Page 62

HARRISON

It’s been four months since Grace came back.

Four months since the air around this place started tasting sweeter.

You wouldn’t think a woman could change so much without shouting, stomping, or rearranging every piece of furniture in sight, but she did.

Some women arrive like storms. Grace… she eased in, quiet and steady, and now there ain’t a single room on this ranch untouched by her.

The house smells different: warm, like vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh bread, and fragrant, like lavender and rose.

She bakes now because it helps her think, and no one complains about the surplus of cookies or the pies that show up like clockwork on Sunday evenings.

Even Levi, who claims he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, always finds an excuse to hover near the oven when Grace’s got her apron on.

Brody keeps patting his stomach like he’s worried about putting on weight.

The garden has become her pride and joy.

What used to be a patch of stubborn, scorched earth now bursts with tomatoes and zucchini, little herbs in mismatched pots, and even wild strawberries that she guards like they’re made of gold.

I’ve seen her out there at sunrise, hair tied up, hands in the soil, smiling like the world is waiting to open up for her.

Conway bought her a horse, a pretty, chestnut mare with the same elegance as Grace.

She’s called it Hope, and learned to ride confidently now, following us around the ranch, surveying her kingdom.

Her quiet confidence has inspired Eli. She’s a different kid now, ever since Grace coaxed her up on that horse and convinced her she could ride alone.

She grinned so wide when she took the reins for the first time that Dylan cried. The big softy.

She taught Corbin to French braid, and he helps the girls look neat and pretty every day. Grace even made a reading corner in the den for special story time with the kids. It’s become a favorite place for them all.

She’s built herself a rhythm here. Morning coffee on the porch, chores with the rest of us, her garden, the kitchen, an hour or two with the kids, and then, every afternoon like clockwork, she disappears into that little writing nook tucked behind the barn.

The sign out front says Grace’s Writing Nook—Bestseller in Progress , hand-painted by McCartney in his signature messy scrawl. She laughed when he hung it, but she didn’t take it down. That place is sacred now. No one knocks. No one dares peek inside.

Until today.

Today, she asked me to come read a few chapters of her work-in-progress. Said she’s nervous, which is wild because she’s one of the bravest people I know. But I get it. Sharing a piece of yourself like that is no small thing.

So here I am, walking toward her little cabin, heart knocking around in my chest like I’m about to saddle break a new colt, and through the dusty window, I catch sight of her with legs tucked under and glasses perched on her nose, typing away like her life depends on it.

She looks up when I open the door, biting her bottom lip like she’s about to offer me bad news instead of the thing she’s poured her whole heart into. There’s a printed stack of pages on the desk, neatly clipped together, and beside it, a second mug of coffee. She’s thought this through.

“Hey,” she says, a little breathless, tucking a wave behind her ear. “No backing out now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I shut the door behind me and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She smells like honey and printer ink, like warm paper and nerves. “You sure about this?”

She nods, but it’s not confident. “Don’t be too nice, okay? I need honesty. But also... not soul-crushing honesty.”

I grin, sinking into the worn leather chair across from her. “I’ll try to strike a balance.”

She passes me the pages, fingers brushing mine. “It’s the first three chapters. It’s rough.”

“I like rough,” I say, arching a brow and flipping to the first page. “Grit is where the heart is.”

She snorts. “God, you’re such a cowboy.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

I start to read, and the world narrows to the black ink on white paper and her words, her rhythm, and her voice.

The land she’s describing might as well be ours: hot skies, red dirt, horses with more personality than half the town, and a man who keeps too much inside because he doesn’t know what to do with the soft parts of his heart.

The female main character is sharp but hopeful and so deeply unsure of herself that I want to step onto the page and tell her she’s already enough.

I’m halfway through chapter two when I come across a line that floors me.

He didn’t know how to speak her language, but he wanted to. He wanted to tell her all the secrets of his heart and discover the sweet and sacred murmurings of hers, and maybe it’d be enough to make her realize she’d be better off with him than alone.

I blink once. Twice. Then I read it again, this time aloud.

Grace is quiet across from me. When I look up, her eyes are shining, glassy, and wide.

“Damn, Grace,” I say, my voice rough with something I wasn’t expecting. “That’s… that’s real.”

She swipes under her eye, catching a tear before it can fall. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She laughs wetly, then presses her palms against her cheeks like she’s trying to hide from the emotion flooding her face. “God, I never would’ve written any of this if I hadn’t come back. If I hadn’t had you—all of you—reminding me I wasn’t crazy for wanting more.”

“You’re not crazy, Grace. You’re honest. You’ve got a voice, and hell, you’ve got something to say.”

She exhales a shaky breath. “That glass office never made me feel like I was worth listening to. You all... You made me believe my voice was more than cheap headlines and background noise.”

I reach across the desk and take her hand. “What you’ve written here? It’s the start of a story that will reach off the page and into people’s chests.”

She squeezes my fingers, and for a moment, the world goes still around the two of us, tethered together by love and hope and all her dreams. This woman in front of me is an expansion from who she was when she arrived all those months ago.

Then comes a knock at the door.

“Y’all reading smut in there without me?” Levi’s voice, too loud and too gleeful, cuts through the air like a splash of cold water.

Grace bursts out laughing, a tear escaping down her cheek even as she snorts. “Get in line, cowboy.”

“You’re gonna have to read it out loud if you want feedback,” he says through the door. “I got a whole section in my brain for emotionally repressed saddle bros and their independent but secretly vulnerable love interests.”

I look back at Grace, who’s trying and failing to pull herself together. She wipes her face and laughs again, a full, belly-deep sound this time. And I swear, there’s no better music than that.

Levi’s footsteps fade, and the silence settles again like dust in a sunbeam.

Grace exhales slowly, her shoulders easing, fingers returning to the keyboard with a kind of quiet certainty.

I sit with her, watching the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way she bites her lip before she types a sentence she must love.

She’s on fire.

I step behind her and wrap my arms gently around her waist, careful not to disturb her rhythm. My mouth finds the soft skin of her temple, and I press a kiss there, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re building something in here, Grace,” I murmur. “Don’t stop. You were made for this.”

Her hands still for a beat, and then she leans back into me.

“Thanks, Harrison,” she whispers. “For seeing it. For seeing me. For your encouragement and support.”

“People think I don’t feel because I don’t talk about my emotions or demonstrate with affection like some men in my family. Truth is, I’ve been cataloging every way I could love you from the moment we met, and if I can help you become who you want to be, then that’s a gift.”

She smiles, but with tears in her eyes.

“And when you’re ready, I can proofread your book so you can get it out into the world.”

“That would be awesome.” She sniffs. “I see you, Harrison, and I love you.”

I’ll never tire of hearing those words. “I love you, too, Gracie.”

I give her one more squeeze, then let go before I overstay my welcome in her magic space. She turns back to the screen, already typing again, the soft tap of keys filling the little cabin like the beginning of a song.

I head out, quiet as I came, letting the door click shut behind me .

Outside, the sky is streaked with pink and gold. The day’s slipping into evening, and the smell of dinner curls through the air, beckoning me. But I turn back, just once.

Through the window of the writing nook, I watch her.

Backlit by amber light, her silhouette is both sharp and soft at once, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, her lips curved in the smallest, most contented smile. She isn’t only writing a book.

She’s writing her future.

And somehow, it feels like she’s already written the stars in ours.