Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
DAKOTA
Night presses in on the ranch. Quiet. Cozy.
Crickets chirp from the long grass where the pastures begin. A chaos of tiny bodies locked in one pursuit, finding mates.
They’re proof of this place. That looks can be deceiving.
Fields that stretch into forever, lonely and foreboding, hide endless activity. Not empty—never empty. Not even at night, when what runs wild during the day settles into something watchful beneath a sunless sky.
In the distance, coyotes call. Strange vocalizations. Almost otherworldy.
Lanterns flicker around the main house. Someone’s set up a fire pit just past the fence line, flames licking up into the dark while guests gather with drinks and easy laughter.
It should feel like a vacation. It almost does. Until I spot him.
Levi stands off to the side, just outside the circle of light, one shoulder braced against a fence post like he’s here out of obligation and counting the minutes until he can leave.
He doesn’t belong to this part of the ranch.
He belongs to the spaces in between. The quiet edges. The places where things aren’t put on display.
I take my drink and walk straight toward him. Of course I do.
“You always hide out here?” I ask.
His gaze shifts to me, slow, measuring.
“Not hiding.”
“Lurking, then.”
“That’s worse.”
I smile slightly and lean against the fence beside him, leaving just enough space between us to be polite.
Not enough to ignore.
The firelight flickers across his face, catching in the angles, softening some of the hard lines without taking them away completely.
He looks different like this. Less distant. More… real.
“Didn’t think I’d see you out here,” I say.
“Didn’t plan to be seen.”
“But here you are.”
He shifts uneasily, adjusting the cross of his arms. “Boss asked.”
Something tugs behind my ribs—disappointment.
It makes no sense.
I take a sip of whatever someone handed me earlier. Something sweet. Something strong.
“Do you ever do anything you actually want to do?” I ask.
His mouth shifts, almost like he’s considering it. “Sometimes.”
“And this isn’t one of those times?”
His eyes flick toward the fire, then back to me. “I didn’t say that.”
There it is again. That careful way he answers. Like every word gets checked before it leaves him.
“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?” I ask.
“Work.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I turn toward him fully now, studying him the way I probably shouldn’t. “You ever take a break?”
“From what?”
“Everything.”
He exhales, slowly. “That’s not how this works.”
“For who?”
“For people who don’t have the luxury of walking away.”
Something in his voice shifts when he says it. Not louder. Just… heavier.
I don’t push right away.
The fire crackles behind us. Someone laughs too loudly. Music drifts through the air, low and steady.
The kind of night people remember. The kind he’s standing outside of.
“You know,” I say after a moment, “you’re allowed to enjoy things.”
“That so?”
“Pretty sure.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. “And you’d know?”
“Better than you think.”
That earns me a longer pause. Curiosity lodges in his rugged features and something else. Like he hasn’t made up his mind about something.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Tell me.”
I don’t expect that, choking on my next swallow. “Tell you what?”
“What you’re running from.”
The question lands clean. No edge or judgment to it. Just direct… like everything about this man.
I let out a small breath, looking back toward the fire. “I’m not running,” I say.
“Everyone’s running from something.”
“You included?”
His jaw tightens just slightly. “That’s not the question.”
I turn back to him. “No,” I say. “It’s just the one you don’t want to answer.”
Silence settles again. But this time, it’s different. Closer. The space between us feels smaller without either of us moving.
“I came here because I needed a reset,” I say after a moment. “Everything in my life started feeling… off. Like I was showing up for things I didn’t even care about anymore.”
He watches me without interrupting.
“Engagement to a man who proved a total stranger. Life I never asked for. Job that took from the world instead of helping it. I looked in the mirror one day and no longer recognized the woman staring back, so I left,” I say.
“Figured I’d go somewhere real for a while.
Somewhere I could actually feel something again. ”
“And you found that here?”
“I think so.”
His gaze holds mine.
“Or maybe,” I add quietly, “I’m still figuring it out.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softens almost imperceptibly, as if he’s less closed-off now.
“Places don’t fix that,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “People don’t either.”
His Adam’s apple works, but he stares past me, mouth never moving. “Then what does?”
I hold his gaze. “Choosing differently.”
He looks away first. That feels like something.
The fire pops behind us, sparks drifting into the night.
“Careful,” he says after a moment.
“With what?”
“Thinking things change that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was easy.”
He glances back at me. “Then what are you saying?”
I tilt my head slightly. “That you already know how to do it.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. Gone almost as soon as it appears. “You don’t know me,” he says.
“Not completely.”
“Not at all.”
“Then why does it feel like I do?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
But I don’t take it back. His body goes still, aware now. “Dakota,” he says, quieter.
My name sounds different when he says it. Like it means something.
“Yeah?”
“You should go back to the house.”
There it is again. The line he draws.
I don’t move. “Why?” I ask.
His gaze drops, just for a second—to my mouth. Then back up.
That’s all it takes. The air shifts. Thicker. Charged.
“I told you about me. Now tell me about you.”
He shakes his head.
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t a good idea,” he says.
“Standing next to you?”
“Yes.”
I smile, softer this time. “That’s a little dramatic.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
He exhales, rougher now. Like he’s losing his grip on something. “I don’t do this,” he says.
“Do what?”
“This.” His hand lifts slightly, then drops again. “Whatever this is.”
I take a small step closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him even without touching. “Maybe you should,” I say.
His gaze locks on mine. “Foster kid. That’s my tale of woe. Treated like shit long as I can remember. A rescue like the horses I work with…”
Silence settles heavy.
“Only no one took the time to rescue you, did they?” I finish.
Something simmers behind his eyes. My words have hit too close.
There’s a moment—sharp, suspended—where everything narrows.
The fire. The voices. The music.
Gone.
It’s just him. Just this.
He leans in. Barely. “Some things aren’t worth rescuing.”
But his eyes simmer in the twilight, dropping to my mouth. He doesn’t believe his own lie.
I freeze, anticipation shuttling through me like tiny sparks of electricity.
Then, he stops himself. He closes his eyes for half a second like he’s physically pulling something back into place. When he opens them again, it’s different—controlled, shut down.
“Enjoy yourself, Dakota. Don’t stand here with an old grump like me.”
This time, it’s not a suggestion. It’s the last thing he’s got.
I hold his gaze a second longer. Then I nod. “Maybe I like grumps, though old? Not quite how I’d describe you.”
The last part earns his curiosity. “Describe me,” he growls like I’ve said something wrong.
“Guarded. Quiet… looking for something you can’t name.” I step back. The distance hits immediately. Cooler. Emptier.
His eyes narrow, deep indigo catching the reflection of firelight. But he doesn’t say another word. And his face doesn’t betray anything—not interest, not want, nothing but a vague curiosity he works to conceal.
I turn toward the fire, the noise, the place he refuses to step into.
But I feel it. The pull between us. Stronger now. Clearer, too.
And when I glance back once more, just before I disappear into the light, he’s still watching me.
As if letting me walk away costs him something.