Chapter 5
Delaney
A lightning bolt cleaves the sky in two. I grip the reins tighter, waiting for Captain Winky to spook and throw us off, but he keeps galloping without changing direction.
The next rain slams into us sideways, and the horse screams—I’m pretty sure I do too.
One second I’m clinging to Daniel’s forearm, Captain Winky’s hooves pounding beneath us, wind whipping my hair into a weapon. The next, rain slams sideways into us—not drops, a wall—and Captain Winky screams.
The sound shoots straight up my spine. Horses shouldn’t make that noise. Nothing should make that noise.
“North Line Cabin!” Daniel’s voice cuts through the chaos, his arm banding tighter around my waist. “Half a mile. Hold on.”
I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Rain sheets across my face, filling my mouth when I gasp. My fingers are numb where they’re wrapped around the saddle horn, thighs burning from gripping Captain Winky’s sides. Every instinct screams bail, get off, hit the ground before he throws you—
But Daniel’s chest is solid against my back. His voice is steady even when nothing else is.
“Thirty seconds. You’re doing great.”
I’m not doing great. I’m terrified and soaked and probably going to die on a horse in Montana, which is not how I pictured going out. I pictured something dignified. A heart attack at ninety, maybe. Surrounded by grandchildren I don’t have.
Lightning cracks close enough that I smell ozone, and then—a shape. Dark and listing, emerging from the gray like a drunk trying to find the bathroom.
A building. Thank God.
Daniel pulls Captain Winky to a stop under a narrow overhang that barely qualifies as shelter. He’s off the horse before I can process the movement, hands reaching up.
“Come on. I’ve got you.”
I half-fall, half-slide into his arms. My legs buckle the second they hit the ground—turns out terror makes your muscles forget how to work—but he catches me. Steadies me. His hands are warm even through my soaked shirt.
“Inside. Now.”
He loops Captain Winky’s reins around a rusted hitching post under the overhang with quick, efficient movements, then his hand is on my lower back, guiding me toward the door.
It sticks.
He shoulders it once. Twice. On the third try, it groans open, scraping against warped floorboards like it’s complaining about the interruption.
He pushes me through first, follows, and the door swings shut behind us with a thunk that echoes in my chest.
The silence hits first.
Not real silence—rain is still hammering the roof like it wants in, wind howling through gaps in the boards—but the absence of immediate drowning. My ears ring with it.
Then I register the space.
Small. Tiny. Maybe ten feet by twelve, and that’s being generous.
One window, so grimy it barely lets in light.
A cot shoved against the wall, a wooden chair missing a leg, shelves lined with dusty cans, and a lantern.
A woodstove sits in the corner, a basket of split logs beside it, and the whole place smells like mouse droppings and forgotten decades.
“Charming,” I manage through chattering teeth. “Very... rustic minimalist.”
Daniel doesn’t laugh.
He’s already moving toward the shelves, pulling down the lantern, fumbling with a box of matches. His movements are jerky. Wrong. He drops a match, picks it up, drops it again.
His hands are shaking.
That’s when I notice his breathing.
Too fast. Too shallow. His shoulders are rigid beneath his soaked shirt, and his eyes—his eyes keep darting. Ceiling. Walls. Door. Ceiling again. Like he’s calculating something. Like he’s looking for a way out that doesn’t exist.
“Daniel?”
“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. Bitten off. “Just need to get the stove going. Get you warm.”
He abandons the lantern, moves to the woodstove, yanks open the iron door. His hands shake as he grabs kindling from the basket. He’s going through the motions—crumpling old newspaper from the shelf, stacking small sticks—but his coordination is shot. The newspaper tears. The kindling scatters.
Thunder cracks overhead, and the whole cabin shudders.
Daniel flinches.
Not a small flinch. His whole body goes rigid, eyes snapping to the ceiling like he’s expecting it to come down. His chest heaves. Once. Twice. Three times too fast.
Oh.
Oh.
Eighteen hours trapped in a collapsed building. Two teammates dead. Pinned in the dark while the world pressed down on him.
And I just watched him seal himself into a tiny cabin with a storm raging overhead.
“Hey.” I step toward him, my own fear forgotten. “Daniel. Look at me.”
His eyes find mine. They’re wild. Desperate. The gray has gone almost black, pupils blown wide, leaving nothing of the controlled, commanding man who kissed me in that diner. Nothing of the patient teacher who helped me onto Captain Winky’s back this morning.
This is someone drowning.
“The storm’s moving fast,” I say, keeping my voice calm.
Steady. The same voice I used when Kitty woke up screaming after Mom and Dad died, when I had to be the solid thing in a world that had just proven it could take everything.
“Listen to the thunder—hear how it’s already farther from the lightning?
It’s passing. It’ll blow through in twenty minutes, maybe less. ”
His breathing doesn’t slow. His eyes dart to the ceiling again.
“The roof is solid,” I try. “These old line cabins are built to last. And the door—” I glance back at it. “The door opens outward. We’re not trapped. We can leave whenever we want.”
Nothing. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, and his hands have curled into fists at his sides. He’s fighting something. Fighting hard.
I recognize the look. I’ve worn it myself, those nights when the bills piled up and Kitty needed things I couldn’t afford and the walls of whatever cramped apartment we were in felt like they were squeezing the air out of my lungs.
But my tricks aren’t working. Logic isn’t reaching him.
I need something else.
“Daniel.” I step closer, into his space, close enough to touch. “I need you to look at me. Just me. Not the walls, not the ceiling. Me.”
His eyes lock onto mine. Holding on like I’m a fixed point in a spinning room.
“Good. That’s good.” I reach out slowly and take his hand. His fingers are ice cold, trembling, but they close around mine like I’m a lifeline. “Now, I need you to tell me three things you can see. Right now. In this room.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“Three things you can see. Doesn’t matter what. Just name them.”
His throat works. For a long moment, I think he won’t—or can’t—answer. Then: “You.” The word comes out hoarse. “The stove. The... the window.”
“Good. Three things you can hear.”
“Rain.” His breathing is still too fast, but he’s focusing now. Trying. “Your voice. The... wind.”
“Perfect. Now, three things you can feel.”
“Your hand.” His grip tightens on my fingers. “Cold. I’m cold. And...” He stops. Swallows.
“And what?”
“My heart. It’s—” He presses his free hand to his chest. “It won't slow down.”
I don't think. I just act.
I take his hand—the one pressed to his chest—and move it to mine. Press his palm flat against my sternum, right over my heartbeat.
“Feel that?” I ask. “Match it. Breathe with me.”
His eyes widen. But he doesn't pull away.
I breathe in slowly. Hold it. Let it out. His hand is cold through my wet shirt, his fingers spread wide over my collarbone, and I can feel him trying. Fighting to sync his ragged gasps with my steady rhythm.
“In,” I murmur. “Hold. Out. That’s it. Again.”
We stand like that for what feels like hours. The storm rages outside, rain pounding the roof, wind screaming through the gaps, but inside this tiny cabin it’s just us. His hand on my heart. My hand over his. Breathing together.
Slowly—so slowly—his shoulders start to drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing evens out, matching mine, and the wild desperation in his eyes fades to something rawer. Something ashamed.
“I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “I don't—this doesn’t usually happen. I have it under control.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do.” He tries to pull his hand back, but I hold it in place. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. I’m supposed to be—”
“What? Invincible?” I shake my head. “Daniel, you were trapped in a collapsed building for eighteen hours. You watched people die. That’s not something you just get over.”
His jaw tightens. “How do you know about that?”
“Tom mentioned it. Back when I first started.” I keep my voice gentle. No pity—he’d hate pity—just facts. “I’m not going to pretend I understand what you went through. But I know what it’s like to feel like the walls are closing in. To feel like you’re one bad moment away from losing everything.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. His hand is still pressed to my chest, my heartbeat steady under his palm, and something in his expression cracks.
“The dark was the worst part,” he says finally. “When the power went out. When I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t tell if I was buried or if there was a way out. I just knew I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. And the guys I was supposed to protect—”
His voice breaks.
I don’t let him finish. I just step forward and wrap my arms around him.
For a heartbeat, he’s rigid. Frozen. Like he doesn’t know what to do with comfort, like it’s a foreign language he never learned.
Then, something in him gives.
His arms come around me, crushing me against his chest, and his face drops to my hair. He’s shaking. Not the fine tremor from before—real shaking, his whole body wracked with the effort of holding himself together.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds on.
The storm howls outside. Rain batters the roof. The cabin creaks and groans around us like it’s weathering its own battle.
But in here, wrapped in Daniel’s arms, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
Safe.
I don’t know how long we stand there.
Long enough for the rain to ease from a roar to a steady drum. Long enough for his breathing to match mine completely, slow and even. Long enough for the shaking to stop and his grip to gentle from desperate to just... holding.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red-rimmed but clear.
“Thank you,” he says. His voice is rough. Scraped raw. “For not—”
“For not what? Running screaming into the storm?” I manage a small smile. “Tempting, but I’m pretty sure Captain Winky would judge me. He’s already got opinions about my riding.”
He laughs. It’s broken and rough, but it’s real, and something warm blooms in my chest at the sound.
“I should check on him,” Daniel says. “Make sure he’s okay under the overhang.”
“You sure you’re—”
“I’m good.” He squeezes my hand once, then releases it. “Better. Because of you.”
He moves to the door and shoulders it open against the wind. Rain gusts in, but it’s lighter now—still steady, but not the violent assault from before. He steps out onto the narrow porch, and I hear him talking to Captain Winky in that low, soothing voice. The same voice he used on me.
I take the opportunity to look around. Find the matches he dropped, get the lantern lit. The warm glow pushes back the gloom, making the space feel less like a crypt and more like... well, still a grimy line cabin, but a grimy line cabin with ambiance.
The woodstove is my next project. Daniel had the right idea—we’re both soaked and freezing, and hypothermia isn’t the romantic ending I’m going for here.
Wait. Romantic ending?
I shove that thought aside and focus on crumpling newspaper, stacking kindling, striking a match. The fire catches on the third try, and I add a few larger logs from the basket. By the time Daniel comes back in, shaking water from his hair, the stove is crackling and the cabin is starting to warm.
“Captain Winky’s fine,” he says. “Pissed off, but fine. He’ll forgive me when I give him extra oats.”
“Bribery. The foundation of all good relationships.”
His mouth quirks. “Works on horses. Works on cousins. Jury’s still out on stubborn ranch coordinators.”
“I’m not stubborn. I’m discerning.”
“That what we’re calling it?”
He’s standing just inside the door, water dripping from his hair, his shirt plastered to his chest in a way that’s frankly distracting. The wild desperation is gone from his eyes, replaced by something warmer. Something that makes my stomach flip.
“You got the fire going,” he says.
“I’m not completely useless.”
“Never said you were.” He moves closer, and the cabin suddenly feels even smaller. “Never thought it either.”
“Could’ve fooled me. All those arguments about supply manifests—”
“Those weren’t arguments. Those were... negotiations.”
“You called my inventory system ‘chaotic at best.’”
“It was chaotic. It was also effective.” He’s close now. Too close. I can see the water droplets caught in his eyelashes, the faint scar at his temple, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. “You’re effective, Delaney. At everything you do.”
My heart pounds. Not with fear this time.
“I meant what I said in the barn,” he murmurs. “I’m not sorry I kissed you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I took away your choice. I’m sorry I made it public when it should’ve been private.” His hand comes up, hovers near my face like he’s asking permission. “But I’m not sorry I wanted you. I’ve wanted you since the first time you told me my supply manifest was ‘aggressively inefficient.’”
A laugh startles out of me. “That was my first week.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes my cheek, feather-light. “You were wearing that blue blouse. Your hair was falling out of its bun. And you looked at me like I was the most irritating man you’d ever met.”
“You were the most irritating man I’d ever met.”
“And now?”
The air between us is charged. Electric. Like the storm moved inside, crackling in the space between our bodies.
I should step back. I should remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible idea—he’s my boss, he’s Kitty's cousin-in-law, he kissed me without asking, and I still haven’t decided if I’ve forgiven him for that.
But he just let me see him shatter. Trusted me with something he doesn’t show anyone. And when I put his hand on my heart, he held on like I was the only solid thing in his world.
Maybe I want to be that. Maybe I want to be someone’s solid thing.
Maybe I just want.
“Now,” I say slowly, “you’re still irritating.”
His mouth curves. “But?”
“But you’re also...” I trail off, searching for words that won't come.
“Also what?”
I don’t have words for what he is. For the way he makes me feel—seen and frustrated and safe and terrified all at once. For the way my heart races when he’s near, the way my skin tingles where he touches me.
So I stop trying to find them.
I rise on my toes and press my mouth to his.