Page 44 of Saltwater Cowboy

I watched as the sun dipped below the clouds, setting the sky ablaze with hues of pink and orange. Nights like this always made me pause, made me feel like maybe—just maybe—my mom was out there somewhere, painting the horizon as her way of saying hello.

But as much as I loved the beauty of it, the sight always carried a sharp edge. A reminder of what was missing. She should be here, tending to the fields, making the farm thrive the way only she could. This was supposed to be hers. Instead, it was mine. And some days, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be enough to fill the space she left behind.

I ran a hand over my face, leaning back in the chair as the last sliver of sun disappeared beyond the trees. No matter how many years passed, the weight of it never lessened—the responsibility, the legacy, the love woven into every inch of this land. My parents built this place with their bare hands, poured their whole hearts into it, and when it became mine, I vowed to do the same.

And I had.

Through early mornings and late nights, through storms that threatened to undo it all, through seasons of doubt and exhaustion, I gave everything I had to this farm. Because if I let it fall apart, it would feel like losing them all over again.

That was not going to happen.

I shook off the wallowing, wiped my hands on my jeans, and pushed myself up from the chair. No use sitting out here drowning in thoughts I couldn’t change.

Tomorrow would bring a new battle and I was nowhere near ready. But ready or not, the sun would rise, the farm would call, and I’d show up.

I took a quick shower, scrubbing away the dirt and grime of the day before collapsing onto the bed. Exhaustion weighed heavy in my bones, but sleep remained just out of reach. I stared at the ceiling, willing it to come, but like most nights, it never did.

With a sigh, I flicked on the television, letting the familiar hum of a cooking show fill the quiet. When I was a kid, I used to fall asleep on my mom’s lap watching these same shows, her fingers running through my hair as the soft voices of chefs filled the room. Back then, it felt safe. Comfortable. Now, it was just something to chase away the silence.

Granger let out a content sigh beside me, his warm body curled up against mine. My trusty sidekick. My only real companion. I reached over, scratching behind his ears as the host on the screen whisked something in a bowl, talking about patience.

Patience.

I huffed out a laugh. If there was one thing I was running out of, it was that.

WHO’S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?

I don’t know if it was the sheer exhaustion from yesterday or some kind of miracle, but I’d had the best night of sleep in ages. The kind that left me feeling brand new, like I could take on the whole world and still have energy to spare before lunchtime.

By the time I made it downstairs, I was ready before Charlie and Blythe, which never happened. Usually, they were the early risers, already buzzing around with coffee in hand while I dragged myself into the day. But not today. Today, I was ahead of the game. A rare win for me.

Even the torrential downpour outside couldn’t dampen my spirits. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rumbled low in the distance, but inside, I felt nothing but light. Today was going to be a good day, I could feel it.

Blythe and I drove over to the Coastal Cup while Charlie took Wren to school, the steady rhythm of the rain tapping against the windshield. The streets were slick, the sky a heavy shade of gray, the kind of morning that made people want to stay curled up inside with a good book and a hot drink.

“I think it’s going to be slow today,” Blythe said, glancing out at the nearly empty sidewalks. “Tourist season is winding down, and this weather will keep people indoors.”

“I’m okay with quiet,” I admitted, stretching my arms. “Yesterday was absolute madness. A slow day sounds like a blessing.”

She hummed in agreement as we pulled into the small lot. The cozy glow of the café lights spilled through the windows, promising warmth against the gloomy morning. Maybe it would be a slow day, but sometimes, those were the best ones.

The first two hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. I spent most of it curled up on a stool behind the counter with my book, only setting it down when the occasional customer wandered in, ordering a coffee to escape the rain. The hum of the espresso machine and the patter of water against the windows was peaceful in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

I had no idea how much time had passed because I was completely absorbed in my book. Lately, romance had taken a backseat in my reading lineup. With everything that had happened, happily-ever-afters felt more exhausting than comforting. I was deep in my thriller era now—messy breakups, betrayals, and the occasional murder were more my speed. At least in fiction, heartbreak came with a plot twist.

The café door chimed, but I didn’t look up, turning another page.

“So you’re the bright and shining face the Wippowa folk are talking about.”

My blood ran cold.

I didn’t have to lift my eyes to know who that voice belonged to. I knew it too well. Knew the way it could crawl under my skin, the way it could unearth things I’d rather leave buried.

“What are you doing here?” I didn’t look up right away, my voice sharp as I braced myself for whatever Wells had come to stir up this time.

He laughed, that same cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “What? A man can’t support his best friend’s thriving business?”

“Save it. What do you want?” I shot back, finally lifting my gaze to meet his. Wells stood there, dressed in what I could only describe as his uniform—a t-shirt, cowboy boots, and a baseball cap, as if he couldn’t have looked more out of place in a coffee shop if he tried.