Chapter 8 Dahlia
DAHLIA
“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” Dahlia shouted over her shoulder to Mara. “I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.”
It was her fourth sunrise at Blaze Haven since the storm, and she’d already tuned herself to the ranch’s recovery cadence. Shovels clattered with the dawn, generators thrummed steady behind the barn, and the hiss of diesel rose each time the men topped off a tank.
The land itself seemed to be healing. Pastures sparkled with dew where yesterday they’d been littered with debris.
Cattle grazed peacefully, the storm already forgotten in their simple minds.
In the stables, horses stood with ears pricked forward, tails swishing at flies, while chickens pecked and strutted and goats had reclaimed their usual territories.
The past few days had been hard work, though Dahlia’s version of it looked a little different from everybody else’s.
While they cleared fallen trees and debris from the pastures, checked barns and sheds for storm damage, and inspected feed and water lines, she tended to feeding the animals, soothing nervous colts, and checking that the troughs were refilled.
She also cooked hearty stick-to-your-ribs meals that made the tired ranch hands stay at the table longer than they planned.
From a stew thick with carrots and potatoes to country fried steak and skillet cornbread, she made sure Luc and the crew ate good.
And when her chores eased, she wandered the garden rows behind the bunkhouse, getting dirt under her nails plucking herbs that had survived the storm. Basil, thyme, a stubborn sprig of rosemary, all little green reminders that the land always knew how to start over.
Helping kept her from thinking about the silence on the other end of her phone.
No service, no calls from home. Her daddy, grandparents, Teylor and even her cousins—none of them knew if she was all right.
But worrying about it wouldn’t change a thing, so she worked, laughed when she could, so she bent her back to tasks, let laughter bubble when it could, and wove herself into the current carrying the ranch toward tomorrow.
Everybody had warmed up to her fast. Beau teased her constantly, saying she worked like she was born here, Mara had become her right hand, helping her learn the flow of Blaze Haven, and a woman from down the road named Patsy, who swore she could judge a soul by how they cut butter into flour, had already swapped biscuit recipes with her.
Even the livestock seemed to like her. She’d handed out apple slices while singing lullabies to keep the skittish ones from running.
Luc, on the other hand, had been everywhere and nowhere at once.
He’d let her be, mostly, only pausing long enough to tell her what not to lift and where not to step and to toss her a pair of gloves when she tried to drag a bale that was too heavy.
She noticed he hadn’t slept. The proof sat in the shadows under his eyes.
He was keeping the ranch alive by willpower alone, and everyone, including her, knew it.
With the animals fed and watered, Dahlia headed for the stables, ready to check on the horses. The barn carried its usual mix of hay, damp earth, and horse sweat, layered with the sharp bite of ammonia and the heavier notes of manure and leather.
“Morning,” Beau said now from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans before leaning against a stall. “Day four and we almost back to pretty.”
“Pretty-ish,” Dahlia answered, steering a wheelbarrow loaded with hay and a bucket of feed. “She’s got her face back on at least.”
They moved through the bays, the horses shifting weight, heads lifting and dropping, soft nickers passing between wood and iron. A restless energy still rode the air. It slipped through her skin and settled in her stomach.
Halfway down the last row, a head drifted into view, all attitude and beauty. A horse with a spotted coat stood near the far end—beautiful, wary, watching her, mane falling messy over a suspicious eye.
The brass nameplate on the stall read: COOKIE.
“Well, hey there, pretty girl,” Dahlia said quietly, setting the wheelbarrow aside.
The mare’s ears flicked back and forth, nostrils flaring as Dahlia eased closer.
Her coat was a mix of gold and ivory, freckles scattered across her flank like paint drops.
There was a proud stillness in her stance, the kind that said she’d bite before she’d bolt.
Dahlia knew that kind of spirit; she’d seen it in the mirror more than once.
Beau appeared at the end of the aisle, leaning on a pitchfork handle. “That one there? Blaze’s baby. Cookie don’t take to strangers. Or anybody, really.”
Dahlia smiled without looking away. “Everybody takes to somebody. Just gotta speak the right language.”
She lifted her hand, palm open, fingers loose. Cookie’s ears twitched forward, then flattened again. Dahlia waited, breathing slow, not pushing. Patience was something she’d learned from her daddy. He told her: never chase what needs to come to you.
She eased another breath, matching the mare’s uneven snorts. “It’s all right, girl,” she murmured. “Ain’t nobody rushing you.”
Cookie’s nostrils flared once, muscles quivering under her splotched coat. When Dahlia took one small step closer, the mare didn’t retreat.
Another long, tense minute passed, and then Cookie leaned forward, brushing her muzzle across Dahlia’s palm. The contact was soft, and startlingly familiar, as if they’d met somewhere before in another life.
Beau let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. You just sweet-talked the devil’s daughter.”
Dahlia’s lips curved up. “She just needs someone who understands her. Ain’t that right, sugar?”
Cookie blew a long sigh through her nose, the sound rippling against Dahlia’s hand as if it were quiet agreement.
A shadow stretched over the stall gate. The way the air shifted, she didn’t have to turn to know it was Luc. He stopped just behind her right shoulder, so close that cedar, leather and something purely male wrapped around her.
For a few beats, he said nothing. Then his boots scraped against the straw as he stepped up beside her. Dahlia glanced over, catching the moment his gaze left the mare and found hers.
“She never lets anyone close,” he said finally, his voice was gravel and low smoke, making her spine hum.
Dahlia stroked the mare’s neck, glancing sideways at him. “Maybe she just needed a softer hand.”
He said nothing to that, but the muscle in his jaw flexed.
“Same temperament. Cookie’s stubborn, Dahlia’s definitely strong-willed. Makes sense they’d hit it off.” Beau laughed from down the aisle. “Explains a lot.”
“Explains nothing,” Luc muttered. “Don’t push your luck. She’ll turn on a dime.”
“Not on me,” Dahlia said, the certainty arriving before the thought.
His mouth pulled tight, but not quite a full frown. Dahlia caught it and bit back a smile. He probably hated that she’d gotten his wild child to practically eat out of her hand, but she could live with that.
She slid the latch on the stall. “C’mon, Cookie. I’m taking you out to get some air.”
Luc’s palm came down over hers before she could lift it. “No.”
She tipped her head back to meet his eyes, noticing the stubble darkening his chin and the tiny scar at the edge of his lip. Dahlia pushed out her chin defiantly. “Open it, cowboy. I ain’t dumb and I ain’t tryin’ to get stomped. She’s askin’.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Amusement, too. He hesitated long enough for Cookie to lean against the door, blowing a breath as if adding her vote. He peeked inside her stall, his jaw flexing, and finally he stepped back with a short sigh.
“Fine. Yard only.”
“That’s all I need,” Dahlia said, slipping the bolt free.
“Okay,” Luc said, moving back another pace. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.” Dahlia shifted to the side and swung the door open.
A moment later the spotted mare tossed her head and trotted out, hooves thudding against the packed earth. Dahlia fell in beside her, one hand grazing the warm line of Cookie’s neck as they started toward the stable’s exit. Cookie followed without fuss, ears flicking but no signs of rebellion.
Outside, the morning sun rose, clouds breaking apart over wet grass. Dahlia led her along the fence line, talking low, full of little nothings—praise, affection, small truths meant only for them.
When Beau leaned on the top rail, grinning, she caught it from the corner of her eye. “Told you,” he said. “Two peas in the same pod.”
“She’s my kinda girl,” Dahlia said, guiding Cookie in a slow circle.
“Luc, I know you see this. She’s riding that horse by lunch,” Beau called.
Luc came out into the yard, hands resting on his belt. He didn’t answer, but Wynn did with a single bark and a planted sit at his boots, as if he’d decided the matter himself.
Dahlia let Cookie sniff barrels and buckets, let her stand and watch wind lift the pasture grass in long strokes.
When the angles of her body melted back into curves, Dahlia, she slid a hand along her neck and laughed softly into the warm hair at her jaw.
“You and me, Sugar Cookie,” Dahlia promised. “We gon’ be just fine.”
Out of nowhere, Beau’s voice from earlier drifted through her mind. She’s riding that horse by lunch. Dahlia smiled, thinking he might just be right.
Dahlia pressed her cheek against Cookie’s and kissed her just above the muzzle, her voice soft with a question. “You gonna let me ride you, sugar?”
Cookie’s ear twitched toward her, not a yes, not a no.
Dahlia smiled at that and went slow, easing the hackamore over the mare’s head, letting Cookie test every move—the slide of rope, the shift of pressure.
She worked her fingers along the cheek strap, murmuring encouragement until the tension in Cookie’s neck smoothed out.