Chapter 11
HARPER
Iwoke to sunlight streaming through the guest room curtains and the distant sound of a horse whinnying. For the first time in six days, I didn't wake up disoriented, spending those first few seconds after opening my eyes trying to remember where I was or how I'd gotten here.
It was becoming normal, my new reality.
The thought should have been depressing, a reminder of everything I'd lost. But somehow, lying in the comfortable bed with morning light warm on my face and the peaceful sounds of the ranch outside, it just felt…okay.
Maybe not good. But okay.
I checked my phone on the nightstand. 7:43 AM. Later than Connor usually let me sleep. He was an early riser, up before dawn to feed horses and do whatever other mysterious ranch tasks filled his mornings.
I'd offered to help multiple times over the past week, but he'd always refused with that gentle but firm voice he used when he'd made up his mind about something. Telling me to rest, to relax.
But I'm tired of feeling useless.
I climbed out of bed, my bare feet silent on the floor, and moved to the window. From here, I could see part of the barn and the nearest pasture where several horses were turned out.
Connor was down there now by the barn, talking to one of his ranch hands—Denny, maybe, or Mark. Even from this distance, even with him just standing there in jeans and a thick jacket, he looked capable. Comfortable. Like he belonged exactly where he was.
The past six days had fallen into a strange rhythm. Not comfortable, exactly, but not as awkward as those first couple of days when every interaction had felt loaded with unspoken things.
Connor made coffee every morning, always with two sugars and a splash of milk for me, always in my favorite mug even though I'd never told him which one it was.
I made breakfast while he fed horses, and we'd eat together at his kitchen table, talking about easy things.
The weather. The horses. How the boutique was doing.
Anna and Jaxon's dinner plans for the weekend.
Never about the fire. Never about Morgan's threats or Armand's texts or the insurance company's delays. Never about the mounting debt I couldn't pay or the lease I was going to lose or any of the hundreds of things that kept me awake at night.
Just…surface things. Safe things.
During the day, Connor worked the ranch while I opened the boutique. Sales had stayed steady after that first day back, enough to feel hopeful even if it wasn't enough to solve my problems.
At night, we'd have dinner together. Sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with Anna and Jaxon joining.
Then Connor would disappear into his office to do paperwork while I curled up in his living room with a book or my laptop.
Sometimes he'd even join me, and we'd watch a movie in comfortable silence.
It wasn't friendship, not like what we'd had before.
That easy companionship where we could talk about anything and nothing and the silence never felt empty.
But it wasn't the painful distance of the past few months either.
The careful avoidance and loaded tension and constant awareness that we were both pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.
This was something new. Something that felt fragile and uncertain but also surprisingly nice. Like we were learning how to be around each other again. Figuring out what we could be to each other now that everything had changed.
I showered and dressed quickly in jeans and a soft gray sweater and thick socks because March mornings were still cold. I pulled my hair into a braid and made the bed with the kind of careful precision that came from being a guest in someone else's space.
The house smelled like coffee when I got downstairs. I poured myself a mug, wrapping my hands around the warmth. Through the kitchen window, I could see Connor still down by the barn, now leading a horse toward one of the paddocks.
I decided to keep the boutique closed today. So I had nothing to do except…what? Sit around feeling useless?
The thought of another day spent rattling around Connor's house while he worked made something restless stir in my chest.
A week of him feeding me and housing me and taking care of me like I was something fragile that might break. A week of feeling like a burden, like dead weight he was carrying out of obligation or pity or—
Stop. He offered. You didn't ask. He wants you here. I could at least help. Contribute something instead of just taking. I gulped down half my coffee, set the mug in the sink, and headed outside.
The morning air was crisp and cold, biting through my sweater and making me wish I'd grabbed a thicker jacket. The sun was bright but not warm yet, and my breath fogged in front of my face as I walked toward the barn.
Connor was in the nearest paddock now, working with Cinnamon.
I leaned against the fence, watching as he led her through what looked like basic exercises.
Walking in circles, stopping, backing up.
His voice was low and steady, too quiet for me to make out words, but Cinnamon's ears were pricked forward, listening.
He moved with such easy confidence. Like he and the horse were speaking a language I'd never learned.
After a few minutes, he noticed me. His head turned, surprise flickering across his face before settling into that soft expression he'd been wearing around me all week. Gentle. Careful. Like I was something precious.
“Morning,” he called. “You're up early.”
“Couldn't sleep anymore.” I climbed up onto the fence rail, balancing there. “What are you doing?”
“Ground work with Cinnamon. The Hendersons want her ready to ride by next month, so I'm working on basic commands.” He led the mare toward the fence, and she followed willingly, her brown eyes curious as she looked at me. “Want to say hi?”
“You know I don't know anything about horses.”
“That's okay. She's friendly.” Connor stopped a few feet away. “Hold out your hand flat, palm up. Let her sniff you.”
I did as he said, extending my hand slowly. Cinnamon stretched her neck, her soft nose brushing against my palm with warm breath that smelled like hay. She snuffed once, then pulled back, apparently satisfied.
“Good girl,” Connor murmured, rubbing her neck. “See? She likes you.”
“How can you tell?”
“She didn't try to bite you. That's a good sign.” He grinned, and something fluttered in my chest at the sight. I'd missed that grin. Missed the humor that used to come so naturally between us.
“Connor?” I said before I lost my nerve.
“Yeah?”
“I want to help today. With the ranch stuff,” I rushed on before he protested. “I know I don't know what I'm doing, but I can learn. I don't want to just sit around your house all day feeling useless. Please?”
He studied me for a long moment, and I could see him weighing it. The protective instinct that wanted to keep me safe and resting versus the understanding that maybe I needed this, to feel like I was contributing something.
“Okay,” he said finally. “But we start with easy stuff. And if you get tired or overwhelmed, you tell me. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Easy stuff turned out to be mucking stalls.
I stood in the doorway of Duke's stall, pitchfork in hand, staring at the soiled hay and manure with growing dread.
“You're kidding, right?” I squeaked. “This is easy?”
“Compared to breaking a green horse or fixing fence line in the Winter? Yeah, this is easy.” Connor appeared beside me with a wheelbarrow and that same patient expression.
“It's repetitive but straightforward. You just scoop the dirty bedding into the wheelbarrow, dump it in the manure pile outside, then spread fresh shavings.”
“That's it?”
“That's it. Watch.” He demonstrated, his movements efficient and practiced. Scoop, lift, dump. Scoop, lift, dump. He made it look effortless. “Your turn.”
I gripped the pitchfork and tried to mimic his movements. The first scoop was fine. The second was manageable. By the third, my arms were already burning, muscles protesting the unfamiliar work.
The pitchfork was heavier than it looked, and the soiled hay clung to the tines in a way that made it hard to shake off into the wheelbarrow.
“Like this,” Connor said, moving behind me. His hands covered mine on the pitchfork handle, adjusting my grip. “You're using too much arm. Use your legs and core. And don't overfill it, smaller scoops are easier.”
I was acutely aware of his body behind mine. The solid warmth of his chest against my back. His arms bracketing mine, hands over mine, guiding the movement.
My breath hitched, pulse suddenly hammering in my throat.
The stall felt too warm despite the March cold, my skin prickling with awareness.
“Better,” Connor murmured, his breath stirring my hair. “You've got it.”
Then he stepped back, and the loss of contact felt like a physical thing. Cold air rushed in where his warmth had been.
I forced myself to focus on the pitchfork. On the task. On anything except the way my heart was racing and how my hands had gone slightly unsteady. Get it together. He's just teaching me. It doesn't mean anything.
By the time I finished Duke's stall with several breaks and a lot of encouragement from Connor, my arms were trembling with fatigue and my back ached in places I didn't know could ache. I was pretty sure I smelled like horse manure.
But Duke's stall was clean, and there was something satisfying about that.
“Not bad for your first time,” Connor said, grinning. “Three more to go.”
“Three more?” I stared at him, my shoulders already protesting. “You're trying to kill me.”
“Character building,” he stated even as he grabbed his own pitchfork. “I'll help. We'll get it done faster together.”
We worked side by side, and it was gross and exhausting. But it was also kind of nice. The rhythm of it. The easy silence. The occasional comment or joke that made me laugh despite my aching muscles.