Chapter 13
Harper
"You need protein."
I don't look up from my laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as I try to capture the way morning light hits the barn rafters in words that will make city folks understand why this matters. "Nate, it's Saturday. Your day off. Why aren't you relaxing?"
"It's been two hours." He sets a plate next to me—scrambled eggs, toast, those little sausages he knows I can't resist. "You haven't moved."
"I'm working. Three articles due next week."
"And you have all week to write them."
I finally glance up. He's standing there in worn jeans and a henley that does criminal things to his shoulders.
My makeshift office in the barn loft is perfect—I can hear the horses below, the two rescue goats that somehow became ours, and Duke's occasional bark at squirrels.
But it also means Nate hovers on weekends when he's supposedly tending animals.
"You've brought me food four times this morning," I point out.
"Twice. Coffee doesn't count."
"Coffee absolutely counts."
"Had to check the mare's leg anyway." He settles into the beat-up armchair we hauled up here last week. "And the goats needed feeding. And—"
"And you're hovering."
"Multi-tasking. Animal care and Harper care."
"Read me what you've got," Nate says, stretching out like he's got nowhere else to be.
"It's not ready—"
"Harper."
I sigh but turn my laptop toward him. "It's about Morrison's calf. The runt Emily named Freddie."
He listens while I read. When I finish, he's got that soft look that makes my chest tight.
"It's perfect."
"It's a rough draft."
"It's perfect," he repeats. "You make people care about a calf they'll never meet."
This is our rhythm now—him working with animals on weekends, me writing about the agricultural life surrounding us, both of us building something neither expected.
I watch him head back down to check the mare's wrapped leg, and my article suddenly has a new paragraph about the gentle hands of rural veterinarians.
"Stop staring and finish your article," he calls without turning around.
"Stop being distracting," I shout back.
His laugh echoes through the barn, and I realize this is what I chose over the Washington Post—not just Nate, but this life where my office has hay bales and my interview subjects moo. Where the man I love brings me breakfast because he knows I'll forget to eat when I'm in the zone.
"Protein," I mutter, taking a bite of sausage as I type one-handed. "Obsessed with protein."
The article flows easier after that, words coming fast as I describe the intersection of traditional farming and modern veterinary care. This is what Bill wants—human stories that make agriculture accessible. And this is what I want—to tell these stories while living them.
Nate appears again an hour later with water and an apple, pressing a kiss to my head before I can complain.
"Let me work," I say without heat.
"You are working. I'm just keeping you functional."
"Hovering. You're hovering. Again."
"Successfully multi-tasking," he corrects, then heads back down before I can argue.
I watch him cross to the goat pen, stopping to scratch behind their ears, and feel that familiar warmth settle in my chest. Three months ago, I couldn't have imagined this—couldn't have pictured trading a Washington Post byline for barn loft articles about calves named Freddie.
But here's the thing about choosing love over ambition: sometimes they're not mutually exclusive. Sometimes choosing love leads you to exactly where your ambition was meant to take you all along.
I just had to be brave enough to see it.
***
Thursday morning, Nate and I sit in his clinic's conference room, laptop open for the video call with the Federal Agricultural Innovation Committee.
We've spent most nights since last week cobbling together plans, his veterinary knowledge and my communication skills trying to make sense of something we'd only dreamed about for five minutes during filming.
"Dr. Wilder, Ms. Lane," Patricia Coleman's voice comes through clearly. "Thank you for joining us. We've reviewed Ms. Brennan's submission and your supporting materials."
Two other committee members flank her on screen, all looking professionally interested.
"The Willowbridge Agricultural Education Center would serve three purposes," I begin, clicking through slides Nate made. "Youth education, farmer resources, and sustainable agriculture training."
"The budget breakdown is thorough," one member notes. "But who's running day-to-day operations?"
Nate and I exchange glances. We hadn't actually discussed this part in detail.
"We'll need to hire an education coordinator," I say carefully. "Someone with experience in agricultural education—"
"But you'll oversee?" Patricia asks. "The grant specifically names you both as project leads."
"Part-time director roles," Nate suggests. "We'd oversee, not manage daily operations. We both have careers we're maintaining."
"That's acceptable," Patricia nods. "The old Murphy property you've identified—five acres not far from your practice—seems ideal. When can you break ground?"
"In the next couple of months, weather permitting," Nate answers.
"Excellent. We'll need quarterly reports, community impact assessments, and participant data." She smiles slightly. "Though based on the documentary footage, community buy-in won't be an issue. Half your town appeared ready to volunteer."
After thirty more minutes of logistics, budgets, and timelines, we end the call.
"Co-directors," I say, testing the words as we sit in his suddenly quiet office.
"Partners in everything now," Nate agrees.
My phone starts buzzing immediately—Bill wanting a story about the grant, Maya somehow already knowing and demanding details, June texting that she's bringing celebration cookies.
"How does everyone already know?" I ask, showing him the messages.
"Small town," Nate shrugs. "Mrs. Henderson was probably listening at the window."
Sure enough, when we step outside, half of Main Street seems to be waiting. Mayor Davidson approaches with a grin.
"Heard the good news! Town council's meeting Monday to discuss zoning and permits. Fast-tracked, of course."
"Of course," I mutter, but I'm smiling. Because this is Willowbridge—where everyone's in your business but also in your corner.
"Four hundred thousand dollars," Mrs. Morrison announces to anyone within earshot. "Our Dr. Wilder and Harper brought four hundred thousand dollars to this town!"
"Technically Sarah Brennan brought it," I correct.
"Details," she waves me off. "This calls for the good coffee at June's. My treat."
As we're herded toward the bakery by the growing crowd, Nate takes my hand.
"Co-directors," he says again, like he's still processing it. "Partners."
"Partners," I agree, and kiss him right there on Main Street, Mrs. Morrison's delighted gasp be damned.
This is our life now—accidentally falling into opportunities, the whole town invested in our success, building something neither of us planned but both of us want.
Backward into amazing.
***
Saturday afternoon, I'm at The Sweet Spot with Maya while June frantically refills the pastry case. She's been weird all week—distracted, burning batches (which never happens), and checking her phone constantly.
"Okay, spill," I demand, grabbing her wrist as she tries to escape to the kitchen again. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." But she won't meet my eyes.
"June, you put salt in the sugar cookies yesterday. Mrs. Henderson nearly had a heart attack."
She glances at Maya, who suddenly finds her coffee fascinating.
"You know!" I accuse Maya. "What aren't you telling me?"
"It's not my news to share," Maya says carefully.
June sinks into a chair, flour still dusting her apron. "My dad called."
I freeze. June's dad left when she was twelve. Ran off with his secretary, hasn't been heard from since.
"He wants to reconnect," June continues, twisting a dish towel. "Says he's sober now, remarried, has a kid. Wants me to meet my half-sister."
"Oh, June." I reach for her hand.
"She's eight. Same age I was when he started drinking." Her voice cracks. "He sent pictures. She looks just like me at that age."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell. Part of me..." She shrugs. "Maybe wants to know why I wasn't enough to make him stay."
Maya squeezes June's other hand. "You were always enough. He was the problem."
"I know that. Logically. But seeing those pictures, knowing he got sober for another family when he couldn't for us..."
"Have you told your mom?" I ask.
"God, no. She'd lose it. She's finally dating again after fifteen years."
The bell above the door chimes, and we all tense, but it's just Mrs. Henderson coming for her afternoon Danish.
June plasters on her customer service smile, serves Mrs. Henderson with practiced ease, then turns back to us once the older woman leaves.
"I have two weeks to decide," she admits. "He wants to visit. Bring his new family."
"Here? To Willowbridge?" Maya's eyebrows shoot up.
"Said he wants to 'make amends.'" June's laugh is bitter. "Fifteen years of nothing, and now he wants to play happy families."
"Whatever you decide, we're here," I say firmly.
"Just... please don't tell anyone yet. I need time to process before the town gossip mill gets hold of this."
"Your secret's safe," I promise.
Later, as I walk home, I think about June kneading dough with too much force, working through fifteen years of abandonment one batch at a time. Some people get second chances at love, like Nate and me. Others get second chances they never asked for, like June with her father.
Not all second chances are welcome. Not all of them deserve to be taken.
But June will figure it out. She always does—methodical, careful, never rushing into anything. Maybe that's why she's still single, why she bakes her feelings instead of sharing them.
Or maybe she's just waiting for someone worth taking a chance on.