling into the familiar routine that's kept me grounded for years.
Mila shows up twenty minutes later.
She doesn't mention what happened. Doesn't acknowledge the almost-kiss or her confession or any of it. Just breezes in with snow in her hair and her ridiculous oversized coat, heading straight for the coffee like we're starting fresh.
"Morning," she says without looking at me.
"Morning."
"I finished those booking confirmations you needed. Also rescheduled the Hendersons because apparently November in Montana is 'too cold' for their delicate constitutions." She drops into her chair, pulling up her computer. "Some people have no sense of adventure."
I watch her settle into work mode—focused and efficient and completely ignoring the elephant currently taking up residence in our shared office space.
Fine.
If she wants to pretend nothing happened, I can pretend nothing happened.
Except I can't stop noticing things.
The way she chews her bottom lip when she's concentrating. How she mutters under her breath at difficult guests who send passive-aggressive emails. The fact that she's wearing one of my old Blackwood Ranch hoodies under that ridiculous coat, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
"You're staring," she says without glancing up.
"I'm not."
"You are. It's creepy."
"I'm thinking."
"Think quieter." But there's the ghost of a smile pulling at her mouth. "We've got the Martinelli family checking in this afternoon and they requested a private dinner by the river. Which means I need to coordinate with Harper about menu options and make sure the site's set up properly."
"I can handle the site."
"You've got three other things to handle. I'll do it."
"Mila—"
"Not arguing, Blackwood." She finally looks at me, expression mild. "Delegate. It's what normal people do."
"I know how to delegate."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
She's not wrong. But letting other people carry the load still feels uncomfortable. Like I'm shirking responsibility or admitting I can't handle everything myself.
"Fine," I say after a pause. "Talk to Harper. Let me know what you need."
"See? That wasn't so hard."
We fall into our usual rhythm after that—trading updates and solving problems and occasionally bickering about the most efficient way to organize guest transportation schedules. It should feel normal.
It doesn't.
Because now I'm hyperaware of every moment. Every time she laughs at something I say or leans over my shoulder to check a spreadsheet or sits close enough that I can smell whatever citrus shampoo she uses.
I'm in trouble.
Deep, complicated trouble with no easy solution.
By mid-afternoon I'm buried in vendor contracts when Mila appears beside my desk holding two mugs of coffee.
"Break time," she announces.
"I'm fine."
"You've been staring at that contract for twenty minutes without moving. You're not fine. You're having a stroke." She sets one mug in front of me. "Drink. Tell me about something other than work."
"We're at work."
"Which is exactly why we need to talk about not-work." She perches on the edge of my desk, completely invading my space in a way that should be annoying but somehow isn't. "Come on. Give me something. Favorite movie. Worst childhood memory. Secret hobby."
"I don't have hobbies."
"That's depressing."
"I have the ranch."
"The ranch is your job, not your hobby." She takes a sip of coffee, studying me with those sharp hazel eyes that seem to see too much. "What do you do for fun, Luke Blackwood?"
"I work."
"Wrong answer."
"It's the truth."
"It's tragic." She sets down her mug with exaggerated care. "Okay. New rule. At least once a week you have to do something that isn't work-related."
"That's not?—"
"Non-negotiable. I'm implementing it immediately." Her expression turns thoughtful. "When's the last time you went on a trail ride just because?"
"I ride all the time."
"For work. When's the last time you rode for fun?"
I don't have an answer.
Can't remember the last time I saddled up without a specific purpose. Without guests to guide or fences to check or cattle to move.
Mila's watching my face and apparently finds whatever she sees there concerning. "That's what I thought. You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"Trail ride. Tomorrow morning. You, me, Harper, and Caleb." She holds up a hand when I start to protest. "No arguing. Harper already cleared it with Caleb and I'm clearing it with you. We're going."
"I have?—"
"Things I can handle for three hours. Delegate, remember?"
"Mila—"
"Please?" The word comes out softer. Almost vulnerable. "Just this once. Let someone else take care of the ranch while you remember what it feels like to actually enjoy it."
The request lands somewhere tender. Some place I didn't realize was still exposed.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "Tomorrow morning."
Her smile is bright enough to hurt. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Except it is hard.
Letting go always is.
The next morning arrives clear and cold, the kind of November day where the sky's so blue it looks fake and the mountains stand out sharp against the horizon. I meet them at the barn—Harper already saddling Juniper while Dad checks tack with the methodical precision he brings to everything.
Mila's late.
She shows up ten minutes past our agreed time, slightly breathless and completely unapologetic.
"Sorry. Overslept." She heads straight for Juniper's stall where Harper's already finished saddling. "Are we doing this or are you all going to stand around judging my time management skills?"
"We're judging," Harper says cheerfully. "But we're also riding."
Dad just shakes his head, amusement flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral. "Let's move before we lose the good light."
We head out single file through the valley trail—Dad leading, Harper behind him, then Mila, with me bringing up the rear.
The landscape's transformed under frost, everything crystalline and still.
The kind of beauty that makes you forget about booking confirmations and vendor contracts and all the small disasters waiting back at the office.
"This is amazing," Mila says after we've been riding for fifteen minutes. "How do you not do this every single day?"
"Some of us have jobs," I point out.
"Some of us need to remember there's more to life than jobs."
Harper glances back, grinning. "She's got a point, Luke. You work too much."
"Everyone keeps telling me that."
"Because it's true," Dad adds without turning around. "You're worse than I was at your age."
"That's not possible."
"It's absolutely possible." He guides his horse around a fallen branch, movements easy and practiced. "Difference is I eventually figured out what mattered. You're still pretending the ranch is enough."
The observation stings more than it should.
Because he's right.
I've spent years telling myself the ranch is sufficient. That keeping this place running and my family stable is purpose enough for an entire lifetime.
But lately that certainty's been cracking.
Lately I've started wanting more.
We ride for two hours through terrain I know by heart but somehow feels different today.
New. Like I'm seeing it through Mila's eyes instead of my own, noticing details I've stopped appreciating.
The way light catches on snow. How the pines smell sharper in cold air.
The absolute quiet that only exists this far from civilization.
"Thank you for this," Mila says quietly when we stop to water the horses near the creek.
"You're the one who made it happen."
"I know. But thank you for coming." She meets my eyes across the space between our horses. "You looked happy out there. Like you actually remembered why this place matters."
"I never forgot why it matters."
"Maybe not. But you forgot how to enjoy it.
" She dismounts, moving to adjust Juniper's saddle with the careful competence she's developed over months of practice.
"There's a difference between working somewhere and living somewhere.
You're so busy keeping everything running that you've stopped actually being present. "
The words hit harder than I expect.
Because she's right again.
I've spent so long being responsible that I forgot what it feels like to just exist in this place I supposedly love.
"How'd you get so smart?" I ask.
"Natural talent. Also therapy." She grins when I laugh. "What? I contain multitudes."