8. Luke #2
By the time we head back, the sun's higher and the frost is melting and I feel lighter than I have in months. Like something heavy shifted off my shoulders while I wasn't paying attention.
Harper and Dad ride ahead, giving us space that feels deliberate.
"So," Mila says after a while. "Was that so terrible?"
"No."
"Revolutionary."
"Don't gloat."
"I'm absolutely gloating. This is my gloating face." She's smiling wide enough that I can see the dimple in her left cheek. The one that only appears when she's genuinely happy rather than performing happiness. "You should do this more often. Take breaks. Remember you're human."
"I'll work on it."
"I'll hold you to it."
We ride in comfortable silence after that, and I find myself not wanting the morning to end. Not wanting to go back to the office and all the waiting responsibilities.
Not wanting to stop being close to her.
The days blur together after that. Long hours in the office punctuated by moments that feel too intimate for what we're supposed to be.
Coffee breaks that stretch longer than necessary.
Lunch eaten at our desks while trading stories.
Late nights where we're the last ones left in the building and the silence feels weighted with everything we're not saying.
Mila fits into my routine seamlessly.
She learns my coffee order and starts making it without asking. Figures out which guests annoy me most and handles their requests before I see them. Organizes my disaster of a filing system in a way that actually makes sense.
But it's more than that.
She makes me laugh. Really laugh, not just the polite chuckle I give most people.
She argues with me about the most efficient way to schedule trail guides and doesn't back down even when I'm being stubborn.
She calls me out when I'm taking on too much and physically removes work from my hands when she decides I need a break.
She reminds me there's more to living than surviving.
One evening we're working late—again—and she's rambling about a particularly difficult guest who demanded we "do something" about the weather because it was "ruining her vacation aesthetic."
"Some people," Mila says, leaning back in her chair with exaggerated exasperation, "should not be allowed to leave their houses."
"You handled it well."
"I wanted to tell her Montana doesn't care about her aesthetic. But I was professional." She grins. "You would've been proud."
"I'm always proud."
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too revealing.
Mila goes very still. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat, pretending to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me even though the numbers have stopped making sense. "You're good at this. Better than you give yourself credit for."
"Thanks." Her voice is soft. Uncertain in a way she rarely sounds. "That means a lot actually. Coming from you."
I glance up and find her watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Vulnerable. Open.
"Can I ask you something?" she says after a pause.
"Sure."
"Why'd you stay here? After everything with your mom. After the ranch almost went under." She leans forward slightly, elbows on her desk. "Dean travels. You could've done anything. But you stayed and you've been holding this place together basically by yourself ever since. Why?"
The question catches me off guard.
Nobody asks that. They just assume I stayed because it's what Blackwoods do. Because someone had to keep things running.
"It's home," I say finally. "Only place I've ever really belonged."
"But that's not the only reason."
"No." I hesitate, trying to find words for something I've never said aloud.
"My mom loved this ranch. She loved the land and the work and what it represented.
When she died, everything fell apart. Dad was—he was barely functional.
Dean threw himself into rodeo. And I was fourteen watching our entire lives crumble. "
Mila doesn't interrupt. Just listens with the focused attention she gives everything she cares about.
"When I was old enough to actually help, the ranch was bleeding money.
Dad was keeping it alive through sheer stubbornness but we were close to losing everything.
So Dean and I convinced him to open it up to guests.
Commercialize it enough to stay afloat." I run a hand through my hair.
"It worked. But it also meant I couldn't leave.
Someone had to manage operations. Make sure everything ran smoothly. And Dean was busy being Dean so?—"
"So you stayed," Mila finishes quietly.
"Yeah. I stayed."
"That's a lot of responsibility for someone barely out of high school."
"It needed doing."
"That doesn't mean it should've been all on you." Her expression's gone soft. Sympathetic without being pitying. "You've been taking care of everyone your entire adult life. Who takes care of you?"
The question lands like a punch.
Because the answer is nobody.
I take care of myself because that's what I've always done. What I learned to do when my mom died and my dad retreated into grief and my brother left to chase buckle bunnies and eight-second glory.
"I do fine," I say eventually.
"That's not what I asked."
"Mila—"
"I know. You're used to handling everything alone. You don't know how to ask for help." She stands, moving around her desk to perch on the edge of mine. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. "But you don't have to anymore. I'm here. Let me help."
"You already do."
"With work. What about everything else?"
"There isn't anything else."
"That's the problem." She reaches out slowly, like she's approaching a spooked horse, and covers my hand with hers. Warm. Solid. Real. "You deserve more than just work, Luke. You deserve to want things for yourself."
My throat goes tight. "What if I don't know how?"
"Then I'll teach you." Her smile is gentle. Understanding. "Starting with you leaving before nine tonight. Non-negotiable."
"I have?—"
"Things that can wait until tomorrow. Come on. I'll walk you out."
She tugs me to my feet and I let her, too tired to argue. Too grateful for the excuse to stop pretending I'm fine spending every night alone in this office.
We gather our things in comfortable silence and head outside where the cold hits immediate and sharp. Stars are already emerging, bright and innumerable in the clear Montana sky.
"You know what's funny?" Mila says as we walk toward our cars.
"What?"
"A few months ago I would've been terrified of this. All the quiet and darkness and space." She tips her head back, looking up at the stars. "Now it feels like home."
The confession makes something shift in my chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.
"You thinking about staying?" I ask before I can stop myself.
She looks at me, backlit by barn lights, and I can't read her expression. "Maybe. I don't know. Is that okay?"
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than intended. "That's okay."
We stand there in the cold, close enough to touch but not quite touching, and I want to kiss her so badly it physically hurts. Want to close the distance and see if she tastes like the coffee we've been drinking all day or something else entirely.
But I don't.
Because she's still figuring out where she belongs and I'm still terrified of wanting something this much and losing it.
So I just say goodnight and watch her drive away and tell myself tomorrow will be easier.
Tomorrow I won't want her quite so desperately.
Tomorrow I'll remember all the reasons keeping distance is smart.
But standing here alone in the cold, watching her taillights disappear into the Montana darkness, I'm starting to think maybe distance is the last thing I actually want.