Chapter 23
Liam
"I'm not going to the damn bar."
I stood in my kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at my assembled family who'd apparently decided Thursday night was intervention night.
They'd invaded my house like some sort of emotional SWAT team—Louisa holding a casserole like a weapon, Owen looking stern, Clay trying not to laugh, Wyatt studying me with those eyes that saw too much, and the girls all wore expressions of determined innocence.
"You are," Louisa said firmly, using the voice that had gotten four boys through childhood and could probably stop a charging bull. "It's Clay's birthday."
"Clay's birthday was three months ago."
"Belated birthday," Clay said, not even trying to make it convincing. He was leaning against my counter, eating my chips, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Besides," Maggie added, perched on my kitchen table like she owned it, "you've been moping around here for two weeks. You need to get out."
"I'm not moping.” I was moping. But how could I not when the other half of me was clear across the country?
"You growled at a fence post yesterday," Wyatt pointed out. "An actual growl. The horses are afraid of you."
"Caesar won't even crow when you're around," Sophia added. "And Caesar fears nothing."
"Even Poet won't come near you," Ivy said gently. "And she likes everyone."
That stung because it was true. Stephy's horse had been standing at the far end of the pasture for days, looking at me with what I swear was disappointment. Like I'd failed some sort of test by not bringing her person back.
"You haven't shaved in four days," Louisa observed, reaching up to touch my face. I jerked back. "You're not eating properly. I found three empty whiskey bottles in your trash."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Owen said, his tone suggesting this wasn't a request. "You're barely functioning. One beer, listen to some music, pretend to be human for an hour. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm your uncle, which is worse. Now get your boots on."
"Since when do you all care about open mic night?" I asked, suspicious now. They were being weird, even for them. Maggie kept checking her phone and grinning. Ivy was practically bouncing on her toes. And Louisa had that look she got right before Christmas morning.
"Since you turned into a hermit," Sophia said. "Come on, Liam. Steph wouldn't want you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."
That was a low blow, using her name. It had been two weeks since she'd left for LA.
Two weeks of nightly phone calls that weren't enough, of sleeping in sheets that still smelled like her lavender shampoo, of waking up reaching for someone who wasn't there.
Two weeks of her promising "soon" and me trying not to beg her to define what that meant.
The house felt wrong without her. Too quiet.
Too empty. Even though she'd only officially lived here for a short time, her absence was everywhere—in the coffee mug she'd claimed as hers sitting clean in the cupboard, in the space in the closet where her clothes had been, in the notebook she'd left on the nightstand with songs I couldn't bring myself to read.
"Fine," I snapped. "One hour. One beer. Then I'm leaving."
"Deal," Louisa said quickly, and something passed between her and Maggie that I was too irritated to analyze.
Twenty minutes later, I was driving a truck full of Blackwoods toward town, feeling like a hostage in my own vehicle.
Murphy's Pub was packed, which was unusual for a Thursday. The parking lot was full, and I had to park two blocks away. As we walked up, I could see through the windows that half the town seemed to be there.
"What the fuck?" I muttered. "Did someone die? Is this a wake?"
"Popular night," Clay said, his hand on my back, steering me toward the door. "Look, they have that beer you like."
Inside, heads turned when we walked in. Mrs. Henderson from the post office waved enthusiastically. Tim from the hardware store raised his beer in salute. Even the sheriff was there, off duty, grinning like an idiot.
"Okay, what's going on?" I demanded as they hustled me to a table near the stage—front row, center. The best seats in the house that were mysteriously empty in a packed bar.
"Nothing," they said in unison, which was suspicious as hell.
"Nothing my ass. You're all terrible liars."
"Just drink your beer," Owen said, pushing a glass at me. It was already poured, waiting. They'd planned this down to the drink order.
The local band was finishing up—Tim's brother and his bluegrass quartet, who played every Thursday like clockwork.
They were good, but I wasn't in the mood for music.
I was in the mood for my empty house and another whiskey and maybe staring at my phone waiting for it to ring, even though I knew she wouldn't call until eight.
"Thank y'all for listening," Tim's brother said into the microphone. "Now we've got a special treat tonight. A new artist, you might say, though some of you might recognize her. Let's give a warm Copper Creek welcome to Stephanie Wilson."
My heart stopped.
The lights dimmed for the next performer, and I turned to the stage, every cell in my body suddenly electric.
A single guitar strum filled the silence. I knew that sound. Knew those hands. Knew before she even opened her mouth—
“Hi, y’all. I’m Stephanie. I promised a certain cowboy I wouldn’t cause trouble—but… here I am. I wrote him a song, and he doesn’t know I’m about to sing it in front of all of you. So…this is for you, Lee. Hope you’re ready, baby.”
When the spotlight found her, it felt like a punch to the chest. She stood there in a yellow sundress that skimmed over her curves, the fabric catching on the breeze from the speakers, making her look alive in a way that stole my breath. The color sharpened her eyes until they were all I could see.
And she had them locked on me.
The bar had gone silent, everyone watching, waiting. Someone—probably Mrs. Henderson—let out a little "aww."
She started to play, and her voice filled the room—not the polished Stevie Wilson voice from her albums, but Stephy's real voice, raw and honest and slightly nervous.
"Morning coffee on the porch
Watching sunrise paint you gold
Your hands tell stories of the earth
Mine were lost until you showed me home"
I stood up without meaning to, the chair scraping loud in the silence. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only stare at her as she sang. She was here. She was real. She was singing to me in front of the whole damn town.
"You waited in the spaces between heartbeats
Patient as the land that made you
I was noise and you were silence
Teaching me that quiet could save me"
She sang about the ranch, about Poet, about learning to be still. About morning coffee and evening whiskey and the way I snored—Jesus, she put my snoring in a song. About a love that didn't demand performance, that didn't need spotlights, that thrived in the quiet moments between.
"They tried to make me into lightning
But you loved me as the rain
Soft and steady, always coming home
To the earth that speaks your name
You saw through all my broken parts
Found the girl beneath the star
Loved me back together with your patience
Taught me I was perfect with my scars"
I was moving before I realized it, crossing the bar like a man in a dream. People parted like water—I dimly registered faces, all of them smiling, some of them crying. Mrs. Henderson was definitely crying.
Her eyes never left mine as she sang the last verse, her voice breaking slightly with emotion.
"So here I stand with just this song
No stage, no lights, no grand design
Just a woman with a guitar
Telling you you've always been mine
I choose the ranch, I choose the life
I choose the man who saved my soul
I choose love over fame and fortune
I choose you to make me whole"
The last note faded, and before she could even set down the guitar, I was there.
She barely had time to swing the guitar behind her before she jumped off the stage into my arms. I caught her—would always catch her—lifting her clean off her feet, spinning her around while the entire bar erupted in cheers.
"You're here," I said into her hair, breathing her in—lavender and vanilla and home. "You're really here."
"I'm home," she said, pulling back to look at me, tears streaming down her face. "I'm home for good."
I kissed her then, right there in front of everyone, pouring two weeks of missing her into it.
I kissed her like a drowning man finding air, like a lost man finding north, like a broken man finding whole.
Someone wolf-whistled—definitely Clay—and someone else started clapping, and soon the whole bar was applauding, but I didn't care.
Let them watch. Let them see. This woman was mine, and I was hers, and the whole world could know it.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I set her on her feet but kept my arms around her, couldn't stop touching her—her face, her hair, her arms—making sure she was real.
"'Bout damn time, sweetheart," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
She laughed, bright and free, the sound I'd been missing like a lost limb. "I had to handle some things. But I'm done with that life. I'm choosing this one. Choosing you. If you'll have me."
"If I'll have you?" I pulled her closer, probably crushing her, but she didn't complain. "Woman, I've been waiting for you my whole life. You think I'm letting you go now?"
"Get a room!" someone shouted from the back—definitely Wyatt this time.
"We have one," I shouted back, not taking my eyes off her. "At my ranch, where this woman's going to live for the next sixty years minimum."
"Only sixty?" Stephy asked, grinning, her hands framing my face.
"Negotiable. We can discuss terms later. Maybe seventy. Eighty. Forever."
Her smile softened, real and pure. “I like forever."
Louisa appeared beside us, beaming, tears running down her face. "Welcome home, honey."