Page 9 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His thumb presses harder, just for a second, the pressure bordering on possessive. “I’m going to anyway.”

The air between us thickens. His hands are still on me, his body close enough that I can smell his clean sweat and see the way his pupils have dilated. Close enough that if I leaned forward, I could press my mouth to his and taste yesterday’s rain. My body wants to close the distance. Wants to pull him closer and find out what happens when we don’t pull back.

But he’s already standing, releasing my knees, stepping away. Where his hand was, cold rushes in despite the Texas heat.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you to Bluebonnet. The water should’ve receded by now.”

Bluebonnet Cabin sits in a low section of the property, tucked between cedar trees and connected to the main lodge by a stone pathway that winds through native grasses and limestone outcroppings. The floodwater has receded, leaving behind mud and scattered debris, but the structure itself looks intact. Eli checks the door, unlocked and dry inside, and nods.

“You’re clear. I’ll have someone bring your bag over from my place.”

“Thank you.” I hesitate in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “For this morning. For last night. For—”

“Stop thanking me.” But the way he says it is softer now, almost gentle, like he’s trying to teach me a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. “Get settled. I’ll see you at lunch.”

He turns to leave, and I watch him go, his shoulders broad, stride confident, and boots leaving prints in the damp earth. Halfway down the path, he stops and looks back over his shoulder.

“Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

“You did good with Ruckus. Most people freeze. You tried to protect yourself.” He holds my gaze for three seconds. “That’s progress.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing around the bend in the path, and I’m alone on the porch of a cabin I didn’t know existed twenty-four hours ago.

I step inside. The space is small but comfortable: a queen bed with a patchwork quilt, wooden dresser, and window overlooking the meadow beyond. It’s clean and simple and more than I deserve. I sink onto the edge of the bed, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Dr. Meekins again. Not answering is weighing on me as much as whatever it would mean if I did answer.

I silence it without reading the message and set the phone face-down on the nightstand. Turning, I notice the Mason jar on the porch railing, visible through the window. Fresh-cut wildflowers, bluebonnets, and Indian paintbrush, the same ones from the meadow, arranged in water that catches the light.

I walk to the door and pick up the jar. The glass is cool against my palms, beaded with condensation. The flowers are still damp at the stems, recently cut, and I know without asking that Eli put them here. That he walked to the meadow this morning while I was staring at ceiling beams and picked flowers for a woman he barely knows. Not because I needed them. Not because they served a purpose. Just because they’re beautiful and he thought I should have beautiful things.

My vision blurs. I blink hard and carry the jar inside, setting it on the dresser where morning light can filter through the petals and cast a reflection on the walls. The stems are slightly uneven, cut with a knife instead of scissors. There’s something about that detail, the rough edges, the imperfect arrangement, the evidence of his hands, that makes my chest constrict with something I can’t name.

When was the last time someone gave me something just because they wanted to? When was the last time I received beauty without calculating what I owed in return?

My phone buzzes again. I watch it vibrate against the wood, Dr. Meekins’ name flashing across the screen. For the first time, the guilt doesn’t rise up to choke me. The hospital feels like something that happened to someone else. That version of Jessie, the one who gave until she shattered, who measured her worth in how much she could endure, is multiple states and a wildflower meadow away.

The phone stops buzzing. I owe her a text, at the least, and send something quick about the job at the ranch, the breaking point I think I reached. I’m sorry. Because of course I’m sorry.

Silence settles, broken only by birdsong through the open window and the distant sound of horses in the pasture beyond the tree line. I should unpack. Should figure out what comes next. Should make a plan because that’s what I do. I solve problems, I manage crises, I keep moving until there’s nothing left to give.

Instead I lie down on the quilt and close my eyes and let myself exist without producing anything at all.

For the first time in fifteen years, stillness doesn’t feel like failure.

It feels like permission I didn’t know I was allowed to take.

Chapter four

Eli

The push broom hits Ruckus square in the chest.

I stand between the rooster and Jessie with the broom extended like a barrier. For three seconds, the rooster considers his options. His wings are half-raised, spurs glinting in the early morning sun, that yellow eye fixed on me with calculated murder. Then he backs down and struts away, clucking threats, dignity intact.