Chapter 4 Ford
Ford
Standing in the kitchen with my back pressed against the fridge, I unscrew the cap of my water bottle and take a long gulp, letting the cool liquid soothe the tightness in my throat.
My fingers grip the bottle harder than necessary, as I watch my mom and the new tenant, Stormy, go back and forth over the agreement, voices bright as they chat.
Before I can stop it, my mind drifts back to memories of when Clara was still here—her voice used to echo through the ranch house, easy, familiar, and damn near impossible to forget.
The first few years of our relationship were amazing, but then Dad passed(cancer), and suddenly I was drowning.
Drowning in grief, in responsibilities, in the relentless demands of the land that wouldn’t wait for me to heal.
The fences still needed mending, the cattle still needed feeding, and the bills still came like clockwork, indifferent to our loss.
She tried to be supportive. At first, anyway.
“I know you’re hurting,” she’d whispered one night, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against my shoulder as I lay stiff beside her in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers. “But you can’t keep shutting me out.”
I’d wanted to tell her that I wasn’t shutting her out, that I was holding onto her the only way I knew how, by keeping things running, and by making sure we all had a place here, a future here, even if I couldn’t bring myself to sit still long enough to prove it with words.
Instead, I had swallowed that truth and murmured, “I’m trying. ”
But trying wasn’t enough.
Grief twisted me into thorny branches she couldn't touch, and time chipped away at the patience she’d once had in abundance.
I saw it happening piece by piece. First there was the quiet disappointment in her eyes when I came in late, then the way she stopped waiting up for me at night.
And finally, she said what had probably been sitting on the tip of her tongue for months.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
She hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t cried. And maybe that was worse, because it meant she had already made her peace with leaving.
“I love you,” I had said, voice raw, desperate.
But it wasn’t enough.
She had only nodded, eyes rimmed with a sadness that was too deep for fixing.
“I know.”
Then, just like that, she was gone. Taking what was left of me with her.
The ranch still stood, the work still got done, and life, marched on. But the house felt emptier, and the nights were quieter. And I, grieving for a father I had barely had the chance to miss, was left with nothing but silence, wondering how grief had managed to steal from me twice.
So, that’s when I shut myself down. When I realised letting someone in, only for them to walk away, was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
It was easier this way … easier to be curt, gruff, unreachable.
Easier to throw myself into the work and into the ranch, because my mom and sisters depended on me.
They needed me to hold things together, to keep food on the table, and the land running.
So, I did. And if, in the process, I built walls too high for anyone to climb, well, maybe that was the point.
Stormy laughs, a delicate sound that pulls me from my thoughts. I blink and my gaze settles on her, following the way she moves, the way she holds herself.
I hadn't expected her when I opened the door.
A small, enigmatic woman, standing there as though the world had finally given her something to chase.
Golden hair catching the evening glow. Eyes the gentle, swirling blue grey of the ocean, locking onto mine with an intensity that shifted something inside me and made it harder to look away.
My gaze betrayed me. I was drawn to the soft curves of her frame, my mind unwillingly eager to explore more.
I’d braced myself for someone ordinary, someone forgettable.
Not this. Not her. She wasn’t dressed to impress, no layers of heavy makeup, no effort to hide the faint freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and across the gentle roundness of her cheeks.
Those freckles, delicate and understated, bothered me for reasons I can’t quite place. They were too … endearing.
And that was the problem.
She’s the most irritatingly beautiful woman I have ever lay eyes on, and I can’t afford to have her here. Not because I dislike her … I don’t even know her, but because I don’t want the temptation. The risk of wanting.
My jaw tenses and the muscles in my neck go rigid as Mom drifts into the kitchen. I exhale, barely masking the irritation that I’m sure flickers across my face before I set my drink down, hard enough for the water to spill out over the countertop, and I step towards her.
“So, this is her?” I keep my voice level and quiet, though I struggle to hide the bitterness in my tone.
My mom glances at me, not entirely oblivious to the tension lacing my words as she glides past me reaching inside the fridge. “Yes, isn’t she lovely?”
I swallow. Lovely. Of course, she is. And that’s exactly the problem. I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one foot, fighting the impulse to glance at her again. Instead, I keep my stare fixed on my mom.
“Yeah. I guess,” I say flatly—almost dismissively—before reaching for my drink again, the cold bottle a poor substitute for the control I’m trying to reclaim.
I’m not going to want her. I refuse to.
But deep down, I know … wanting has never been a choice.
So, I’ll make it one.
I’ll keep my distance. I’ll stay busy, stay quiet, and stay out of her way. Because if I let myself notice, really notice … I won’t be able to stop. And I can’t afford that. Not again. Because whatever this is, whatever she is, it can’t be anything to me.
"Can you take her to the cottage? Show her around?"
Mom barely looks at me as she asks.
The words hit like a dull thud of inevitability, and I exhale. The sound is slow, measured—bordering on exasperated. I shift my stance again, searching for a way out, any excuse, any reason. "I’ve got things to do."
She raises a brow.
"Like what?"
I hesitate.
"Important things."
A pause.
"Name one."
I open my mouth. Close it. Scowl.
She smiles, victorious, before turning back to Stormy.
I shoot a glance towards her … towards the woman who has already made herself too comfortable in the space, too effortlessly present. She’s staring out of the windows, watching as the sun sinks serenely behind the mountains, unaware of the battle unfolding in my mind.
Avoidance? Great start, Ford.
Breathing heavily, Stormy drags her suitcases across the gravel toward my truck. I watch her for a beat, then sigh. Just what I needed. An entire production over two bags.
“You need help with those?” I ask, out of necessity more than choice.
She offers a polite smile, though it doesn’t quite hide the strain in her voice.
“No thanks, I can manage.”
I let out a quiet laugh, more to myself than her.
“Sure thing, Sunshine.”
She scowls but keeps tugging the suitcases behind her like she’s got something to prove.
It’s uncomfortable to watch. Not because she’s struggling, because I’m tempted to step in.
When we reach the truck, I pop the trunk and step aside, letting her load them herself. If she’s set on doing it alone, I won’t argue.
She glances at me, clearly annoyed, but doesn’t ask for help.
Just slides down the handles and, with a grunt, hoists the bags inside, awkward, but determined.
Once her luggage is loaded, she straightens, looking ridiculously proud of herself and then her mouth curves into a knowing grin as her eyes flick over my face.
“You’ve got flour on your face. Did you know that? ”
She points to the speck on my cheek before stalking off like she’s just won a victory.
I frown, rubbing at my cheek—the one my mom had rested her hand on just before Stormy arrived. Heat prickles at the back of my neck as I glance down at my palm to look at where the flour dusts my skin.
“Damn,” I mutter, equal parts annoyed and mortified.