Chapter 11
The tightness in his chest wasn’t there. His body didn’t feel like it had been fighting itself through the night. For once, he wasn’t waking to grit between his teeth or the ghost of someone shouting in his head. It had been years since he’d slept without some kind of fight.
He thought of the tea. Whatever Dahlia had mixed in that mug had reached places therapy hadn’t touched.
He’d dreamed, same flashes of the desert and shouting, but this time Dahlia had been there.
Her voice threaded through the chaos, guiding him back when it turned dark.
Spencer had told him to count his breaths, to stay aware, to ground himself, but that never worked once he drifted into the unconscious.
A repeated clacking and scratching interrupted his thoughts. Wynn whined once, patient but expectant.
Luc frowned. Wynn was never outside the bedroom in the morning. Not once in five years. He always slept by the dresser, rose when Luc did, and waited for permission before heading out. The only way he’d gotten through that door was if someone had opened it.
Dahlia. “She let you out, huh?” Luc murmured to himself.
He pushed up from the mattress, stretching until his back gave a satisfying crack.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and leaned over the sink long enough to take himself in.
The man staring back looked less wrecked than usual.
The exhaustion that had clung beneath his eyes had eased, leaving behind the faint brightness of green in the gray.
His beard stayed low, rough at the edges, framing a mouth that hadn’t smiled much in years. For once, he looked awake.
He pulled on clean clothes from the dresser. Jeans that had seen their share of days, a gray henley, thick socks, his usual work boots. When he fopened the door, Wynn was waiting, tail sweeping the floor, eyes bright.
“Guess she’s got you on her schedule now, huh?” Luc rubbed his ear, half a smile forming. “Let’s see what she’s gotten into.”
But he didn’t hear voices. No pans clattering, no low music, no laughter drifting through the house as there had been the past few mornings. She’d been up early. The house had a different kind of presence, left behind when someone had already done the work taking care of things.
The scent of bacon reached him before he stepped into the kitchen.
He glanced around noticing on the counter a covered plate sat and a thermos beside it. A yellow sticky note rested on top with his name scrawled across it. He blinked once, then pulled the foil back.
A breakfast sandwich waited with thick slices of bacon, fluffy eggs, and melted cheese bleeding into the biggest biscuit he’d ever seen. He unscrewed the thermos cap, and steam carried the smell of fresh rich, hot coffee and something faintly sweet.
He braced one hand against the counter and stared down at it, the simple kindness of it all hitting somewhere deep.
She didn’t have to leave him anything. Yet, she did.
It wasn’t something he’d ever considered, but now the thought of someone else—a woman—moving through his kitchen, thinking about him before the day began, caught him off guard.
Was this what people meant when they talked about domestic life?
If so, he’d sign up. This woman had him spoiled already.
Luc finished the sandwich at the counter, washing it down with coffee that tasted better than any pot he’d made in his life. When he stepped outside, the ranch was already alive.
Beau’s ATV traced the northern boundary, dust trailing behind him. Mara and one of the new hands were guiding calves into the holding pen, and another crew member was checking the shed for repairs. Beau had briefed them all and didn’t need Luc hovering. That was why he’d made him the foreman.
Luc scanned the property, landing on the smaller pens. “C’mon, boy,” he said, and Wynn trotted ahead.
The smaller enclosures holding sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens needed to be checked.
Dahlia wasn’t around which meant she was likely out with Cookie.
Luc was still getting over his shock seeing his wild mare with another rider.
Well, if he were being honest with himself, Dahlia wasn’t any other rider.
She was definitely Cookie’s person. His wild mare followed her without a lead, nuzzled, and greeted her with nickers he’d never received since she was born.
Shaking his head, Luc worked through each pen with a keen eye.
The morning work came naturally. The sheep were in good shape, their coats clean and eyes bright.
A ewe nudged his leg until he relented and scratched between her ears.
The pigs grunted as he crossed into their pen; one limped, and Luc crouched to find a pebble lodged near her hoof.
He plucked it free, muttering under his breath, and she rewarded him with a satisfied grunt before rejoining the herd.
Chickens gathered around his boots as he scattered feed, the air filling with the earthy mix of straw and grain.
Bootsteps crunched the dirt behind him.
“Morning, cowboy.”
Luc turned. Dahlia was walking down the slope, sunlight shimmering over the messy knot.
She wore jeans tucked into her boots, one of his flannels tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up to her forearms. She’d been wearing his shirts since the derecho and he never once asked why.
Maybe he didn’t want to. Truth was, he liked the way she made something of his look better on her.
“Morning,” he tossed some feed. “Thanks for breakfast and the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. I figured I’d keep you alive another day,” she replied cheerfully, that half-smile playing at her mouth.
Wynn trotted over her, tail wagging. Dahlia reached down and scratched his head. “He was ready before sunrise, so I let him out. Hope that’s all right.”
Luc arched a brow at the dog, pretending to scowl. “You’ve got a schedule, and she’s already ruined it.”
She shrugged. “Seems he didn’t mind.”
Luc bit back a grin and opened the gate for her. “Do you always come in like a wrecking ball, shattering what’s been built for a reason?”
Dahlia smirked, "Really, cowboy? Miley? Well, somebody had to swing in here and break your walls."
His eyes widened before he let out a laugh, "And you’re gonna help me rebuild them, starting with this. We’ve got work to finish out here," Luc pointed, and handed her a pail, then turned back to his task.
They fell into a natural cadence, moving through the chores without the need for instruction.
She filled feed buckets while he checked the troughs.
She tossed hay, and he tightened a loose rail.
Every now and then, she hummed or sang a familiar country tune, the sound pulled at the edges of his focus in a way he didn’t expect.
He watched how normal it was for her to blend in.
She didn’t just fit in; she matched the pace of the land.
She looked up, her eyes curious. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, though it wasn’t nothing. He leaned against the gate, watching her brush her palms against her jeans. “You asked me last night what brought me to Ironhaven all the way from Houston.”
Her brow lifted, but she didn’t say a word.
He went on, voice even. “My younger brother told me about Silver Creek Ranch. That it was healing ranch for soldiers. Said I was headed for a wall I wouldn’t climb out of, and he wasn’t wrong.
I decided to give it a try since they worked mostly with vets—therapy of all sorts, group sessions, the whole nine.
None of it meant a damn thing until I started spending time with the horses.
Thursdays, I’d meet with Spencer, one of the counselors.
Never called me broken. Just said I was trained to live through noise and forgot how to turn it off. ”
“And did you?” Dahlia asked, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on him. “Turn it off.””
“Some of it,” he admitted. “Silver Creek’s owned by Andy, a Navy vet. Man’s got sixty-five hundred acres out there and still makes time for every person who steps foot there. He’s got two sons—Ridge, he’s the town’s vet, and Draven’s engaged to Cashea.”
She perked up. “From the Haven’s Chicks?”
“The same,” Luc said, a small grin tugging his mouth.
“Can’t forget Miss Bee either. She keeps that ranch running.
Been looking after all the Harvey men since Andy’s wife passed.
She stops by here every once in a while, to leave baked goods on the porch.
So if you see anything signed “from Andy and Bee,” don’t toss it. ”
“Hold up. What’d you say their names are?”
“Andy and Miss Bee. Why?”
She tilted her head, amusement curving her lips. “You mean to tell me there’s a real-life Andy Griffith and Aunt Bee from Mayberry that lives here?”
Luc barked out a laugh, loud enough to startle Wynn who’d fallen asleep at their feet. “Woman, where do you come up with this stuff? Andy’s no sheriff and Miss Bee sure as hell ain’t his aunt.”
“Well, it’s funny.”
He shook his head, still chuckling. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” she said, stepping closer. “But at least you’re smiling again.”
He didn’t deny it. Every time she was around his cheeks hurt from cheesing so damn hard.
They finished feeding and drifted toward the paddock where Cookie stood waiting, mane ruffling in the wind.
Dahlia’s fingers brushed her muzzle, and the mare dipped her head toward the touch.
Luc watched the two of them together—the woman, the horse, the morning light spilling across both—and without effort, something in him anchored there.
“You’re really closed off in there.” She glanced at him from under her thick lashes. “Let me guess—scarred heart, keeps people at a distance, thinks I’m too wild for you?”
“I don’t do soft. Not anymore.” He paused, gaze holding hers. “But for you… I might make an exception.”
“Make it, cowboy,” she said, the grin turning faint but certain. “I’m worth it.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Good trouble,” she flirted, her dark brown irises flashing mischief. “The kind you don’t want to end.”
He swallowed hard, voice rougher when he spoke again. “You’re not safe out here. Not with me watching you like that.”
“Then stop watching,” she murmured. “And do something.”
“Dahlia,” he warned, but her name came out more drawl than caution.
The gate creaked behind them, wind stirring dust. Wynn shifted in the dirt with a sigh. Cookie raised her head across the paddock, ears flicking. Everything around them seemed to pause.
Luc reached up, brushing a loose curl from Dahlia’s temple. His knuckles grazed her skin, and her breath caught. He lips parted, an invitation he didn’t need words for. He leaned in—
A truck door slammed across the yard.
“North fence is down!” Beau’s voice carried from the distance.
Wynn barked, startled. Cookie snorted and bumped Dahlia’s shoulder.
She giggled. “Saved by your foreman.”
“Or sabotaged,” Luc muttered, still close enough to feel her breath. “Tonight? Over tea, more stories.”
“Luc, you in the stables? Need your help, brother,” his best friend and foreman called.
“Later,” she promised, her palm pressing against his chest. “Go fix your fence, cowboy.”
He hesitated before stepping away. One more second and he would’ve kissed her.
Luc let his hand drop from that wild ringlet and forced his boots toward the pasture. At the stable door, he glanced back. She stood with Cookie’s lead slack in her hand, sunlight sliding across her arms—a woman who knew how to listen without pulling him apart.
He walked off, tasting her in his head and hating the space between them.