Page 25 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“I don’t think I’ll need much longer.”

“Good.” I tilt her face up to mine and kiss her slowly and thoroughly. “Because I’ve been waiting for you since the meadow. And now that I have you, I’m not letting go.”

The possessiveness settles something in her. Her body relaxes against mine. Her breathing evens out, and a small smile curves her mouth.

“This,” she whispers against my ribs. “Whatever this is. I’m not running from it anymore.”

“Good,” I breathe into her hair. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not when I’ve finally got you exactly where you belong.”

We stay there until the afternoon sun angles toward evening, skin to skin. I hold her the way I’ve been aching to since that first night in my cabin. She’s mine now. She’s chosen this, chosen me, and I’m keeping her.

Later, I’ll make good on my promise. Later, I’ll take her the way I’ve been craving since I found her in that meadow.

But for now, this is enough. Holding her. Loving her. Showing her that she’s exactly what I need without having to prove it through service or sacrifice.

She’s enough just as she is. And before I’m done with her, she’s going to believe that, too.

Chapter nine

Jessie

The egg basket weighs nothing in my grip, but my shoulders carry stones.

Three weeks at Granitehart Ranch. Twenty-one mornings of Eli appearing at my cabin door before dawn with coffee made exactly how I take it. This morning I beat him to the coop. Slipped out while darkness still pressed against the windows, boots laced in silence, because seeing him would mean explaining why I haven’t slept. Why my phone sits on the dresser with Dr. Meekins’ voicemail playing on repeat inside my skull even though I deleted it. Why I woke reaching across cold sheets toward a warmth that wasn’t there, and my arm came back empty.

The offer: nurse manager. Day shifts only. Full benefits. Everything I worked my ass off to earn, handed back like my walking out never happened. Like the nineteen-year-old’s ribs collapsing under my palms was just a bad day instead of the shattering.

You’re too good to waste on chickens, sweetie.

The words loop. Chickens. Eggs. A ranch in the middle of nowhere Texas while my entire career waits in Ohio, ready to pretend I’m intact if I just come back and accept the promotion.

I set the basket on the workbench outside the coop and press both palms flat against the weathered wood. The grain is splintered, rough enough to catch my skin if I’m not careful. Ruckus crows from inside in his usual morning declaration of territorial dominance. The sound scrapes against my already-frayed nerves. I should go inside, should collect the eggs before the temperature climbs, should do the job I’m here to do instead of standing here trying to force air past the vise clamping around my ribs.

“You’re early.”

Eli’s voice cuts through the dawn quiet. I don’t turn around. I can’t because looking at him will crack me open, and I lack the energy to reassemble the pieces today.

“Couldn’t sleep.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

His boots crunch on the gravel, moving closer. I track his approach through sound alone, the unique rhythm of his stride, how he moves through space with the confidence of someone who belongs exactly where he is. He stops a few feet behind me, close enough that his body radiates heat into the cool morning air. The absence of contact rings louder than any embrace.

“Jessie.” My name is wrapped in concern, almost a question. “Look at me.”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes locked on the workbench, the basket, on anything except the man who’s been unraveling all the defenses I’ve spent my adult life building. My nails dig crescents into my palms. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You’re hurting.” It’s direct, stripping away pretense the way he always does. “What happened?”

The question sits between us. I could deflect, could manufacture some excuse about bad dreams or the climbing temperature or anything except the truth currently eating me alive from the inside out. I owe him honesty even when it costs me everything.

“I can’t stop thinking about the voicemail.” My fingers curl against the workbench, nails digging into the wood. “The nurse manager position. Everything I—” The words tangle in my windpipe. “I know you know this, but I need to say it out loud again. It’s everything I’ve spent my career working toward.”

Silence expands to fill every available space, pressing against my lungs until exhaling becomes work. Then his hand settles between my shoulder blades, palm spanning the width of my back through my T-shirt, fingers splayed wide, anchor without cage. The contact sends relief flooding through my nervous system even as my mind screams that I don’t deserve this comfort.

“Did you call back?”

“No.” My voice fractures. “And I’ve spent way too many hours staring at my ceiling trying to figure out what it means to be the kind of person who just walks out. Being a nurse is a calling like being a teacher or an artist. It’s not like other jobs where you just go get another one.”

His palm presses firmer against my spine. The steadiness of that contact makes my eyes burn. “You’re not broken for wanting to heal somewhere safe.”