Chapter 7
Stephanie
I woke up feeling human for the first time since LA.
Not normal—God, not that. But solid. Present. Like the version of myself who had been floating somewhere outside my body the last couple of days finally stepped back inside and shut the door behind her.
The last five days replayed in my mind in fragments:
Louisa’s soft hands rubbing circles on my back.
Sophia curling up beside me until my breathing matched hers.
Owen sitting nearby, silent but steady, like a wall that nothing bad could get through.
Maggie fussing with blankets and muttering threats about castrating stalkers.
Ivy talking quietly about cattle and Wyatt and everything, just her steady voice.
And Liam—Liam being the anchor I’d always known he was.
The only person whose voice could break through the panic.
The only person I trusted enough to fall apart around.
I showered alone for the first time since arriving. Hot water and lavender soap worked their way into my pores, washing off another layer of fear. My ribs still ached. My throat burned where fingers had squeezed. My bruises had turned that ugly green-yellow shade that meant progress.
I picked clothes from the closet—soft jeans that had definitely lived another life and an oversized flannel that smelled like cedar and sunshine and one of the Blackwood boys. I didn’t know which one. Didn’t care. It felt like armor.
The little kitchen made me emotional all over again. Louisa had stocked it like she’d known exactly what I’d need. Actual coffee. Fresh bread. Fruit. Cream. Sugar. Comfort. Care. A kettle still warm. Mugs waiting.
I poured coffee with shaking hands. I set the kettle down with a gasp.
God. My band. Were they okay? Were they pissed?
Did they know? Management sure as hell wouldn’t tell them the truth—not when they’d been whispering about “optics” and “narrative control” while I was bleeding on my own kitchen floor.
Panic spiked. Fast. Sharp. Blinding. My breath hitched. My pulse climbed fast enough to make me sweat.
My gaze flicked around. I needed…I needed to find things to focus on instead. Things to take me out of this suffocating, squeezing feeling in my chest.
The sunrise through the window. The smell of cedar and coffee. The soft flannel on my skin. The safe quiet of Copper Creek.
And Liam. Just thirty feet away like he’d promised. Like he always had.
The panic eased, and I braced my hands on the counter, steadying my breath.
A few moments later, I stepped outside with my coffee.
And then—Jesus Mary and Joseph. My jaw actually dropped.
“Holy shit,” I breathed. “What the actual fuck…”
There was Liam in the pasture with a young black stallion who clearly wanted to fight God and everybody.
And he was shirtless.
Completely. Gloriously. Unfairly.
Sunlight turned the sweat on his shoulders to gold, outlining every muscle in that sculpted, cowboy-warrior body. His jeans hung low on his hips, boots planted in the dirt, jaw set in that quiet, determined way he had when working with animals or calming storms inside me.
And he was beautiful.
No—he was lethal.
Every movement was smooth, confident, patient. He adjusted the lead rope, guiding the stallion through its panic, and watching him work made something low and deep inside me start waking up.
Not fear. Not dread. Not pain.
Want.
Pure, female-bodied, fully-alive wanting.
I sank into the porch chair because my knees forgot how to hold me upright.
And my mouth? Wide open.
Because have mercy—
“Thank the good Lord I’m not dead,” I muttered under my breath. “Imagine missing this…”
Liam stepped to the horse’s side, voice low and steady, palm flattening against its neck, and I actually whimpered.
A goddamn whimper. Me. Stephanie Wilson. Whimpering over a man doing ranch work like a Pantene commercial for cowboys.
Heat rolled through me, warm and shocking and so very alive. My thighs pressed together on instinct. Not arousal I didn’t want—arousal that felt like me. Like I’d gotten a piece of myself back.
I braced an elbow on the armrest, propped my chin in my hand, and watched him move. I noted the flex of his back, the curve of his shoulders, the veins on his forearms, the way the muscles in his stomach tightened when the stallion jerked.
“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. I was fully, helplessly drooling.
My body responded — hot, fluttery, remembering the way his hands felt on my skin five years ago, what he’d done with his mouth, how safe and powerful he’d made me feel in the same breath.
Who would have thought I’d come back to life this fast? Who would have thought Liam would be the one to make my pulse remember what living felt like?
“Stephy!”
His voice carried across the yard, bright and warm and everything. When our eyes locked, he waved, but I just stared at him like a woman starved.
Because for the first time since LA, something inside me didn’t just feel human, it felt alive.
"Steph!"
I jerked upright, heart slamming against my ribs, spilling my coffee, “Shit! Hot hot…” Liam was jogging toward the porch, shirt thankfully back on, though it was sticking to him with sweat, which was almost worse. His hat was pushed back, concern on his face.
"You okay? Been calling you for a minute."
My face went nuclear. I could feel the blush from my chest to my hairline, and there was no hiding it. "I'm fine," I squeaked, my voice going stupidly high like I’d inhaled helium. “Just y’know”—I waved a hand towards the pasture—“enjoying the morning."
He slowed at the steps, and something in his expression shifted. His eyes dipped—pasture, porch, me—and then darkened for the quickest heartbeat.
He knew. Oh, he knew.
And instead of pretending otherwise, instead of rescuing my dignity like a gentleman, that man smirked. A low, knowing, curls-at-the-edge-of-his-mouth smirk that said I saw you checking me out, sweetheart, and I liked it.
"Want to come see the ranch? Might do you good to walk around a bit."
"Yeah." I stood too fast and had to grab the porch rail. "Yes. Walking. Good."
Christ, I sounded like an idiot. But he just offered his arm, steady and sure, and I took it.
The embarrassment faded as we walked, replaced by the comfortable familiarity that had always existed between us.
This was Liam. My Lee. We'd been through too much to let one moment of reawakened hormones make things weird.
"So this is it," he said, gesturing at the land around us. "Five hundred acres of Texas. Not much compared to the Blackwood spread, but it's mine."
"It's perfect," I said, meaning it. "How long have you had it now?"
"Bought it three years ago with the inheritance from my parents. The life insurance and their savings—Owen invested it for me until I was ready. This place came up for sale, right next to the family ranch, and it felt like fate."
We walked past the barn toward a fenced pasture where several horses grazed.
"I've got five horses now, forty head of cattle that I run with the Blackwood herd.
Uncle Owen and I work them together, split the profits.
It works out good—I can still do my Ranger work, and the ranch stuff fills the rest."
We walked along the fence line, morning sunlight breaking over the hills in ribbons of gold, everything soft and warm and impossibly peaceful.
Then I saw her.
A horse stepped forward from the herd—a breathtaking creature who looked like she’d been painted by angels and dipped in sunlight.
Her coat was pure gold, not chestnut, but something richer, glowing from within.
Her mane fell over her neck like spilled silk—white, bright, almost luminous in the sun.
And her eyes—God, they were unreal. Pale blue like a frozen winter sky.
“This,” Liam said, slowing like he knew she’d steal the breath from my lungs, “is Poet.” His whole demeanor shifted—softer, warmer, reverent in a way a man like Liam only ever showed around things he loved fiercely.
Poet lifted her head higher, assessing me with those impossible blue eyes, curious and unafraid.
“She’s… she’s the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen,” I whispered.
Liam smiled—small, proud, almost shy. “Yeah. She’s something else, isn’t she? Born at the main ranch four years ago. Golden coat, white mane…true palomino. Louisa said she looked like a storybook horse. And those eyes—rare as hell. Knew she was special the second I saw her.”
Poet stepped closer, elegant and sure, nose reaching toward his hand like she belonged there.
“She’s got spirit,” he continued, stroking her neck with a tenderness that made my heart twist, “but a sweet side too.”
He glanced at me. Softer. More meaning in that look than in a hundred words.“Reminded me of someone.”
My throat went tight.
He held out his hand, palm up, gentle invitation in the gesture. “Want to meet her properly?”
I stepped forward, breath shaking a little—not from fear, but from the warmth blooming low in my belly.
“Yes,” I said, voice soft. “I’d really like to.”
He opened the gate, led me inside. Poet stood perfectly still as I approached, then gently pressed her forehead against my chest, breathing me in.
"Oh," I breathed. "Oh, hello, beautiful."
"She never does that," Liam said quietly. "Not with strangers. It's like she knows you."
We spent the next hour with Poet. Liam showed me how to put on her halter, talking me through each step with patient instruction. How to hold the lead rope—firm but not tight. How to walk with her, keeping her at my shoulder, establishing trust and leadership without force.
"She wants to please," he explained as Poet followed me around the paddock like a puppy. "Most horses do. They just need to know what you're asking and that you're safe to follow."
He taught me how to brush her, starting at her neck and working back, always in the direction of hair growth. Poet practically melted under my hands, making these little sounds of contentment that made me laugh—the first real laugh since LA.
"She's talking to you," Liam said, grinning. "That's her happy sound."
"I love her," I said, meaning it completely. "She's perfect."
"She's yours."
"What?"
"If you want her. I've been keeping her for you." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he'd always done when nervous. "I know that sounds crazy, keeping a horse for someone who didn't even live in Texas, but I always thought... hoped maybe someday..."
I swallowed hard. ”You kept a horse for me for four years?"
"I bought a horse that reminded me of you, and then couldn't bear to sell her. So yeah, I guess I did."
I had to turn back to Poet to hide the tears. This man. This impossible, wonderful man.
"Come on," he said, tactfully ignoring my emotional moment. "Let me show you the rest."
The tour of his small ranch was exactly what I needed. Normal, easy, no pressure. He showed me the chicken coop he'd built himself, introducing me to the dozen hens and one extremely proud rooster named Caesar.
"Sophia named him," he said when I laughed. "She thinks she's hilarious."
"She is hilarious."
The chickens were surprisingly personable, following us around, pecking at our boots. One particularly bold hen jumped up on my shoulder, making me squeal—not in fear but in delight.
"That's Dolly. She thinks she's a parrot."
We visited the small barn where he kept feed and supplies, everything organized with military precision. The tack room smelled like leather and oil, bridles and saddles hung neatly on the walls.
"Do you compete?" I asked, noting some ribbons tacked to a board.
"Some. Local rodeos, mostly. Clay's the real competitor—number six in the world—but I do okay in calf roping."
"Of course you do."
He showed me the garden plot he was trying to establish—"Louisa insists every ranch needs a vegetable garden"—and the spot where he planned to build a bigger barn eventually.
We walked the fence line, him pointing out where his land bordered the Blackwood ranch, how they shared water rights to the creek, where he hoped to buy the adjacent fifty acres if old Mr. Thompson ever decided to sell.
"Could expand the herd then," he said, looking out over his land with quiet pride. "Maybe add some goats. Sophia wants goats."
"It's wonderful," I said. "All of it. You've built something real here."
"It's home." He looked at me. "Yours too, for as long as you want, as long as you need."
By the time we made it back to the barn for Poet's evening feeding, I was exhausted but in the best way. My body ached from movement instead of stillness, from living instead of hiding.
Liam showed me how to measure Poet's grain, how to check her water, the way she liked her neck scratched after eating. The horse leaned into me, content, and I felt something in my chest ease. Something that had been clenched tight since LA finally relaxed.
"Thank you," I said as we walked back to my cabin in the golden evening light. "For today. For Poet. For all of it."
"You look better," he said simply. "More like yourself."
"I feel better. Tired but... good tired. Like I did something instead of just surviving."
"That's the thing about animals," he said. "They don't care what happened to you yesterday. They just care about right now. Sometimes that's exactly what we need."
At my cabin door, I turned to him. "Will you teach me to ride? When I'm ready?"
"Whenever you want. Poet's been waiting for you. I think we all have."
The words hung between us, weighted with more than just friendship. But it wasn't scary. It was possibility. Hope. Maybe even a future.
I have him a smile, small but real. “Goodnight, Lee."
"Night, Steph. Sleep well."
I went inside, feeling something I hadn't felt in months—safe. Not just protected, but actually safe in my own skin. The day had been perfect. Normal. Healing in ways I hadn't expected.
Tomorrow I'd go see Poet again. Learn more about caring for her. Maybe try sitting in the saddle. Small steps toward something bigger.
For now, I showered off the good kind of dirt—horse and hay and honest work—and crawled into bed feeling exhausted and happy and hopeful.
Outside, I could hear the normal sounds of evening on a ranch. Horses settling for the night. That ridiculous rooster making one last announcement. Liam's boots on his porch, the creak of his door.
Safe sounds. Home sounds.
I fell asleep smiling, dreaming of horses with pretty blue eyes and patient hands and the possibility of healing into something even stronger than before.