14. Fran
— ? —
Fran
The storm hits when we’re still an hour from the farm.
One minute the sky is gray but manageable, the kind of late summer overcast that promises rain eventually but not urgently.
The next, lightning cracks across the horizon and the heavens open up.
The rain comes down so hard I can barely see the road, and Logan slows the truck to a crawl, his jaw tight with concentration.
“This is bad,” he says.
“It’s a late summer storm. They blow through fast.” I’m trying to sound confident, but the wind is picking up and the trees along the road are bending at concerning angles.
Thunder cracks overhead and I flinch despite myself.
I’ve never loved storms, but I’m not about to admit that now. “Just keep going.”
We keep going. The storm gets worse.
By the time we finally turn onto the familiar gravel road that leads to my property, the visibility is almost zero. But I know this land, know every bend and dip, and I direct Logan past the main flower fields to the small farmhouse that’s served as my base for years.
“Park there,” I say, pointing to a spot near the front porch. “We can wait it out inside.”
The farmhouse is modest, one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in.
I used it as a daytime workspace before I got married, a place to rest between plantings and harvests, to store equipment and make plans.
Junie has been looking after things while I’ve been gone, but she doesn’t live here. No one does.
Logan parks as close to the porch as he can manage, and we both make a run for it. The five seconds between the truck and the overhang are enough to soak us both completely, and I’m laughing despite myself as we stumble through the front door.
“I forgot how much I missed this place,” I say, shaking water from my hair. “Even the sound of rain on the roof. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it again.”
“That’s one word for it.” Logan’s teeth are chattering slightly. “Is there heat?”
“Propane. Should still be working.” I move through the familiar space, flipping switches, checking the stove. Everything’s exactly as I left it, Junie’s been careful, kept things running, made sure the place didn’t fall apart while I was gone. “Give me a minute.”
The lights flicker and die just as I get the propane heater going.
“Perfect timing,” Logan mutters.
“There are candles in the drawer by the sink.” I’m already digging them out, lighting them one by one until the small space glows with warm, flickering light. “The power goes out here all the time. You get used to it.”
We stand there dripping on the wooden floor, two people who used to share a bed and now don’t know how to share a room. Logan’s long-sleeved shirt is plastered to his body, and I try very hard not to notice the way it clings to his shoulders and chest.
“You should change,” I say. “You’re going to freeze.”
“My bag’s in the truck.”
“I might have something-” I stop, because I don’t. Not really. Some old work clothes, nothing that would fit him. “There are towels in the bathroom. Dry off at least.”
He disappears down the short hallway, and I take the moment to breathe.
To look around at this space that’s been waiting for me, unchanged, patient.
The kitchen where I used to make tea at dawn before starting the day’s work.
The living room with its worn couch and older armchair.
The window that looks out over fields I can’t see through the rain but know are there.
My farm. My land. Earlier today, at the coffee shop, I signed the transfer documents after my own lawyer reviewed them.
The deed will record on the next business day, but the offer was unconditional, the whole property, farmhouse and woodland and everything in between. No conditions attached. Just mine.
I still don’t quite believe it.
The bathroom door opens, and Logan emerges with a towel around his shoulders, his hair sticking up in damp spikes. His shirt is still wet but he hasn’t taken it off, and I notice the way he keeps his left arm pressed against his side, protected.
“Better?” I ask.
“Warmer.” He glances around the farmhouse with obvious curiosity. “This is where you worked? Before?”
“This is where I lived, basically. During planting season and harvest, I’d be here from dawn to dark.” I move to the kitchen, start filling the kettle. “The stove’s gas, so we can at least have tea.”
“Fran.” His voice stops me. “Thank you. For letting me bring you here. For giving me this chance.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I set the kettle on the burner. “I’m still deciding what to do with you.”
A sound from outside makes us both freeze, a familiar honking that makes my heart leap.
“What the-” Logan starts.
The front door bangs open, and a very wet, very indignant goose comes waddling through like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she kind of does.
“Gertrude!” I drop to my knees, carefully, belly and all, and she marches straight into my arms, honking and nibbling at my hair like she’s been waiting three months to tell me exactly how rude it was to leave without saying goodbye. “Oh, you ridiculous bird. I missed you too.”
“You have a goose,” Logan says flatly.
“I have a goose.” I look up at him, grinning despite everything. “Gertrude. She guards the property. Very effective at terrorizing solicitors and unwanted visitors.”
“She just… lives here?”
“She lives wherever she wants.” I scratch behind Gertrude’s head, and she makes a sound that’s almost like purring. “Junie must have left the barn door open. Gertrude always comes to the house during storms.”
Logan eyes the goose with obvious wariness. “Is she… friendly?”
“To me.” I shrug. “To strangers, not so much.”
Gertrude, as if understanding this is her cue, extracts herself from my arms and turns toward Logan. She looks him up and down with her beady black eyes, assessing, and I watch his expression cycle through confusion, concern, and growing alarm as she begins waddling in his direction.
“Fran,” he says carefully, not taking his eyes off the approaching bird. “What do I do?”
“Just stay still. Let her check you out.”
“That’s - that doesn’t seem like good advice for dealing with an angry goose.”
“She’s not angry. She’s curious. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His voice has gone slightly higher than normal. “Because she looks pretty angry to me.”
Gertrude reaches him and stretches her neck up, examining him closely. Logan stands frozen, barely breathing. It’s the most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen him, and I find I’m enjoying it immensely.
“Good girl,” I tell Gertrude. “He’s okay. He’s-”
Gertrude lunges.
The sound Logan makes is not dignified. It’s somewhere between a yelp and a shriek, and he stumbles backward into the wall as Gertrude’s beak connects with his groin in a strike of impressive precision.
“OW - FRAN-”
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. The sight of Logan Davis, six-foot-something of muscle and intensity, scrambling away from a wet, indignant goose while clutching his crotch is the funniest thing I’ve witnessed in months. Maybe ever.
“Get her - OW - get her off-”
“Gertrude!” I manage between gasps. “Gertrude, that’s enough!”
The goose gives Logan one more contemptuous look, honks triumphantly, then waddles back to me with an air of satisfaction. She settles at my feet like a loyal guardian, ruffling her feathers back into place.
“She attacked me,” Logan says, still pressed against the wall. “Your goose just attacked my-”
“She didn’t break skin.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “Probably. She’s just establishing dominance.”
“Establishing-” He stares at me. “Your goose just went for my balls and you’re laughing?”
“I’m sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “It’s just - your face-”
He opens his mouth, probably to protest further, and then something happens.
His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then he’s laughing too, real laughter, the kind I used to hear only at night, only in private, and for a moment we’re just two people in a candlelit farmhouse, soaking wet and ridiculous, laughing at a territorial goose.
“She really hates me,” he says when he can speak again.
“She doesn’t know you yet.” I reach down to stroke Gertrude’s head. “Give her time. She’ll probably only try to kill you three or four more times.”
“Comforting.”
The kettle starts to whistle. I make tea while Gertrude positions herself between me and Logan like a feathered bodyguard, clearly determined to protect me from this strange man who’s invaded her territory.
“There’s only one bed,” I say as I hand Logan a cup. “And the couch. You can have the couch.”
“Of course.” He takes the tea, his fingers brushing mine for just a second. “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me.” I settle into the armchair, Gertrude at my feet. “We’re not - this isn’t - I’m still figuring things out. All of this.”
“I know.” He sits on the couch, keeping a careful eye on the goose. “I’m not expecting anything, Fran. I just want to be here. Whatever that looks like.”
We sit in silence for a while, drinking tea, listening to the storm rage outside. The candles flicker each time the wind rattles the window frame. Gertrude eventually tires of guard duty and settles into a warm corner, tucking her head under her wing.
“I used to dream about this place,” I say quietly. “When I was at Bree’s. I’d dream I was here, working the fields, and then I’d wake up and remember it wasn’t mine anymore. That my father still owned it, could take it away whenever he wanted.”
“It’s yours now.” Logan’s voice is soft. “Really yours. I made sure of it.”
“Why?” I’ve asked him this already, but I need to hear it again. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Because you earned it.” He sets down his tea, meets my eyes.
“Because every flower on this land grew because of you. Because I spent nineteen months watching you love something and I never once helped you protect it.” He pauses.
“Because I wanted to give you something that was just yours. No conditions. No me attached to it unless you want me to be.”
The words settle into me like seeds into soil. I don’t know yet what they’ll grow into. But they’re there, planted, waiting.
“I should go to bed,” I say finally. “It’s been a long day.”
“Of course.” Logan stands as I do, and for a moment we’re close, too close, in the narrow space between the couch and the bedroom door. “Fran.”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t say anything that’s going to make this harder.”
“I just-” He stops. Starts again. “I’m glad you’re home. That’s all.”
My throat tightens. I want to say that I’m glad too. I want to close the distance between us and let him hold me and forget everything that’s happened. But I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“Goodnight, Logan,” I say instead.
“Goodnight.”
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it, listening to the sound of him settling onto the couch, the creak of old springs under his weight. The storm is still raging outside, rain hammering the roof, thunder rolling across the sky.
I came here for my farm. Just my farm.
But as I lie in bed with my hand on my belly, listening to my husband breathe in the next room, I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I came back for something more.
The wondering doesn’t scare me as much as it should.