The second wasn’t being used as a bedroom. Storage, maybe. Old shelves, a chair pushed to the wall, the faint outline of where boxes had sat for a long time.
The third door stuck slightly before it opened.
Cold air spilled out, stale and unmoving, as if the room hadn’t been disturbed in months. The bed was made but not neatly, sheets rumpled as if someone had climbed out and never come back. A thin film of dust dulled every surface.
I stood there, somehow knowing this had been my grandfather’s room.
A heavy dresser stood against one wall, its top holding a watch, a pair of reading glasses, and a stack of ranching magazines. Clothes hung untouched in the wide closet, sensible and dated. On the bedside table sat a book facedown, the spine cracked.
It looked like a life paused, not ended.
I waited for grief, but I hadn’t known Walter Barrett. All I had were my father’s stories, every one of them edged with bitterness, years of resentment dripping into me until the name Walter Barrett felt heavy and wrong. I’d learned to benumb about him by default because it wasn’t as if he’d come and found me and saved me. I can’t let anger slip into a sense of loss.
“You didn’t fucking care, old man,” I snapped, then slammed the door closed, breath catching in my chest.
No one had fucking cared.
Chapter 6
Jesse
I’d woken up swinging.
Not literally, but close enough that my heart was already pounding before my eyes were fully open. Confusion hit first. Then, the sharp jolt of Lucas being in my space when he had no business being there.
Fuck.
I dragged a hand down my face, grit catching under my fingers. There was still dirt there. I hadn’t bothered scrubbing it all off when I’d finally crashed, and it showed. I felt it immediately, the embarrassment flaring hot and ugly in my gut. This wasn’t how I wanted to be seen. Half naked, half asleep, and laid out like I’d given up.
I’d barely slept for two hours.
Miguel had called me out just after three, voice tight and apologetic even as he told me the good news. Two cows dropping. Not one. Two. Healthy calves, both of them. It was good for the ranch, damn good for the bottom line, especially after the winter we were having.
It was also hell on sleep, and by the time I got back to the house, my bones felt packed with sand.
Lucas had no right to ask me why I’d made my bedroom in the family room.
I’d been sleeping on the sofa since the place became mine, hadn’t wanted Walter’s room that still smelled of old soap and cold air, untouched and waiting like some kind of shrine. I didn’t want to sleep in his space. I didn’t want the weight of it pressing down on me in the dark, and I didn’t want either of the spare rooms, which were empty of everything but iron bed frames or boxes. I still didn’t feel as if any of this was mine, and the family room was easier and neutral.
Last night, I’d dropped onto the old, comfortable sofa, dragged my quilt over myself, and let exhaustion win.
And then, I’d woken to a stranger pulling back the curtains as if he owned the place.
My space. The only part of the house that I felt as if I could breathe in.
And there he was, coffee dripping down his chest, pink sweatshirt, wide eyes.
Lucas Barrett.
I grabbed my clean clothes and headed up to the bathroom before I could think too hard about any of it.
The door swung open, and I stopped short.
Citrus.
The whole room smelled like it, sharp and clean and very muchnotmine. The mirror was still fogged at the edges, the air damp with recent heat. A towel hung neatly on the rail, not one of mine, folded with careinstead of flung there and forgotten. The shelf above the sink was lined with bottles and jars, more than I’d ever owned in my life. Fancy lotions. Potions. Labels promising control and balance and things I’d never once considered needing.
Lucas had been in here. Had made himself at home. Hence his damp curls.
