Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
As Thanksgiving and Christmas passed, Marnie found that she and Beckett had slipped into an easy routine.
She’d been surprised by how comfortable she was with him—that she didn’t mind when he showed up at her cottage unannounced, or when he’d call just to hear her voice before bed.
She felt as at home at Hamilton House as she did at her own place, welcomed by Izzy’s cooking and the warmth of the big fireplace where they’d sit and talk for hours.
She didn’t feel like a second-class citizen or an imposter. She was Marnie Whitlock, and she could be or do whatever she pleased. It was an exhilarating discovery.
And it hardly bothered her at all that her visions had all but stopped.
She could still read people if she wanted, or she’d get the occasional unwarranted glimpse into someone’s future.
But there were no more visions that took hold of her by the throat and showed her what was coming in her life or the direction she was going.
She hoped that meant everything was exactly as it should be.
Blaze had mentioned to both Hazel and Denny Trout that it was in their best interest to leave her and Beckett alone.
The O’Haras owned the little cottage Marnie rented, and they also owned the place Denny lived in since the Caldwells had always been too cheap to provide a house for their foreman.
It had only taken a mention that if anything else happened, they’d both find themselves looking for another place to live.
Since then, Hazel and Denny had steered clear.
When Sloane had come home for Christmas, she and Marnie had reunited like no time had passed at all. They’d spent an entire afternoon curled up in the O’Hara living room, catching up on fifteen years of life while Simone plied them with hot cocoa and fresh-baked cookies.
“You look happy,” Sloane had said, studying her with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “Really happy. Not the fake kind you put on for other people.”
Marnie had just smiled. She was happy. Happier than she’d ever been.
“So,” Sloane said, drawing the word out with a knowing grin. “Tell me about Beckett Hamilton.”
“There’s not much to tell. We’re taking things slow.”
Sloane nearly choked on her cocoa. “Slow? You’ve been in love with the man since you were sixteen years old. Fifteen years isn’t slow enough?”
“I mean it.” Marnie tucked her feet beneath her on the couch. “We’ve talked about it. Neither of us wants to rush into anything physical. We’re building something that matters, and we want to do it right.”
Sloane studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I respect that. And honestly? It sounds like Beckett.” She smiled. “That man has been pining after you for years. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
“I know.” And that was the miracle of it. For the first time in her life, Marnie trusted that someone would stay. That she was worth staying for.
Their courtship was old fashioned in a way that made her heart sing.
Beckett took her to dinner at The Lampstand, where Simone fussed over them and sent out extra dessert.
He picked her up for Sunday services at the little white church on the edge of town, and afterward they’d have lunch with his parents or the O’Haras.
He brought her wildflowers he’d picked from the meadow and left notes on her windshield that made her laugh.
And yes, there were kisses. Kisses that made her knees weak and her heart race. Kisses that left them both breathless and wanting more. But they’d made a decision together—to wait. To build their relationship on something deeper than physical desire.
It wasn’t always easy. There were moments when the longing was almost unbearable, when she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in him completely. But those moments only made their restraint more meaningful. They were choosing each other, every day, in ways that went beyond the physical.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” Beckett had told her one evening as they sat on the porch swing at Hamilton House, watching the snow fall. “But I want to do this right. I want to marry you, Marnie. And when we finally come together, I want it to be as husband and wife.”
She’d cried then—happy tears that she didn’t try to hide. No one had ever treated her with such respect. Such honor.
“Yes,” she’d whispered against his lips. “Yes to all of it.”
They hadn’t set a date yet, but they both knew it was coming. And the anticipation only made every moment sweeter.
The O’Haras had hired her to do a full shoot of their family—an intimate picture book to hand down to future generations, including old photographs from when the ranch had first been built all the way up to present day.
It was a massive project, and Marnie was working on it in her spare time between weddings and other jobs.
She loved the work. Loved poring over the old images and seeing the family resemblances that stretched back generations.
Loved capturing the chaos and joy of Sunday dinners and the quiet moments between.
Her calendar stayed full. Lila’s gossip had done its job, and word of mouth had done the rest. She had bookings through spring already, with more coming in every week.
For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt like she truly belonged here.
Like Laurel Valley had accepted her as one of its own.
She’d been out working at the O’Hara Ranch one afternoon in late January, photographing Jax with his physical therapist for a piece Simone wanted to include in the family book.
Jax had grumbled about it, but Lacey had talked him into cooperating, and Marnie had captured some beautiful candid shots of them working together.
There was something between those two—a spark that neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.
But Marnie could see it plain as day through her lens.
On a whim, she’d veered toward Hamilton land on her way home. She found Beckett out by the fence line, nailing a loose board back into place, his horse tethered nearby. Snow still covered the ground, but he didn’t seem bothered by the cold.
She pulled the van up beside him and took a few pictures through the window before he noticed her—loving the intensity on his face, the way his hands worked so skillfully with the hammer. When he looked up and saw her, his whole face transformed into a smile that made her heart flip in her chest.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said as she hopped out of the van.
“Good thoughts, I hope.”
“Always.” He set down the hammer and pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. “What brings you out this way?”
“I was at your aunt and uncle’s place. Couldn’t resist taking a detour.”
“I’m glad you did.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Dinner at the house tonight? Izzy’s making pot roast.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
These were the moments she treasured. The easy affection, the sense that she belonged somewhere—with someone. They’d fallen into a rhythm that felt natural and right. No demands, no pressure. Just two people building something together, one day at a time.
But she should’ve known things were too good to last.
The snow was still falling when she finished her last client for the day and headed toward Hamilton House that evening.
The oak tree at the center of the fork in the road no longer brought her the pain it first had when she’d returned to Laurel Valley.
She drove past it without a thought when her cell phone rang.
She didn’t recognize the number, but that wasn’t uncommon with all the client inquiries she received.
“Whitlock Photography,” she said. “This is Marnie.”
“I’d thought for sure you’d have gotten over your little tantrum by now and come crawling back.”
Her foot lifted off the accelerator and the van crawled to a stop in the middle of the road. She grasped the phone tightly in one hand and the wheel with the other. Nausea rolled in her stomach.
Beckett had been right. Clive wouldn’t leave her alone.
“Hello? Marnie? Are you there?”
“I’m here. What do you want?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s time for you to end this farce and come home. I’m sure you’ve taken some lovely photographs while you’ve been staying in the middle of nowhere, but it’s time to get back to the real world. I’ve got a show scheduled for you in New York at the end of May.”
“I guess you’ll have to cancel it,” she said, anger building inside her. “I’m not doing any more shows. And last I checked, I’m not having anything more to do with you either.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not what our contract says.”
“Not any contract that I signed.”
“That doesn’t matter. Who’s going to believe you? Certainly not a court of law or the judges I play golf with every week.”
“We’re done, Clive. You can’t have me.”
“Stupid girl. I never wanted you.” His voice turned cruel.
“Your photographs and that psychic ability, on the other hand, have made me a fortune. You don’t think I just randomly walked into your studio that day?
It was fortunate circumstance that you happened to be a decent photographer with a talent I could exploit. ”
She pressed down on the accelerator and the van started forward again. “I’m sure that’s fascinating,” she said, her voice dead of all emotion.
She’d already known that, of course, but the confirmation was still painful. The O’Haras were the only ones who had genuinely loved her—and now Beckett. She had to believe that. Had to trust that what they had was real.
“Stop pouting. I’ll be there in a couple of days to collect you and any photographs you’ve taken over the last months. And don’t try to tell me you haven’t been taking them. You can’t go a day without lifting that camera to your face.”
“You’re not welcome here, and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Be ready and don’t keep me waiting. I promise you won’t like it if you do.”
He hung up, and she realized she was trembling.
She sat there for a long moment, the van idling in the middle of the empty road, snow falling softly around her.
Part of her wanted to turn around, drive back to her cottage, and hide.
But a bigger part—the part that had survived Harley Whitlock, that had clawed her way out of poverty and built a life from nothing—refused to run.
The only way she was going anywhere with Clive Wallace was if he dragged her there. And she had a feeling Beckett Hamilton would have something to say about that.
She put the van in drive and continued toward Hamilton House.
She needed to tell him, but she’d been too ashamed. Too afraid that somehow this would prove she wasn’t worth the trouble.
But Beckett deserved the truth. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to face this alone.