The absurdity hits me all at once. “Well, that makes it simple,” I mutter.
James’s low chuckle fills the space, deep and unhurried. “Guess it’s settled then.”
I glance at him, trying to read the lines of his face. There’s no mockery there, no smirk, just quiet certainty. Like he’s already decided to carry the weight of this choice without making me feel small for needing help.
And somehow, that scares me more than anything.
♥♥♥
The drive up the long dirt lane feels like slipping back through time. Snow whirls in the headlights, soft as ash, and the ranch rises out of the darkness just as I remember it—wide porch, trimmed windows glowing warm against the night. Not neglected, not broken. Alive.
My chest tightens. I half expected boarded shutters and overgrown fields. Instead, everything looks… kept. The fences mended, the barn roof new. Someone loved this place enough to keep it breathing.
James pulls in behind me, headlights washing over the porch before he cuts the engine. I step out into air that smells of cedar smoke and snow.
He joins me at the steps, keys in hand. “Place’s been waiting on you,” he says simply.
The keys jingle when he drops them into my palm—five in all, heavy and cold.
“One for the gate, one for the barn, one for the shed, one for the truck out back,” he says. Then he nods at the last key. “And that one’s for your grandfather’s office. I never touched his desk. Figured it should stay that way.”
I look up at him, and for the first time since landing in Colorado, I can’t find anything to say. The porch light catches on the line of his jaw, on the faint breath that clouds the air between us.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice soft. “For keeping it like this.”
He shrugs, the motion quiet but sure. “Didn’t seem right to let it go to ruin.”
I fit the key into the door, the old lock turning with a familiar click. Warm air spills out, tinged with wood polish andcoffee—the same scent I remember from childhood mornings here. My throat tightens.
James pauses beside me, hand braced on the porch post. “You should check the pipes before morning. Cold snap’s coming.”
“Right,” I say, still taking it all in—the glow from the kitchen, the echo of boots on wood floors, the ghost of my grandfather’s laugh in the walls.
Then I turn to him. “Where do you live?”
His gaze flicks past me, toward the ridge line visible through the dark. “Cabin up on the north line,” he says. “Close enough to keep an eye on things.”
The words are plain, practical. But the way he says them in his low cowboy timbre sends something twisting through me.Things.Meaning the ranch. Maybe me. I can’t tell.
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t.
He tips his hat slightly. “You’ll be all right here?”
“I think so.”
He hesitates, glancing toward my bag. “You got a phone that works out here?”
“I should,” I say. “Cell service might be spotty.”
He nods once, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. “Then let’s trade numbers. Easier if you need something—or if I need to let you know about weather or stock.”
His fingers move over the screen slowly. When my phone buzzes, I glance down and see his name pop up: James Callahan. No emojis, no fuss. Just plain and sure, like the man himself.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Now,” he say, tucking his phone away, “if anything feels off, lights, noise—just holler. I’ll be here fast”
“Of course you will. Thanks.”
