Chapter 9 #3
About Armand showing up with his too-perfect offer and his knowledge of things he shouldn't have known, the texts that had been coming since then. The pressure. The fear that had been building with every passing day. How he made it clear that refusing their “help” would have consequences.
Connor listened without interrupting, his expression growing darker with every word.
His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
His white knuckled hands were fisted on the table.
But he let me talk, let me get it all out, and when I finally finished, my voice was hoarse and my eyes burned with unshed tears.
He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated and weary.
“Jesus, Harper.” His voice was rough. “Why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was handling it.” The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. “Or I thought I was. I kept thinking if I could just hold on a little longer, make it to spring when business picks up, get through the slow season—”
“You weren't handling it.” There was no judgment in his voice, just sadness. Frustration. Fear. “You were drowning. And you were drowning alone when you had people who would have helped you.”
“I didn't want to be a burden—”
“You're not a burden.” Connor leaned forward, his eyes intense, searching my face. “Harper, you're my friend. You've been my friend for six years. Did you really think I'd think less of you for needing help?”
“I thought—” My voice cracked. “I thought you didn't want anything to do with me anymore. After the fight about Morgan, after you chose her over—”
I stopped, but the words hung between us anyway.
After you chose her over me.
Connor's expression shifted to something pained, something raw. “I didn't choose Morgan over you. I ended things with her.”
“But you stopped talking to me. Stopped inviting me to things. We went from seeing each other every week to nothing. You couldn't even sit in the same room as me for more than five minutes without finding an excuse to leave.”
“Because every time I saw you, I wanted—” He stopped, shook his head, jaw working. “It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're here now, and you're safe, and we're going to fix this.”
He pulled out his phone, his movements sharp with barely controlled emotion. “And the first step is figuring out who Armand Beaumont actually is. Because I guarantee that's not his real name.”
While Connor typed rapidly on his phone, texting Jaxon from the look of it, I picked at my eggs, my appetite completely gone. Everything felt too big, too complicated, too dangerous.
“Connor?” My voice came out small.
He looked up.
“What if they come here? Whoever did this…what if they figure out I'm staying with you?”
His expression went hard. Protective. Fierce in a way I'd never seen before, something almost dangerous in his eyes. “Then they'll have to go through me. And trust me, Harper, I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. Not again.”
There was certainty in his voice, absolute conviction that made me almost believe it.
“I'm scared,” I admitted quietly, choosing to be honest now that the biggest secret was already out. “Someone burned down my apartment. On purpose. Because I wouldn't…what? Take their money? That's insane, Connor. That's—”
“I know.” He reached across the table, covering my hand with his. His palm was warm, calloused from ranch work, completely steady even though mine was trembling. “But you're safe here. I promise you that. You're safe.”
I turned my palm up, lacing our fingers together, and tried to believe him.
You're safe here. For now, maybe. But whoever had done this, whoever had burned down my apartment, threatened me and systematically destroyed my financial stability over the past months, they weren't going to just stop because I was hiding at Connor's ranch.
They wanted something from me. Something specific.
And until I figured out what that was and how to give it to them, or how to stop them permanently, I couldn't believe that any of us were truly safe.
A knock on the front door made us both jump, hands jerking apart like we'd been caught doing something wrong.
“That'll be Davies,” Connor said, standing. His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back. “You okay?” I nodded even though I wasn't sure if I'd ever be okay again.
Connor disappeared toward the front door, and I heard voices.
Sheriff Davies' familiar baritone, steady and authoritative, mixed with Connor's quieter tone.
I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug.
It had gone cold now, but I needed something to hold onto as I tried to prepare myself for telling this story again.
For admitting how badly I'd failed to protect myself.
For facing the reality that someone out there hated me enough, or wanted something from me badly enough, to try to kill me.
Sheriff Davies had stayed for over an hour, sitting at Connor's kitchen table with a notepad and a voice recorder, taking detailed notes about everything.
We started with Armand's first visit to my boutique, with his too-perfect offer and his knowledge of my private finances.
The business card he'd left with just a phone number, no company name, nothing legitimate.
The texts that came and increased with pressure each time and his veiled threats about consequences and bad things happening to people who didn't accept help.
Then how I woke up to smoke and flames and a disabled smoke detector, followed by Armand's message this morning. Such a shame about the fire.
Davies had photographed my phone screen, taken down every detail I could remember, and promised to investigate thoroughly. But the look on his weathered face had said what he was too professional to say out loud: This is bad. This is really bad.
“Whoever did this is dangerous,” he'd said as he prepared to leave, his expression grave. “And if they targeted you once, they might try again. You're safer here than in town, Ms. Walsh. Stay put until we figure this out.”
Stay put. Like I had anywhere else to go.
Now I stood on Connor's back porch, hands wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee, staring out at the ranch land stretching endlessly before me.
Horses meandered peacefully in the nearest pasture.
I recognized Cinnamon, the chestnut mare Connor had been training.
Duke, his bay gelding. A few others I couldn't name.
The sun was bright and warm despite the February cold, the sky that perfect crystalline blue you only got in winter. Everything looked normal. Safe. Peaceful.
But I didn't feel safe.
I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For whoever had burned down my apartment to figure out where I was and come to finish the job.
The door slid open behind me with a soft whoosh. Connor stepped out, carrying his own fresh cup of coffee, steam rising in the cold air.
“Davies seems like he's taking this seriously.” He leaned against the porch railing beside me.
“Yeah.” I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me. “But taking it seriously doesn't mean he can fix it. What if he can't find Armand? What if this Armand person doesn't even exist? What if—”
“Harper.” Connor's voice cut through my spiral, calm and grounding. “One thing at a time. We can't solve everything today.”
“I don't know what to do.” The words tumbled out, my voice breaking. “I don't have a home. I barely have a business. Even if the boutique survives, I'm so far behind on the lease I'll probably lose it anyway. I don't have anything except what I'm wearing, and even that's borrowed from you.”
The reality of it was crushing, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. Yesterday morning I'd woken up in my own bed, in my own apartment. I'd had clothes and furniture and possessions. I'd had a life.
Now I had nothing.
“Then we start from there,” Connor said, his voice steady and sure.
“One thing at a time. Today, Anna's bringing clothes and toiletries.
Tomorrow, we deal with insurance claims and start that paperwork.
Next week, we figure out the boutique situation.
We'll talk to Mr. Chen, look at your finances, and see what can be salvaged.
We take it piece by piece until you're back on your feet.”
“And if whoever did this comes back?” The question I'd been avoiding. The fear that kept circling like a vulture.
Connor set his coffee on the railing and stepped in front of me, placing both hands on my shoulders. Making me look at him.
“Then I'll be here.” His eyes were fierce, certain, unwavering. “I'm not going anywhere, Harper. And I'm not letting anyone hurt you again.”
I looked up at him. At the fierce determination in his expression, at the man who'd driven fifty minutes in the middle of the night to get to me. Who'd taken me in without hesitation and who was promising to stand between me and whatever came next.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Always.”
We stood there on his porch, his hands on my shoulders and mine wrapped around a coffee mug, and something shifted between us. Something that felt fragile and new and terrifying. Not back to what we'd been before, we could never go back to that innocence, that easy friendship.
But forward, maybe. Toward something that acknowledged the months of tension and distance while also acknowledging that when it mattered, when I'd needed him most, Connor had been there.
A car coming up the long gravel driveway broke the moment. Anna's sedan, driving faster than was probably safe, kicking up dust as she parked haphazardly near Connor's truck.
She burst out before the engine had fully stopped, arms full of bags, and practically ran to the porch.
“Harper! Oh my god, I've been so worried. Are you okay? I brought clothes and toiletries and I didn't know what sizes so I guessed and I hope—” She stopped abruptly, taking in my appearance with wide eyes. “You're wearing Connor's clothes.”
“Everything I owned burned, Anna.” I gestured down at the too-big sweatpants, the borrowed t-shirt. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Right. Obviously. Sorry.” She thrust the bags at me, nearly dropping one in her haste. “Here. I've got jeans, sweaters, underwear, socks, everything. And toiletries too. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, makeup if you want it.”
I took the bags, my throat suddenly tight with gratitude and emotion I couldn't quite name. “Anna, you didn't have to—”
“Yes I did. You're my best friend.” She pulled me into a fierce hug, careful of the bags between us. “I can't believe this happened. I can't believe someone did this to you on purpose.”
Over her shoulder, I saw Connor watching us, and the expression on his face was soft. Relieved, maybe, that I had people who cared. That I wasn't truly alone even if I'd spent months feeling that way.
“Come inside,” he said. “Let's go through everything. Make sure Harper has what she needs.”
We spent the next hour sorting through Anna's things, and despite everything, it felt almost normal.
Anna had thought of everything. Really, truly everything in a way that made my eyes burn with tears I refused to let fall.
By noon, I had a small pile of belongings arranged on the guest room bed. Not much but toiletries and clothes Anna had grabbed from her own closet that were close to my size. A winter coat that would actually keep me warm. A hairbrush. More than the nothing I'd woken up with.
It was a start.
As I stood in the guest room, folding jeans and putting away toiletries in the bathroom drawers Connor had cleared out for me, I let myself believe that maybe, somehow, I could rebuild from this.
One piece at a time.
Starting here, in the guest room of Connor’s ranch house, with borrowed clothes and a phone full of threatening messages and absolutely no idea what came next.
But alive. Still alive.
With friends who were there for me, filling me with a hope I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in so long.
And that had to count for something.