Chapter 6 Dahlia
DAHLIA
The storm had raged all night, slamming against the earth with a vengeance that rattled bone. Wind clawed at the shelter’s door, rain beat the tin roof till it groaned, and thunder rolled through the dark as though the sky itself was splitting apart.
Dahlia hated storms. Always had.
They brought back the sound of her mama’s voice rising and falling through the walls, singing to things no one else could see.
Some nights, Juniper Childs would stand barefoot in the yard, head tipped to the sky, laughing and crying all at once while lightning struck around.
And when the thunder cracked too loud, she’d whisper that angels were bowling in Heaven, then smoke something to make the voices silent.
That was the last summer before the illness took her mind completely.
So when thunder growled above last night, it wasn’t just noise. It was memory.
She'd fought to keep her cool, but the moment darkness swallowed them and thunder split the sky, her body betrayed her—jumping straight into Luc’s arms. He’d gone stiff as a post, but a heartbeat later his arms loosened, strong, solid, and warm even through soaked clothes.
He hadn’t said a word, just held her until the generator kicked on.
For a man built from stone, he’d was unexpectedly human.
Luc ran his ranch with the precision of a drill sergeant, but somewhere beneath that sandpaper exterior lived something softer. Not calm, exactly, but composed in a way that made her wonder what ghosts he’d trained to stay down.
She thought of the cleft in his chin, that deep dimpled groove that refused to be ignored.
It was the one imperfection on an otherwise serious, too-handsome face.
Perfect jaw line, eyes that couldn’t decide if they were gray or green, mouth set like he was always bracing for a fight—and then there was that chin.
Lord, that chin was distracting.
She could still feel the brief press of it against her temple when she’d clung to him. She’d caught herself thinking—if comic books handed out medals for jawlines, he’d have the crimson one shining right there.
Her grin slipped before she muttered under her breath, “The Crimson Chin himself. Guess every hero’s got a soft side.”
Maybe she ought to explore that side a little more. Because he sure didn’t move through the world like a man already spoken for.
Two of his ranch hands were women—one older, one young enough to still flirt like it was currency—but neither drew more than a passing nod from him. His focus was always elsewhere: on the gates, the horses, the fences . . . and, sometimes, her.
Dahlia wasn’t blind to it. The way his attention cut through a crowd of noise, how it landed and lingered before he looked away again.
There was something about Luc Stanley that didn’t fit the mold of an ordinary rancher.
The precision in his stride, the authority in his tone, the kind of focus that came from discipline learned in a place far harsher than open fields.
He didn’t just run the ranch. He commanded it.
Every motion measured, every order obeyed.
And maybe that was what tempted her most.
Dahlia never did well with men who colored inside the lines.
She’d spent the storm breaking up the tension in that shelter—telling stories about Briarwick, about her Granny’s kitchen, about biscuits that could make a sinner weep.
When the wind howled, she sang soft under her breath, little tunes to chase away the ghosts that always came with thunder.
The men had laughed and listened. Even Luc’s mouth had twitched once, the ghost of a smile that told her he’d been listening, too.
When the worst passed, she’d thrown together what she could from the supplies—a pot of chili heavy with spice, skillet cornbread crisp on the edges, a touch of sugar just the way Granny taught her. The crew had eaten like they’d been saved. Luc ate too, but every bite seemed to cost him something.
He’d gone still afterward, that stoic expression draped over him again. Whatever softness she’d glimpsed earlier vanished, locked up behind those gray eyes.
Fine by her. She hadn’t cooked for him. She’d cooked because hungry men shouldn’t face another storm on empty stomachs.
Now dawn crept through the cracks. The air smelled of mud and rain and whatever peace comes after chaos. Dahlia stretched, the ache in her shoulders reminding her how long the night had been. No thunder, no howling wind, just the slow tick of recovery.
Luc, of course, was nowhere to be found. The man seemed to live without sleep, powered by caffeine and willpower. She’d bet money he’d been up since before sunrise rechecking fences and counting livestock.
She sighed, tying her curls into a loose bun. “Ain’t human,” she murmured. “He’s a storm in boots.”
Still, she busied herself with breakfast: biscuits, eggs, bacon, enough to coax the space back into feeling alive. Maybe he’d eat this time without glaring at her.
By afternoon, sun sliced through thinning clouds, the world left soggy and shining. Dahlia stepped out onto the porch and caught her breath.
The storm had torn through with teeth. Limbs littered the yard, puddles mirrored the bruised sky, and the fence along the south pasture leaned like it was praying. A water trough lay on its side. But the quiet that followed felt unnatural, almost holy.
She listened. No hum of power lines, no distant engine. Just the hush of miles holding their breath.
Luc was down by the gate, speaking with one of his men. His shirt clung to his back where sweat and rain had dried, hat low over those shadowed eyes. He looked up when he sensed her watching.
“Power’s out across Ironhaven,” he called as she approached. “Could be days before they fix it. Roads are washed out too.”
She lifted a brow. “So I’m stranded.”
“Looks that way.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture almost shy for a man built like a wall. Then, with a small exhale, he said, “You can stay here for now. Until things clear.”
Dahlia tilted her head, a slow grin rising. “You sure? Wouldn’t want to cramp your orderly little world.”
His eyes flicked toward her, unreadable, but there was the smallest curve at one corner of his mouth—gone before it could bloom. “You already did that.”
She laughed softly, brushing a damp curl from her cheek. “Good. Means I’m doin’ something right.”
The wind stirred between them, carrying the scent of wet earth and cedar. For a long moment, neither spoke. The storm had passed, but something else—something quiet and new—lingered in its wake.
For the first time since she’d arrived, the silence didn’t feel lonely.