Chapter 4 #2
"Sometimes." I think about the last time I was home. Suzy's funeral. Standing in the cemetery overlooking the valley. "But ranching wasn't my path."
"So you joined the Marines and became a professional problem solver."
That almost makes me smile. "Who told you that?"
"You did. Yesterday. You said you're a professional problem solver instead of a professional breaker of things."
"Good memory." I lean back. "Yeah. Enlisted right out of high school. Wanted to see the world beyond Montana."
"And did you?"
"Parts of it I wish I hadn't." The admission comes out before I can stop it. "Deployment shows you places. Doesn't mean they're worth seeing."
She's quiet for a moment, stirring her coffee. "Your sister. Claire. The Rhodes Scholar who came back to run the ranch."
"What about her?"
"Does she resent you for leaving?"
The question catches me off guard. "Why would she?"
"Because you got to leave and she came back. That's got to create some friction."
"Claire wanted to come back. She loved England, loved the work, but when our parents started getting older—" I pause. "She said the ranch was worth more than a career in academia."
"That's very noble."
"That's Claire. She sees what needs doing and does it." I take another drink. "Unlike me, who joined the Marines and stayed gone for a decade."
"You served your country. That's worth something."
"Doesn't help with ranch work."
"No," she agrees. "But it probably helps with protective details."
Our food arrives. The smell of the burger makes me realize I haven't eaten since breakfast. We eat in companionable silence for a while. I watch Gwen slowly relax—the tight set of her jaw eases, some of the exhaustion lines around her mouth soften.
When I look up, Gwen is watching me with an expression I can't read.
"What?"
"You don't talk much about yourself."
"Not much to tell."
"I doubt that." She sets down her spoon. "You lost your wife. That's—" She stops. "I'm doing it again. The awkward thing."
"What awkward thing?"
"Trying to have an emotional conversation and failing spectacularly." She picks up her grilled cheese, sets it down again. "You mentioned Suzy yesterday and I said I was bad at this kind of conversation. Now I'm proving it by bringing her up again like I have any idea what I'm doing."
That makes me laugh. "You're overthinking it."
"I'm a surgeon. Overthinking is in the job description."
"Fair enough." I finish my burger, push the plate aside. "What do you want to know?"
"About Suzy?"
"About any of it."
She considers that. "Were you with her when she died?"
"Yeah. Came home from deployment, spent every day with her until the end." The ache lives in my bones now, worn smooth by time. "She made me promise not to waste my life alone. Not to let grief turn me into someone who went through the motions."
"But you did anyway."
"For a while, yeah." I meet her eyes. "Easier to shut everyone out than risk that kind of loss again."
"And now?"
The honest answer sits complicated on my tongue. Now I'm sitting across from a woman who breaks through every defense I've built. Who looks at me like my scars don't define me. Who makes me want things I swore I wouldn't want again.
"Now I'm figuring it out," I say instead.
"That's very diplomatic."
"That's honest." I lean forward. "Your turn. Tell me about Boston."
"Nothing to tell."
"Now who's being diplomatic?"
She grimaces. "Fine. Boston medical dynasty. Father's chief of surgery at Mass General, mother runs one of the top cardiac programs in the country."
"Impressive."
"Oppressive." She takes a drink of water. "I was supposed to follow in their footsteps. Attend their alma mater, join their practice, marry someone from an appropriate family."
"But you went to Johns Hopkins instead."
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve read your file Gwen. It’s all in there.”
"Not all of it." Bitterness edges her voice. "I made my own path. They never forgave me for that."
"Their loss."
She looks up, surprised. "You don't know that."
"I know you're brilliant at what you do. I've watched you work. If they can't see that because you chose a different school—" I shake my head. "That's their failure, not yours."
Color touches her cheeks. She looks away, picks up her grilled cheese. "The malpractice suit made it worse."
"How?"
"They told me I'd brought shame to the family name. That I should've been more careful, more thorough." She sets the sandwich down untouched. "Even after the case was dismissed, they blamed me for the scandal."
"You weren't at fault."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I hold her gaze. "You don't cut corners. You triple-check everything. I've seen how you work."
"You've watched me work."
"That's enough."
She studies me across the table, something unguarded in her expression. Like she's been waiting for someone to say exactly that and didn't realize how much she needed to hear it.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"You're welcome."
We finish eating. The conversation drifts to lighter topics—her telling me about medical school disasters, me sharing deployment stories that are funny now but weren't at the time. The weight of the day eases.
I pay over her protests. The drive back to her apartment is quiet but comfortable. The streets are emptier this time of night.
I catch her watching me in my peripheral vision. When I glance over, she doesn't look away.
"What?" I ask.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"About how you knew I needed to get away before I even knew it myself."
I don't have a good answer for that, so I don't try to give one.
The parking lot is well-lit and secure. I scan it anyway, instinct never quite letting go. At her door, she unlocks it and we step inside. I close the door behind us.
"Give me a minute." I move through the apartment quickly—bedroom clear, bathroom clear, balcony door secure. Everything as it should be. When I come back to the entry, she's still standing there, waiting.
I reach for the deadbolt to lock it, and she's right there. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo—something clean and simple. The hallway light catches the gold flecks in her eyes.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For tonight. For understanding that I needed to get away."
"Anytime."
She looks up at me, and the space between us narrows to nothing but electricity and want. All that awareness we've been dancing around for days suddenly sharpens into focus. Her lips part slightly, and I watch her pulse jump in her throat.
Kissing her would be easy. Every instinct I've got is screaming at me to close the distance, to find out if her lips are as soft as they look. My hand comes up of its own accord, and I catch myself before my fingers brush her cheek. She leans in, just slightly.
But I step back and put deliberate distance between us.
"Get some sleep. I'll be down the hall if you need anything."
Her expression goes blank for a beat. Then something that looks like anger flashes across her face before she masks it.
"Right." Her voice is tight. "Goodnight, Thatcher."
She turns toward her bedroom, then stops. Turns back.
"You know what? No. This is getting ridiculous."
I blink. "What is?"
"This." She gestures between us. "You look at me like that, you take my hand, you bring me to dinner and tell me my parents are wrong, and then you just—" She makes a frustrated sound. "What are you doing?"
"Keeping appropriate boundaries."
"Appropriate." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're sleeping in my guest room. You cook in my kitchen. You've seen me covered in blood and exhausted and at my worst. But kissing me would cross a line?"
"You lost a patient today. You're vulnerable—"
"I'm a trauma surgeon. I lose patients. It's terrible, but it's not why I'm standing here wanting you to kiss me.
" She crosses her arms. "If you're not interested, just say that.
But don't hide behind protective detail protocols and emotional vulnerability like I'm some fragile thing that can't make my own decisions. "
She's right. And the honesty of it catches me completely off guard.
"I am interested," I say.
"Then why did you pull away?"
"Because—" I run a hand through my hair. "Because this is complicated. Because you're under my protection. Because if something happens to you while I'm distracted—"
"So you are attracted to me, but you're committed to being miserable about it." She shakes her head. "That's very noble and very stupid."
"Gwen—"
"I'm going to bed. Alone. Again. Because apparently that's how this works." She turns toward her bedroom. "Goodnight, Thatcher."
This time I don't stop her. The door closes. Lock clicks.
I stand there in her entryway, replaying that conversation. The anger in her voice. The frustration.
She's not wrong.
I head to the guest room, but sleep won't come. I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way she looked at me. The way she called me out for hiding behind protocols.
Four years of keeping distance. Four years of telling myself it was easier this way.
Gwen Abernathy just made it clear that easy isn't an option anymore.
And I'm not sure what that means.