Page 29 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)
Seventeen
Lily
F ord’s truck ate up the miles between Main Street and Chickadee Ranch, the big tires making a low, reassuring hum on the county road.
Noah was in the back, still sticky with cookie crumbs and narrating every landmark out the window as though we were on a cross-country road trip instead of ten minutes from town.
“Look! Horses!” he shrieked, nose mashed against the glass. “And cows! And another horse!”
“Kid’s got a future in animal census,” Ford said, glancing in the rearview with a lopsided grin. His voice was lighter than it had been in the parking lot, like just having Noah and me in the cab was enough to burn off a layer of whatever weight he’d been carrying.
I let my head rest against the window, letting the landscape flick past in stripes of gold stubble, sage, and the first hints of purple where the mountains caught the last sun.
It was one of those perfect, brittle late-autumn evenings—cloudless and cold, the world caught between exhale and frost. I’d grown up here, but for the first time in forever, the drive didn’t feel like a march toward doom.
“Is that your ranch?” Noah pointed as we topped a low rise and a swath of battered fencing unspooled beside the road.
The sign—weathered, hand-painted, slightly canted—read: Chickadee Ranch.
I hadn’t seen it in years, but the font was instantly familiar.
My dad used to joke that the old man who lettered it was half-blind and all drunk.
Ford turned in and the tires crunched over gravel, slow and careful. He didn’t say anything, but the tension that came off him was almost visible. I wondered if he was nervous about what we’d think, or just about seeing it through someone else’s eyes.
The house came into view—big, two-story, probably built in the fifties or sixties with a wraparound porch and faded blue siding.
I remembered it from when I was a kid, driving past it, looking for signs of life, convinced it was haunted.
It looked better now. Still battered, but lived-in, with the faintest smell of smoke in the air from somewhere out back.
Ford parked near the porch and came around to open my door, which was completely unnecessary but also kind of nice. Noah tumbled out of the back seat, immediately making a beeline for a patch of muddy grass and almost wiping out.
“Careful, bug,” I called, but he was already off, shrieking at the sky.
Ford held out his hand, hesitant. “You ready for the grand tour?”
I took it, surprising both of us. He clasped his fingers around mine and squeezed twice.
We went up the steps to the porch, which had been patched with new boards in a few places. Ford unlocked the front door, then stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish.
The entryway was big and mostly empty, save for a battered old boot bench and a pile of Amazon boxes stacked like bricks.
To the left, the living room. The floor was a patchwork—some original wood, some new planks with that not-quite-matching color, and one corner that was just raw plywood.
There were roller trays and drop cloths everywhere, and the walls were half-finished, one side a bold white, the other still a sad yellow.
Ford looked around, face sheepish. “It’s . . . still a work in progress.”
I turned slow, taking in every detail—the crooked crown molding, the way the new hardwood didn’t quite line up with the old, the subtle scent of fresh paint over a deeper undercurrent of dust and something sweet, almost like cinnamon.
I stepped onto the new boards, bare feet enjoying the glossy smoothness. “I love it,” I said, and meant it.
He looked surprised. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not. I like seeing a place mid-transformation. It’s more honest. And you have great bones.” I realized what I’d said, and almost choked. “The house, I mean. Not—you know what I mean.”
He grinned, slow and genuine. “Well, I do try.”
Noah’s footsteps pounded behind us. “Can I see the backyard?”
“In a minute, bud,” Ford called, then turned to me. “Want something to drink?”
I nodded. “Yeah, actually.”
He led us down a hallway where the new hardwood continued, meeting a battered linoleum that belonged in a crime scene. The kitchen was vast, almost too big, with a wall of windows facing west and a butcher-block island stacked with tools, mail, and a half-assembled espresso machine.
Ford rummaged through the fridge, then popped up with a bottle of Pinot Noir in one hand and a juice box in the other.
I stared at the juice box, then him, then the juice box again. “You bought those for Noah.”
He went red, but didn’t deny it. “Figured he’d be thirsty after all the—” He gestured at the blur of toddler still rampaging up and down the hallway.
“That’s really sweet,” I said. And it was. It might have been a little thing, but it was real. He made space for us, for my son, in his fridge. He thought of us. I didn’t quite know what to do with that information except swoon a little.
He poured me a glass of wine, then handed Noah the juice box, already poked through with the straw. “You want to see something cool?” Ford asked, and Noah nodded like his head was on a hinge.
Ford led us through a set of French doors at the back of the kitchen.
I expected a deck or maybe a mudroom, but instead we stepped out onto a sprawling patio made of irregular flagstone and old brick.
The air was sharp, the scent of juniper and cut grass everywhere.
Beyond the patio, the yard opened up in a gentle slope that ran forever, broken only by the edge of the pasture, the barn, and the horizon itself.
Sunset painted everything gold and pink, the last light catching on the tall grasses and sending streaks of color across the patio.
Noah let out a squeal and broke into a run, arms outstretched. “So much SPACE!”
Ford and I followed at a slower pace, the wine warm in my hand, his elbow just barely brushing mine. For the first time since I left my old life, I felt completely unafraid.
He watched Noah for a minute, then turned to me. “I know it’s a mess. I just— I wanted to fix it up. I want it to be somewhere people want to come to.” He paused. “I want it to be home. Eventually.”
I watched Noah race in wide, looping circles, nothing but sky and grass and freedom. I looked at the lines of Ford’s face, at the way the light caught on his stubble, at the scars on his knuckles and the calluses on his palms.
“It already feels like home,” I said, voice small but certain.
Ford’s eyes flicked down, then back up, and in them I saw something gentle, unguarded. Like he wanted to believe it, too.
We stood there for a long moment, watching the world turn pink and then blue, the silence soft and full of possibility.
The yard directly behind the house was easily the size of a football field, and within ten seconds Noah had covered half of it, his little legs pumping, sneakers flapping.
He whooped at every weed, every bug, every uneven patch of dirt.
It was pure, undiluted freedom, and I couldn’t stop grinning at the sight.
I followed him, careful not to spill my wine, while Ford lagged behind with his hands in his pockets.
The sky was turning that deep, luminous blue that only happened right before true night, and the air was so clear it felt like a dare.
I closed my eyes and let the breeze lift my hair, filling my lungs with the sharp, grassy cold.
Noah made a sharp turn, skidded to a stop, and pointed with both hands at the fence line. “LOOK, Mama! HORSE!”
And there she was—a palomino, gold as a movie star, mane shining even in the dim light. She stood at the far end of the pasture, head up, ears forward, watching us with mild interest.
Noah vibrated with excitement. “Can I go say hi? Pleasepleaseplease?”
I laughed. “I think you have to ask Ford, bud. It’s his horse.”
Ford joined us at the fence, his posture changing as he neared the animal, shoulders relaxing, voice gentling. “That’s Pebbles,” he said. “Bought her from Gray the day after the dinner. She’s already the princess around here.”
Noah stuck his head through the fence posts. “PEBBLES!” he shouted.
The horse flicked her ears, then ambled over in that slow, unhurried way that only animals with nothing to prove ever mastered. She was gorgeous, even up close—white blaze, a little pink nose, tail that looked like spun silk. I understood instantly why Ford had chosen her.
Noah looked up at me, pleading. “Can I pet her? Will she bite me?”
Ford shook his head. “Pebbles is a sweetheart. Just go slow, let her come to you.”
He reached behind the fence post and pulled out a small wire basket filled with apples, the kind that were a little bruised and lumpy. “Here,” he said, holding one out. “Flat hand, like this.” He demonstrated, palm up, apple resting in the middle.
Noah copied him, and Ford placed the apple in his hand, steadying it with his own big fingers. For a second, I saw Ford’s whole childhood—his hands, too big for his arms, always moving, always fixing things or reaching for something. It was the first time I’d ever seen him completely at ease.
Pebbles took a few steps closer, then dipped her head and gently took the apple from Noah’s hand, lips velvety and soft. Noah gasped, then broke into a fit of giggles. “She’s eating my hand!” he howled, not scared at all, just delighted.
Ford laughed, then ruffled Noah’s hair. “Good job, bud. She likes you.”
Noah glowed with pride, then turned to me. “Mama, you try! You can feed her!”
I hesitated, but Ford already had another apple ready. He handed it to me, our fingers brushing, and the warmth of his skin lingered even as I turned back to the horse.