NINE.
Tobias
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Head and the base.
I swing the axe down in a swift, practiced arc, the blade biting deep into the log with a satisfying thud that reverberates up my arms and through my shoulders.
Sweat pours off me in sheets, soaking my shirt and stinging my eyes, but I welcome the burn.
The last six weeks with Ever on the ranch have dragged on like a slow fever, every day pulling tighter with tension.
She’s finally starting to see it—the cracks in the foundation, the endless list of things that are wrong, the razor-thin line between breaking even and going under.
She’s smart, smarter than she gives herself credit for, and she’s been working quietly behind the scenes, poring over ledgers and receipts, asking questions that cut straight to the bone.
I knew the glamour of owning a ranch would wear thin fast. Feeding animals and watching them thrive is romantic until you realize how much labor it takes just to keep them alive, how one bad season or one vet bill can wipe out months of progress.
But she’s still trying. I’ll give her that much.
I step down the length of the tree Jesse and I dropped this morning, swing again, and another foot-long section splits clean in half.
I kick it aside with my boot, rolling it toward the growing pile.
A sharp bang echoes from the barn, metal on metal, and my eyes snap up.
Jesse’s out in the east pasture moving cattle, and Caden’s off today.
So who the hell is rummaging around in there in the middle of the afternoon?
I toss the axe down hard enough that the blade sticks itself in the wood, wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans, and start toward the barn.
I’m not about to let someone turn my organized space into a disaster zone.
Whoever’s opening and slamming drawers better have a damn good reason, because I’m not in the mood to clean up anyone else’s mess today.
I push sweat-damp hair off my forehead as I step through the doors, and stutter-step when I see her.
Ever is leaned over one of the lower cabinets, wearing denim short-shorts and a light-blue tank top that’s already clinging from the heat.
My eyes drop to her mouth first—she’s biting her bottom lip the way she does when she’s hyper-focused on something, a small, unconscious habit that’s been driving me quietly insane for weeks.
“Why’re you rummaging through my things?” I ask as I close the distance.
She flinches hard. A quick breath escapes her, and she presses her forehead to her arm braced against the table top before turning to look at me over her shoulder.
“Am I not allowed to go through things?” she snaps, fire already sparking in her eyes. “Because oh yeah—wait—this ranch is in my name now.”
I clench my jaw tight, swallowing the immediate retort. She whips open another drawer and pushes things aside, her movements jerky, frustrated. I can tell she’s carrying anxiety just like I am—coiled tight, ready to snap. This should be interesting.
“Alright,” I say, forcing calm into my tone. “So what’re you doing?”
“Looking for something,” she answers shortly. She slams the drawer shut, and opens the next one without missing a beat.
“Obviously.” I lean against the nearest post, crossing my arms over my chest. “If I have to hunt for anything longer than a minute tomorrow, I’m gonna be annoyed.”
“You’re always annoyed,” she retorts quickly.
There’s a new edge to her voice today, a tone I haven’t heard before. It’s something deeper than just surface level annoyance—the kind that makes your eyes blur and prevents you from seeing clearly. I wonder what’s eating at her this time.
“Princess,” I say, letting my voice drop. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She spins around, eyes blazing. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? Jesse came by the house and said you told him to tell me to come get a walkie-talkie so you don’t have to keep calling me. Then he said there’s a charger somewhere in this cabinet.”
I nod toward the top of the counter. “The walkies are right there.”
She rolls her eyes, unclips one from her hip, and holds it up. “I already got that. I’m looking for the charger.”
“Hmm.” I watch her, letting the silence stretch. She shakes her head and turns back to the cabinet, rips open the next drawer and shoves things aside. “It’s not in there.”
She slams the drawer hard enough that the whole cabinet rattles, then plants her hands on her hips. Her head dips forward, and she breathes in a long breath. “Then where the hell is it?”
“In the cattle barn,” I say evenly.
She groans and presses her palms to her eyes. “But where, in the cattle barn?”
“I’ll go get it,” I offer, but I don’t move.
“Are there no more chargers anywhere?” she asks, exasperation creeping into her voice.
I shake my head. “The one in that barn burned out.”
She tilts her head back and draws in a deep breath, exposing the long line of her throat.
It’s a dangerous thing to do in front of me—offering that much skin when I’ve spent weeks trying not to think about how it would feel under my mouth, how it would taste if I pressed my teeth there just hard enough to leave a mark.
“I’ll just order a new one for the house,” she says.
“That one’s perfectly fine,” I counter. “Just use it for now, and I’ll pick one up in town next time I’m there.”
Her head tilts slightly, and something in her expression softens—like she didn’t expect me to offer anything at all. “You don’t shop on the internet much, do you?”
“What’s it matter?” I ask, but I already know where this is going. She’s about to make fun of me again, poke at the fact that I’m not glued to a screen ordering things like the rest of the world.
“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me,” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “But there’s this thing called next-day delivery. It’s very handy.”
“Two days is the fastest out here,” I tell her. “I think you’re forgetting where you live now, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“As you wish, Princess,” I say instead. She rolls her eyes—quick and dramatic.
“Then I’ll come back for this in two days.” She unhooks the walkie from her hip and sets it back on the charger. She starts toward the exit but pauses at the doorway, half turning. “What were you doing back there, anyway? It sounded like you were breaking the building.”
“Chopping wood,” I answer simply.
She turns slowly, her eyebrow arching in curiosity. “You’re chopping wood?”
“Mhm.”
“Why?” she presses. “It’s ninety degrees.”
“I’d rather get it done now than wait until winter.” She shifts her weight, crossing her arms gently.
“That’s not what I meant.” I meet her stare with a challenge, letting the silence stretch until she has to fill it. “You’re going to exhaust yourself chopping wood in this heat. Just wait until the morning.”
I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my mouth. “Ah, so you do care about me then.”
She uncrosses her arms and steps back. “Well then, have fun.”
She turns on her heel, ready to walk away, and something in me panics—not just because I want her to stay, but because I don’t want her thinking this is how it always has to be between us.
“Might do you some good if you helped,” I call after her, the words slipping out before my brain can catch up.
She stops and turns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I push off the post and take a step closer. “It’s kinda like therapy,” I admit, and her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her face. “You seem like you need it.”
“Are you calling me crazy?”
“If that’s how you wanna take it,” I tell her. I’m standing in front of her now, closer than I should be. Her chin tilts up so she can meet my eyes, nose pointed straight at me like she’s daring me to back off. “You ever swing an axe before?”
“No,” she says, “but I’m sure I could figure it out if I had to.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s easy.”
She studies me, really looking—like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious or just setting her up for another round of teasing. I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the war between wanting to prove she can handle anything and not wanting to give me the satisfaction of following me anywhere.
“Come on,” I say before she can overthink it. I step back and nod toward the door. “Behind the barn.”
“Behind the barn?” she repeats, but she’s already moving, following me with cautious steps.
“Like you said,” I call over my shoulder, “I’m sure you could figure it out if you needed to.” She tries to hide her grin, but I catch the edge of it. “Come on, axe murderer. Before you actually do need therapy.”
I turn my shoulders and disappear around the corner of the barn, slowing my walk so I can listen for her footsteps—whether she’s following or turning back toward the house.
My heart gives an unexpected flutter when I hear her steps behind me.
She’s coming. She trusts me enough to let me teach her something, even when she’s already vulnerable.
“Wow,” she says as she steps beside me, her voice soft with surprise. “You have a whole tree back here. What’d it do to deserve this?”
“It was growing into the fence line,” I explain. “Better we get it out now than wait until it’s a bigger problem later.”
“You really like thinking ahead of time.”
“You have to on a ranch,” I say simply.
She lets out a deep breath, the sound heavy with something unspoken. “So what—you’re just cutting it into logs?”
“Yeah. To be split.” I lean down, grab one of the thicker sections, and roll it onto the wide stump we’ve used as a chopping block for years.
I grip the axe handle firmly, raise it over my shoulder, and bring it down in a clean swing. The log splits and the two halves fall away. I flick my eyes to hers, half expecting some impressed reaction, but instead her gaze is fixed on me—darting between my eyes, my arms, my face.
“Wanna try?” I turn the axe in my hand and offer her the handle.
She shakes her head immediately, face already set in quiet defeat. “I’m not cut out for that.”