Chapter 8 Ford
Ford
Harper and Kit are waiting on the porch when I pull up to the house, both perched on the steps.
Harper sits to the right with her knees drawn up, forearms resting over them, and her phone clutched between her hands as she giggles at whatever’s on the screen.
Strands of auburn hair have slipped loose from her braid, messy as always.
She’s probably been out trekking through the fields already this morning, never one for staying still too long.
She’s certainly not a girly girl, never has been, and I doubt that’ll ever change.
Always looking for her next adventure—something physical to do.
Kit sits to the side, a few steps higher. His rucksack is wedged between his knees as he fidgets with the strings on the zips, fingers working restlessly. His gaze flicks towards Harper every few seconds.
I slow the truck. What’s up with him?
Harper laughs again, bright and carefree, and that’s when I catch it … the subtle shift in Kit’s shoulders, the way he stiffens, like the sound pulled something tight in his chest.
Oh.
I grimace.
So that’s what the hair wax is all about.
I suppose I don’t blame him though. Harper’s kind, fun, easy to love. She’s got one of those personalities that lights up a whole room. The kind that’s impossible to ignore. No matter how bad the day’s been, she always finds a way to pull a grin out of you.
But … she’s my baby sister.
Sure, she’s seventeen, practically grown, but that’s beside the point.
I like Kit. He’s a good kid, hardworking, dependable, always showing up when he says he will. I trust him, and I’d vouch for him any day. But Kit and Harper? Yeah. I don’t know if I like that.
Does she know? Doubt it. By the looks of it, I’d wager no. There doesn’t seem to be anything between them, at least not yet. They’re not even sitting together and judging by how Kit’s suddenly started making an effort this morning, I’d say he’s only just figured it out himself.
They’ve always been good friends, sure. Hung out now and then outside of school. But their social circles don’t mix, and the second they step foot in school, they go their separate ways. Still. I’m going to have to keep my eyes on this.
Kit notices me first. He stiffens, looking all kinds of sheepish.
Yeah, you look guilty, kid. Don’t act like I didn’t just catch you making heart eyes at my baby sister.
He jumps up, too quickly and too obviously, startling Harper in the process.
She glances up, confused for a second, before spotting my truck rolling to a stop. I wind the window down.
“Come on then, kids.”
My voice cuts through the low rumble of the engine, and they both head towards me. Kit yanks open the trunk, tossing his bike in with practised ease before climbing into the back seat beside Harper.
Buddy pokes his head through the gap between the seats, sniffing the air before nudging Harper’s knee.
She grins, scratching behind his ears before turning back to whatever’s on her phone.
"You do know we’re not kids anymore," she says, eyes not leaving the screen.
"And we’re perfectly capable of getting to school on our own. "
"I know," I tell her, shifting the truck into reverse. "But as your big brother, it’s my job to make you look uncool in front of your friends."
She gives me an affronted look, and Kit huffs out a laugh under his breath.
I pull down the drive, gravel crunching under the tires as we head toward the main road.
“I’m your older brother. That means I’m taking you. Keeps you out of trouble, or, knowing you, stops you from running off on some adventure and forgetting school altogether."
Harper sighs dramatically, her phone resting against her lap.
"Ford," she says, softer now. "I know you've been on this whole ‘I’m responsible’ thing since Dad died, but really … we’re okay. We can …"
"End of conversation."
I don’t look at her. Don’t give her room to argue.
My tone makes it clear that this isn’t up for discussion, and it never will be.
I don’t ask much of the girls. They’ve got their own lives, their own choices, and I don’t control that.
Wouldn’t even try. But I need to know they’re safe.
That’s the bare minimum. Dads gone. I can’t change that.
But what I can do is make sure they’ve got someone looking out for them, someone who actually gives a damn.
If that means driving them to school, making sure they don’t run off into trouble, keeping an eye on things even when they swear that they don’t need me to, so be it. I’d rather they roll their eyes at me now than need me when it’s too late.
She exhales, resigned, but there’s no bite to it. Just that quiet, gentle nature of hers.
"Okay, okay," she concedes, then tilts her head. "Just … can you drop us off a little before school? It’s hard walking in when everyone I know is staring at my ‘hot older brother.’"
I stare at her through the rear-view mirror. I’m not sure I heard that right.
"What?"
"Yeah, apparently everyone thinks you’re hot, and honestly, it’s kind of annoying."
I have no idea what to do with this information. I glance at Kit in the mirror; he sits there smirking. I narrow my eyes at him.
"I don’t know what you’re smirking at, Mr I Put Wax in My Hair Today."
Kit’s face drops. His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head ever so slightly, the smallest amount of pleading in his expression. Harper catches on immediately.
"Huh?" she says, twisting in her seat. "You put wax in your hair?"
Before he can react, she reaches over, fingers combing through the strands before squealing.
"Wait, what? Why are you wearing wax?"
Kit groans, swatting her hand away.
"Harps, stop."
I smirk through the mirror at him, satisfied.
"Why are you being weird about it?" she presses, but Kit shrugs her off, avoiding her gaze like she might pin him against the seat and interrogate him fully.
They sit in awkward silence the rest of the way. I almost feel bad for the kid. Almost. But then I remember … the heart eyes he was giving her on the porch. And yeah, I don’t think I feel bad at all.
After dropping them a little before school like Harper had asked, I begin the drive back to the ranch. And just as I’m driving past the town’s main grocery store with my mind back at the ranch occupied by the jobs that await me, movement catches my eye.
A woman. Blonde hair lifting in the breeze, a floaty dress shifting with it and arms tight around full shopping bags. I double glance. It’s Stormy, of course.
I let out a small groan, and Buddy grumbles at the sound from his spot in the passenger seat.
Why is she suddenly showing up everywhere?
In my routine, in my line of sight, in the quiet corners I thought were only mine.
I just wanted to get back to work without this …
this distraction, this pull towards something I don’t know how to handle.
I drive a few more minutes down the road, jaw clenched in a silent war with myself.
I’m not ready for her lingering presence, not prepared for the temptation she brings, but I also know one thing for certain.
She’s not walking all the way back to the ranch with those bags.
I side-eye Buddy, who’s now perked up, ears twitching.
“Don’t get excited,” I tell him. “You’re about to see your new friend again, but I ain't happy about it.”
Grumbling under my breath, I flick on the turn signal, swing the truck around, and drive back. Slowing down beside her, I roll the window down and rest my arm over the edge.
"Stormy."
She startles at my voice, then looks over, her expression flickering between surprise and curiosity.
"Ford?"
I nod toward the bags.
"You need help?"
She shakes her head almost immediately, adjusting her grip and plastering a grin across her face.
"Nope. I’m fine. Enjoying the walk, actually."
I study her for a beat.
“That’s a thirty-minute walk,” I say, keeping it casual. Or, trying to. “Just saying, it’s a lot to carry.”
I try not to sound condescending, but my tone’s tighter than it should be. She makes me nervous, throws off my rhythm. I didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to talk. But something about her pulls me in.
“I’m managing,” she insists, shifting the bags again. But I catch the slight wince, the way her fingers adjust like she’s trying not to show the strain.
I sigh.
“Sure looks like it.”
I pull the truck to a full stop, throw it into park, and step out. Not dramatic. Just decided. I hold out a hand.
“Come on. Give me the bags.”
Stormy hesitates, her grip tightening.
“Ford …”
“I’ve got work to get back to,” I say, voice low, even. Not annoyed, just done arguing.
“I’m not here to win a standoff, Stormy. Just let me help.”
I hold out a hand. My voice isn’t harsh, just firm.
I’m offering the simplest solution to an obvious problem.
She stares up at me, lips pressed together in defiance, but I don’t waver.
For a moment, I catch that flicker of inner turmoil on her face, a silent battle between wanting to stand on her own and knowing she’s struggling.
She hesitates, looks up the road at the journey ahead, it’s obvious her pride is warring with exhaustion, and finally, with a breath that sounds pulled from deep within, she hands them over.
“Fine,” she says, brushing past me toward the passenger seat. “But I didn’t need help. I just let you help.”
I toss the bags into the back, trying to ignore the way my mouth starts to tilt at the edge.
“Whatever story you need to tell yourself, Sunshine.”
Stormy stops dead at the passenger door, spotting Buddy sitting there, tongue lolling happily at the sight of her. I nod toward the back seat.
“Buddy’s got the front. You’ll have to take the back … sorry.”
She blinks, then lets out a small, amused breath.
“Oh.”
And instead of protesting, she smiles and climbs into the back. I slide in behind the wheel and watch Stormy reaching through the seats to fuss over Buddy, who unsurprisingly loves the attention. Traitor.
I pull back onto the road, and as I watch her through the rearview mirror, that damn pull creeps back again, the one I keep fighting off.
She’s attractive. That much is undeniable, whether I want to acknowledge it or not.
And that British accent does all kinds of things to my stomach and … other places. It’s far too tempting.
I grit my teeth, forcing my focus back on the road.
No. She’s not getting under my skin. Not like that.