42
Talia handed in her article the next day.
She had driven back to Houston through rain that seemed determined to follow her all the way from Sunset Springs.
It chased her across county roads, over highways, past gas stations and fields and small towns where she did not stop because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant seeing Gordon’s face again.
The way his smile had faded.
The way he had stepped away from her hand.
The way he had said goodbye like it cost him something he would never get back.
By the time she reached Houston, the rain had slowed to a mist, but the ache in her chest had not eased.
Not in her apartment. Not in the shower.
Not when she changed clothes and told herself she had done the responsible thing.
Not when she printed a clean copy of the article and put it in a folder like it was just another assignment.
It was not just another assignment.
She knew that now.
Still, the next morning, she walked into the Current building with her spine straight, her folder tucked beneath one arm, and her face arranged into the professional expression she had worn for years.
No one stopped her.
No one knew that her heart was somewhere west of the city, standing in a stable with hurt in his eyes.
Martin was in his office when she arrived. He glanced up from his computer, then leaned back in his chair when he saw the folder.
“You’ve got it?”
“Yes.”
He held out a hand. “Let’s see what took you so long.”
Talia placed the folder on his desk and sat across from him.
She did not explain.
She did not defend it before he read.
She only folded her hands together and waited.
Martin opened the folder.
His eyes moved across the first page, then the second.
Talia watched his expression for signs of irritation, boredom, disappointment.
She expected the frown to deepen when he realized there was no dirty exposé waiting for him.
No headline built on betrayal. No cheap dissection of Gordon Windgate’s past.
Martin turned another page.
Then another.
At one point, he glanced at her, but he did not speak.
Talia’s pulse beat hard in her throat.
She looked at the bookshelf behind him, at the framed awards on the wall, at the window overlooking the city.
This office had once looked like the kind of place she wanted to earn her way into.
Not this exact office, but one like it. A place with her name on the door.
A desk where people came to be approved, challenged, promoted, taken seriously.
Now it felt smaller than she remembered.
Martin set the final page down.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Talia lifted her chin. “I know it’s not the piece you asked for.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
She braced herself.
“It’s better.”
Talia blinked.
Martin picked up the first page again. “You got close.”
Her stomach tightened.
His eyes lifted to hers. “I don’t mean personally.”
She said nothing.
He tapped the article with two fingers. “I mean you got close enough to understand the story instead of grabbing the obvious version. Most reporters would have gone in there, found the broken pieces, and handed me a bloodier draft. You found the spine.”
Talia could barely breathe.
“You’ll publish it?”
“Next week.”
Her lips parted slightly.
Martin closed the folder. “We may adjust the headline, but the piece stands. It’s warm, but it isn’t soft. It’s compassionate without letting him off the hook. Readers will respond to that.”
Talia stared at him.
For days, she had imagined this moment. In some versions, he threw the article back at her. In others, he told her she had lost the promotion. In the more painful ones, he cut the heart out of the piece and sent her back to Sunset Springs as a woman who had betrayed everyone who had trusted her.
She had not imagined approval.
Martin leaned back in his chair. “And the promotion is yours.”
The words landed.
Talia waited for the rush.
The thrill.
The relief.
Anything.
Martin smiled faintly. “You don’t look happy.”
“I am,” she said automatically.
His brows lifted.
She swallowed. “I mean, thank you. I appreciate it.”
“You earned it. I knew you were the one for the position.”
There it was.
The sentence she had wanted to hear.
I knew you were the one.
Recognition.
Proof.
The door opening after years of knocking.
Talia nodded because she knew she was supposed to. “Thank you.”
“You’ll be taking over a bigger workload. More responsibility. More visibility. I’ll need you sharp.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He placed the folder in the center of his desk. “Take the weekend if you need it. You’ve been on the road and buried in this ranch piece longer than expected.”
She looked at him. “Actually, I wanted to ask for a few days off before I take over.”
Martin studied her. “A few days?”
“Yes.”
“Personal?”
She held his gaze. “Yes.”
He seemed curious, but he did not push. “Fine. Take them. Be back ready to work.”
“I will.”
“Good job, Talia.”
She stood. “Thank you.”
She left his office with the promotion she had chased for years.
She walked down the hallway.
Past desks.
Past ringing phones.
Past the familiar rhythm of reporters on deadline and editors making decisions and keyboards clattering like urgency had a sound.
People moved around her, busy with stories, angles, sources, calls, copy.
This was her world.
This was what she had worked for.
So why did it feel as if she were walking through someone else’s life?
By the time she reached the parking lot, her chest was too tight.
She got into her car and closed the door.
Then she sat there.
The folder was no longer in her hands. Martin had kept it. The promotion was hers. The article would run next week. She had won the thing she came back to claim.
She waited to feel happy.
Nothing came.
No, not nothing.
That would have been easier.
What came was Gordon.
Gordon in Luke’s office, holding the article like she had placed his heart in his hands.
Gordon pulling her to her feet and kissing her because he had no words big enough.
Gordon’s face when she told him her bags were in the car.
The pain.
The disbelief.
The way he had stepped back when she reached for him.
You should just go.
Talia covered her mouth as a sob broke loose.
She had thought the job would make her feel something good.
Triumph, maybe. Satisfaction. Relief. Pride sharp enough to cut through the ache of leaving.
But all she could think about was Gordon walking out through the back door of Luke’s office, taking all the warmth with him.
She pressed her hands against the steering wheel and bowed her head.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
The answer sat beside her like another person.
She had run.
Not because she did not care.
Because she did.
Because Gordon had looked at her and seen too much.
Because he wanted her in a way that made her believe she could finally stop proving herself.
Because Stanley Ranch had opened around her with all its messy love and noise and food and rules and children and second chances, and she had not known how to receive it without waiting for it to be taken back.
She had told herself leaving was responsible.
Professional.
Mature.
Safe.
But it had not been safe.
It had been fear in a better dress.
Tears streamed down her face.
She let them fall.
For once, she did not wipe them away immediately. She sat there in the parking lot, promotion newly won, career newly advanced, heart finally telling the truth louder than her fear could argue.
She did not need the job.
Not the way she had thought she did.
She needed purpose, yes. She needed work that meant something. She needed to tell stories that mattered. But she did not need a promotion badly enough to throw away the one person who had seen her without demanding she become easier to love.
She needed Gordon.
Not because she was empty without him.
Not because he could fix all the old wounds her family had left behind.
Because she loved him.
The realization opened inside her so wide it hurt.
Love.
It filled her chest with heat and terror and grief and joy all at once.
She loved his blunt honesty. His careful hands.
His quiet humor. His stubborn need to be useful.
His dream of a reading room. His gentleness with Malik and Nia.
His loyalty to the ranch. His wounded heart that still kept trying to become something whole.
She loved him.
And she wanted to give that love back.
Not someday when everything was neat.
Now.
Messy. Scared. Late. Imperfect.
Now.
Talia wiped her face with both hands, then searched in her bag for tissues. She found one, dabbed beneath her eyes, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror.
Her mascara was a disaster.
Her eyes were red.
Her heart was finally awake.
“Okay,” she said, voice trembling. “Okay.”
She started the car.
For the first time since leaving Sunset Springs, she knew where she was going.
Home first.
Not because Houston was home.
Because she needed clothes, chargers, files, and whatever else a woman grabbed when she had no idea how long she might be gone but knew exactly who she was going to.
Then she was heading right back to Sunset Springs.
Back to the ranch.
Back to the cowboy she wanted in her life.
Back to Gordon, if he would still let her come home.