TEN.
Ever
——————————
So you do care.
The farmers market downtown is small and quaint, the kind of place where vendors set up folding tables and pop-up tents along a single block of Main Street, selling whatever they’ve poured their weeks into: fresh produce still dusted with field dirt, homemade breads and pastries, hand-carved wooden spoons, bars of goat-milk soap wrapped in brown paper, even Tupperware someone’s grandmother probably once sold at home parties.
It’s the sort of market where nothing is truly necessary, but everything feels like a small indulgence, a reason to leave the house and talk to neighbors.
I’ve been trying to come every weekend, introducing myself to the other vendors, chatting with local farmers and ranchers to learn how they make a living in a world that seems to get more expensive every year.
So far I’ve learned this is a hobby for most of them—something that supplements income rather than creates it.
I stop at the sourdough booth and buy three loaves this time, because the last time I was here I only bought one and it vanished in a single day.
I chat with the couple who sell just corn and watermelon.
They seem to have things figured out, a simple rotation that keeps them steady.
But corn and watermelon are already covered, so that path is closed before it even opens.
A burst of excited barking pulls my attention.
I turn smoothly, eyes trailing down the only row of tents I haven’t visited yet, and spot a new booth with crates and wire gates housing dogs and puppies.
I walk over, even though I know getting a puppy right now would be the worst possible decision.
My life is already a circus of responsibilities.
Adding a creature that needs constant attention, training, and energy I don’t have would only make everything harder. Still, I’m drawn in anyway.
The puppies in the pen jump and nip at the wire, tails whipping, barking in a chaotic symphony that brings a smile to my face. Their energy is overwhelming—pure, unfiltered chaos—and I can already feel how much stress they would add to my days.
“You’re not getting a dog.”
I jump, startled, and one of the loaves slips from my arm. Tobias reaches down swiftly and catches the bread before it hits the dirt like it’s nothing.
“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly, glancing around as though we’ve been caught doing something illicit.
“Am I not allowed at the farmers market?” he replies. I reach forward, snatch the loaf back from him, and tuck it with the others. “Are you on a carb diet now?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I nudge his shoulder lightly and walk out of the tent, passing the rest of the dogs without stopping to look. But then I feel his body brush against my arm and my legs nearly give out beneath me.
What the hell is this man doing to me? I should loathe him for the way he talks to me.
But after a month of working side by side, our banter has shifted into something else entirely—sharper, more dangerous.
The way he looks at me now, the way he stands close when I challenge him because he knows it weakens my knees, is the worst kind of torture.
And I hate how much I can’t stop thinking about it.
“If I want to get a dog, I’ll get a dog,” I say as I turn down another aisle.
He stays close, matching my pace, anticipating every turn like he already knows exactly where I’m headed. “Just don’t put it on my schedule. I’ve got enough to take care of.”
I glare at him. “I think you’re misinterpreting the term ‘my dog’ with ‘our dog.’”
He shoots me a look from the corner of his eye, but I can’t help my eyes from scanning over his face. His sharp jaw that’s being hidden behind a beard he hasn’t trimmed in a while now.
“You need to shave. Your beard’s getting out of control.”
“I know you don’t believe that,” he says easily, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I bet you’re just saying that because you think I’d be easier to ignore if I was clean-shaven.”
“It’s cute you think I care at all,” I snap back, keeping my eyes forward this time.
“Go ahead and keep thinking that, Princess,” I groan. I really hate when he calls me that. But he never lets it go.
“You know,” I say, slowing my steps, “I came here trying to get away from the ranch and work.”
“It’s a small town,” Tobias says, completely unbothered by my tone. I wonder if there’s anything I could say at this point that might actually rattle him, or if he’s simply immune to anything that isn’t a direct threat to the ranch.
“So you’re just going to follow me around the rest of the day?” I ask.
“No. Just to your car,” he replies.
I slow my pace and turn sideways, expecting him to stop or at least acknowledge the absurdity of it, but he keeps walking.
“You’re escorting me out?” I say, catching up to his side. “What are you, the Strawberry Plains security guard?” He doesn’t react to the jab. Doesn’t even glance at me. “Tobias. What are you doing?”
“There’s someone here I don’t want you around.” I whip my head over my shoulder, scanning the crowd behind us—families pushing strollers, couples sharing pastries, older men in faded trucker caps—but I don’t see anyone who looks remotely threatening.
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“I don’t care if you do,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “I’m seeing you to your car.”
I glance at him a long moment, but don’t push the topic any further. I find I have an underlying trust that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. And that’s not something I want to admit.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I ask quietly, suddenly conscious of how close we’re walking.
“Meeting someone,” he says, offering no elaboration.
“What, like a date?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
We weave through the parked cars in the lot.
When we reach Gladys, he pulls open the driver’s door for me without a word, then reaches over and takes the loaves of bread from my arms. He places them carefully on the back seat, and the small, thoughtful gesture catches me off guard.
I didn’t take him for the kind of man who opens doors, catches bread before it falls, or sets them down neatly instead of tossing it in.
“You’re headed back to the ranch?” he asks, ignoring my date question entirely.
I nod slowly and slide into the driver’s seat, swinging my legs in one by one. He closes the door slowly, but lingers with it cracked open, studying me openly.
“Would it annoy you if it was a date?” he teases, his voice low. “Because I thought you didn’t care.”
I roll my eyes hard, but the heat rising in my cheeks betrays me. How does he do that—flip me from caring about who he might be meeting to being instantly annoyed by him in the same breath?
I grab the door handle and slam it shut.
I glare at him through the window, and he smirks—slow, infuriating, satisfied.
I lift my hand, extend my middle finger, then turn the key in the ignition.
Ruben really did work miracles on Gladys.
She starts without hesitation, purring like she’s never known a day of trouble.
I roll the window down an inch and rev the engine just enough to make a point. “Maybe I’ll invite Ruben over. Make him think there’s something wrong with Gladys so he has to come check it out.”
His eyes harden instantly. Yeah. Two can play at this game.
“Maybe I’ll even invite him in for dinner.”
He reaches for the handle, but I hit the lock button fast. A laugh slips out of me as he yanks anyway. His grip tightens, jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle jump as I lean toward the window.
“See ya back at the ranch, buttercup.” I shift into reverse and back out slowly, watching in the rearview as his arms cross, staring after me.
I drive away still chuckling under my breath. He’s trouble. I know he is. But damn if I don’t like the way he makes me feel when he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care.
— ∞ —
I lie on my bed, arms flung wide, headphones snug over my ears as music fills the quiet.
I’m still not sure how long it’ll take to get used to living alone in the middle of nowhere.
Some days the quiet feels like a gift, a rare chance to hear my own thoughts without the city’s constant hum.
Other nights it drives me half mad, makes me restless knowing I’m the only person for miles. Tonight it’s the restless kind.
During the week I rarely leave the ranch unless I need to run to the bank or the grocery store.
On weekends I force myself out—any festival, any market, any small-town event in the neighboring towns that might feel like living instead of just surviving.
But after a while they all start to blur together.
I’ve toyed with the idea of growing a small crop to sell, or pivoting the ranch toward something more sustainable, but every promising plan runs into the same wall: time, money, land limitations. Nothing feels feasible.
A faint thud cuts through the pause between songs.
I pull the headphones off, heart kicking up as three loud bangs echo through the house.
I jolt upright, pulse hammering in my ears and chest. I tap my phone awake—7:43 p.m..
The ranch is supposed to be empty this time of night, no one should be here.
I pause the music, hands already trembling, and run through my mental checklist: front door locked, back door bolted, windows secured before I came to my room.
I slide out of bed and tiptoe across the floorboards, praying they don’t creak and give me away. In the living room I grab the shotgun that’s been leaning against the wall by the couch since I found it, grip it steady in both hands, and try to slow my ragged breathing.
Another three knocks pound the door, loud enough to blur my vision for a second. I force a steady breath. What do I even do? It’s not like I can hide here forever.
“Who is it?” I call, forcing my voice to sound stern and loud.
There’s a short pause. Then a familiar voice answers. “Tobias.”
Relief crashes through me so fast I nearly drop the gun. I hunch forward, one hand braced on my knee, sucking in air. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut to steady myself.
I stomp to the door and yank it open. He’s standing there holding the storm door wide, eyes narrowing as they drop to the shotgun in my hands. Concern flashes across his face.
“You’re pulling a gun on me now?”
“No one supposed to be here right now,” I snap. “What are you doing here?”
“Why weren’t you answering the door?”
“I was listening to music. I had my headphones on.” I lean the shotgun against the wall. He tracks every movement, confusion and worry etched into his expression. “Tobias. What are you doing here?”
He stares at me, hands clenched at his sides, but says nothing.
“Please don’t tell me you’re here to see if I actually brought Ruben back with me,” I drag out. When he doesn’t deny it, I groan. “You are insufferable. Go home. You came all this way for nothing.”
“Do you always have that shotgun out?” he asks, ignoring everything I just said.
“I’m a girl. Alone on a ranch. In the middle of nowhere. What do you expect?” His eyes flash with something fierce I can’t quite place. “Is there something you actually needed?”
“Does it work?” Tobias asks, ignoring everything again.
“I haven’t tested it,” I admit.
He leans inside without hesitation, grabs the gun, and steps back onto the porch. He examines it with quick, practiced movements—opening the action, closing it, taking a mock aim into the distance with one eye squinted shut.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t attractive. The way his shoulders square, the easy confidence in how he handles the weapon, the faint furrow between his brows as he checks the tubes and trigger—it’s all unfairly compelling.
“Can I shoot it?” he asks calmly, his eyes flickering to meet mine. I nod.
He racks the slide and fires off to the side of the house. I flinch hard, ears ringing, while the bullet kicks up a small plume of dirt in the yard. His face stays hard-set as he lowers the barrel, inspects it again, then turns to me.
“Try it.” My breath hitches. “I wanna know that you can if you need to.”
I’ve kept this shotgun out since the day I found it, telling myself I’d be able to use it if I had to as some quiet reassurance that I’m not completely defenseless. But with him handing it to me now, the reality of it hits different. I’m not sure I have it in me.
“Come on,” he says again, gentler this time. I step forward and take the gun from his hands. “Hold it up with the stock against your shoulder,” he instructs. I do as he says, pressing the end firmly into the hollow of my shoulder.
He moves behind me and places a hand on my elbow, lifting it slightly higher.
Then his other hand settles on my hip, turning me just enough to square my stance.
Heat coils low, a slow, aching burn that has no business being there, but I don’t move.
His touch lingers, warm through my clothes, before he steps back.
“Your arms need to be firm. It’s gonna kick back into your shoulder. If you don’t hold it steady, it’s gonna hurt.” I nod once, throat tight. “Now rack it and pull the trigger.”
I pull the slide, aim toward the empty field, and squeeze. The gun bucks hard against my shoulder, harder than I remember from when I was a kid, jarring through my whole body. But adrenaline floods me the second the shot cracks out.
I lower the barrel slowly, watching the dust settle, then turn to find his eyes already on mine. The tension is thick between us, but then he blinks and steps back.
“Sorry I scared you,” he says quickly, moving back further. “I’ll walkie you next time.”
He turns and hops off the porch. “Tobias,” I call out, surprising myself.
He pauses and glances over his shoulder, catching my gaze. My eyes drop to the broad line of his shoulders, the solid expanse of his chest beneath his shirt. The strength he carries so effortlessly.
“What were you doing at the farmers market?”
He turns back fully, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one he wears right before he says something truly infuriating. So I step into the house and shut the door before he can speak.
So you do care, I’m betting was at the tip of his tongue. And I hate that he’s right.
I do. I really do.