Page 93 of Saltwater Cowboy

I nodded slowly, still processing. “Does this usually happen?”

Wells let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Nope. Normally, I have to haul half of ‘em back home.” He leaned against my empty table, eyes twinkling. “Guess people liked what you were selling.”

A surprising swell of pride spread through my chest. It wasn’t just that the flowers were pretty—it was the way I had connected with people, the way they trusted me when I talked about them, the way their faces lit up when they found the perfect bouquet. The hours of studying up on flowers had paid off.

“I can’t believe it,” I murmured, running a hand through my hair.

“Well, believe it, Sunshine.” Wells nudged my shoulder with his. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new title—Flower Saleswoman Extraordinaire.”

I snorted, shaking my head.

But the truth was, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.

Capable. Confident. Happy.

I AM NOT WHO I WAS

Ever since the farmers market on Sunday, I’ve been on cloud nine. I didn’t think it was possible to feel so light and free, especially after how weighed down I’d been by all the emotional baggage I’ve been carrying. But those bouquets, the way people’s faces lit up when they bought them, the compliments, and even the simple act of arranging the flowers—I’d never thought I’d find something that could make me feel this good.

It wasn’t just about the flowers themselves, it was about the connection. Something about handling them, choosing the right combinations, knowing how each bloom interacted with the others—it made me feel like I had a purpose. Like I could create something beautiful, something that mattered. Each stem I cut, each arrangement I made, was like putting a piece of myself into something more lasting, something people would take home and cherish. And, unexpectedly, it felt like I was doing more than just working—like I was healing.

But the truth was, I was only healing in small increments. The deeper stuff—the things that had made me who I was before all this—those wounds were still there, buried under layers of distractions, a crumbling sense of trust. My past, the way it had shaped me, wasn’t something I could simply push aside and forget. It clung to me like a shadow, no matter how bright the sunlight was in front of me.

Wells had been nothing but supportive, though I wasn’t sure if he fully understood the emotional weight I’d carried before all of this. Still, he encouraged me to embrace this new passion. He wasn’t the type to throw around praise easily, but every time he complimented me on my work, I couldn’t help but feel a little more confident. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe I was still playing pretend—like at any moment, the mask I’d carefully put on would slip and he would see the real me, the one who still wasn’t sure she could trust herself enough to move forward.

So, every morning since then, I’ve been helping feed the animals, picking produce, pruning plants, and picking flowers to arrange into perfect bunches, making sure each stem had a place. With each day, I was becoming more comfortable with my hands in the dirt.

The rhythm of it, the act of carefully bending and trimming the flowers, felt like it slowed the world down for a moment. It was a type of peace I hadn’t expected to find. It felt so simple, yet so fulfilling.

But every time I felt that rush of peace, a voice—small but insistent—would remind me that this was temporary. That at some point, I’d have to face the fact that I couldn’t outrun the past forever. The emotional damage Thad had caused—it wasn’t something I could just bottle up and ignore. I couldn’t pretend it didn’t affect me. I still wasn’t sure how to fully process it all, and honestly, I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

I’d been talking to Wells about ideas, brainstorming how we could expand, how I could do more. I’d been thinking about it for days, and the idea of offering dried arrangements had been gnawing at me for a while.

“Wells,” I said one morning, adjusting the bouquet in my hands. The warm morning sun filtered through the trees, casting golden rays over the petals. “What if we offered dried arrangements too? You know, for people who want something they can take home and keep longer?”

Wells paused, looking at me over the top of the crate of tomatoes he was sorting. “Dried arrangements?” he repeated, his brows knitting in thought. “How would that work?”

I set down the bouquet I’d been arranging and stepped closer to the worktable, starting to carefully arrange a few dried lavender sprigs with some preserved eucalyptus I had gathered. “Well, I’ve been reading up on it. People love them for their homes, especially for gifts. We could offer them at the farmers market. We could do a whole line of different dried flowers. Think about it—people from out of town would be able to buy something they can take home and last longer than the fresh stuff. Calloway Farms could be part of their home forever.”

Wells didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at me, his eyes scanning the bouquet I was holding, and then he gave a small nod. “You think people would buy that?” he asked, his voice thoughtful, but not dismissive. There was something in his tone that made me feel like he was considering it more seriously than he probably had at first.

I didn’t hesitate. “I know they would. I mean, you already have a solid customer base with the fresh flowers. People come back every week for that. If we offered dried flowers too, we could really expand. There’s no reason it couldn’t work.”

Wells was silent for a moment. I could see him thinking it over. Then, finally, he shrugged, as if deciding the idea wasn’t as crazy as he’d originally thought.

I didn’t let his uncertainty deter me. “Think about it. There are people who come here for the market, who drive for hours just to get a taste of the local scene. We could give them something they can’t get anywhere else. Something that lasts. And we could even sell them online. If we can make a name for your farm here, why not take it further?”

Wells chewed on that, his gaze drifting down to the crate of tomatoes, then back to me. “You’ve got a point,” he said slowly, like the idea was settling in. “People do like the unique stuff. And if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

His approval felt like a small victory. I smiled, feeling the warmth of his encouragement spread through me. “I’ll start working on a few designs and see what I can come up with. I’ve been thinking of starting with small bouquets—something people can buy as a gift or take home. I already have a few ideas.”

Wells gave me a nod, his expression softening. “Do it. I know you’ll make it work. You’ve got a good eye for this stuff.”

A sudden sense of relief washed over me. I’d been holding onto this idea for a while, unsure if it would be enough or if Wells would think it was too much, but now it felt like the first real step toward making something of my own. For the first time in a long time, I was ready to take a leap of faith.

But beneath all that excitement, there was still a quiet tug at my chest. The truth that I couldn’t ignore—the past was always lurking, waiting to sneak its way in. But maybe I was learning how to carve out something good for myself. Maybe I was learning how to take control, to build something that wasn’t defined by the mess Thad left behind.

I’d just have to keep walking, one step at a time. And for the first time in ages, I felt like I could.