Page 45 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Twenty-Five

Lily

T he new car still didn’t feel like mine.

At first, I only drove it when I absolutely had to—preschool pickup, groceries, a run out to the pharmacy when Noah’s cough came back with a vengeance.

But that day, cruising out to Chickadee with the backseat filled with Noah’s babble and the trunk packed with three different kinds of takeout, the SUV felt less like a present I didn’t deserve and more like a second skin.

The novelty of seat warmers and hands-free Bluetooth and new car smell still lingered.

We’d taken the backroads, Noah chiming in every time he saw a horse, a tractor, or a distant cow.

He’d started mooing at them as if they could hear him, which was both cute and a little embarrassing, especially when we passed actual livestock and he shouted, “Moo!!” out the open window.

I kept glancing at him in the rearview, catching his bright eyes and crumb-smeared cheeks, and every time I did, something inside my chest tugged hard enough to ache.

We pulled into the Chickadee’s drive just as the last of the light bled out of the sky.

The exterior looked even better than last week.

Ford had torn out the sickly rosebushes and the cracked concrete walk, replacing them with a raw, unfinished path and mulch.

A battered wheelbarrow leaned against the porch, and somewhere a radio played 70s country, low and warm.

The front windows glowed, every single one, like the house was welcoming us home.

“Here we are, bug,” I said.

I grabbed the takeout bags and Noah’s backpack (which, at this point, was basically a mobile toy chest), then popped Noah out of his car seat.

He landed with both feet, grabbed my hand, and yanked us straight to the front door before I could even lock the car.

Inside, the warmth hit us like a wall. Ford stood in the foyer, boots off, hair still damp from a quick shower.

He wore a gray T-shirt that clung to his chest and jeans slung low, and I could have spent the rest of the night staring at his forearms as he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, voice lazy but bright.

Noah shot past me, almost tripping on the door frame. “Hi Ford!” he shouted.

Ford dropped to one knee and opened his arms, and my son crashed into his chest like a missile, smacking Ford right in the jaw with a stuffed giraffe.

Ford didn’t even flinch. He hugged Noah tight, then let him climb up his back and perch on his shoulders.

I’d never seen my kid so instantly comfortable with someone outside of our tiny family.

“You’re gonna break his neck,” I said, laughing despite myself.

“Built Ford tough,” he replied, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

Noah cackled and yanked at his hair. Ford shot me a look—a mixture of apology and pride, like he was sorry for corrupting my son but also a little pleased.

I set the takeout on the kitchen island and started unpacking cartons.

Ford carried Noah around as he made quick work of finding plates and forks, narrating every step like he was hosting a cooking show.

I watched the way he moved, comfortable and easy, and wondered what it would be like to live this way every day.

To let someone else shoulder the weight for a while.

We ate at the island, Noah perched between us, making a mess of his rice but grinning like a madman.

Ford and I kept the conversation light—mostly about house projects, Whittier gossip, and what was new at the preschool.

Every now and then, our eyes would meet, and something unspoken passed between us.

It wasn’t heavy or loaded with expectation, just warm.

Like we were both still a little amazed this was real.

After dinner, Ford handled cleanup while I wrangled Noah into washing his hands and wiping orange chicken from his face.

The kid’s eyelids drooped halfway through dessert, and I didn’t even bother protesting when he started crawling into my lap, seeking warmth and comfort.

I held him close, breathing in the last hints of baby shampoo, and felt my own body begin to sag with exhaustion.

Ford must have seen it, because he offered, “Why don’t you put him down in the guest room? It’s mostly set up now.”

I nodded, grateful and excited to have adult time. “Thanks.”

He smiled, soft and unguarded. “No problem.”

I gathered Noah, who protested sleep only by whimpering and clinging harder. Ford led us down the hall, past the living room and a stack of boxes labeled “OFFICE” and “MISC—PROBABLY TRASH.” The guest room was at the top of the stairs.

When I pushed open the door, I stopped in my tracks.

It wasn’t the beige, featureless spare room I remembered from Ford’s earlier tour.

The lights were low, but I could see right away what he’d done.

The old queen bed had been swapped for a twin, the frame painted a bright, ridiculous green.

Dinosaur sheets—Triceratops and T. rex, all in clashing colors—were tucked with military precision.

A tiny lamp shaped like a crescent moon sat on the nightstand, casting soft light over the room.

On the wall above the bed, Ford had stuck up those glow-in-the-dark stars that kids always wanted but never managed to keep attached for long.

And, at the foot of the bed, an empty bookshelf waited, all three shelves ready for a library we didn’t have yet.

I turned, mouth open, but Ford just shrugged. “Found the sheets on clearance. Figured he’d like them.”

Noah wiggled free of my arms and face-planted onto the bed. “Dinosaurs” he announced, then rolled to the edge, where a stuffed horse sat propped against the pillow. “A horse like Pebbles!” he yelled, and hugged it with fierce determination.

I blinked hard. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Ford looked a little shy. “It wasn’t a big deal. I just wanted him to feel at home.”

I helped Noah out of his overalls and into his too-small Paw Patrol pajamas, which barely made it to his wrists.

Ford watched, perched on the edge of the desk chair, spinning back and forth like a teenager about to get scolded.

When Noah was settled, I tucked the blanket around him and handed over the horse.

Ford gestured at a thin paperback on the nightstand. “I found one of those Golden Books at the grocery store. You want me to read it to him?”

Noah’s eyes shot open. “Yes mama, can Ford read me a story?”

I nodded, swallowing a lump in my throat. “That’d be great.”

Ford sat on the floor, cross-legged. He opened the book—The Poky Little Puppy—and launched straight into it, deep voice rolling through every sentence. He did different voices for the mother and the puppies, and when he said “Poky,” he made it sound like the highest honor in the world.

Noah was asleep before page six.

Ford finished the story anyway, then closed the book and set it gently on the nightstand. He stood, motioned for me to follow, and together we tiptoed out of the room. He closed the door with a careful click.

We stood in the hallway for a second, listening to the quiet.

He looked at me, something in his eyes that was softer than I’d ever seen. “You okay?”

I nodded, unsure what to do with the feeling expanding inside my chest. “Yeah. That was really nice.”

He took my hand, so casual and sure it startled me. His fingers were warm and rough, but the touch was gentle.

“Come with me,” he said, and led me down the hall to his bedroom.

Ford didn’t rush anything. We sat together on the edge of the bed, and when he turned toward me, his eyes were dark, but there was no hunger or demand—just need, plain and raw.

He kissed me, one hand threading through my hair, the other resting at my waist. I let myself lean into him, letting my guard down an inch at a time. When his lips brushed the corner of my mouth, I felt myself smile.

He lay back, bringing me with him. I stretched alongside him, body lined up to his. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. When he reached my mouth, I opened to him, and he kissed me the way I’d always wanted—like he meant it, like he was never letting go.

He ran his fingers along my jaw, slow and careful. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, Lily,” he whispered, like it was a secret.

“You’re crazy.”

His lips curved up. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the truth.”

I let myself believe him, even for just a second.

When his hand slid beneath my shirt, he went slow, mapping every inch of my skin. His palm was rough but his touch was gentle, reverent.

I tugged at his shirt, and he let me pull it off. The tattoos on his arms caught the faint light, black lines curling over muscle and bone. He watched my eyes track the ink, and smiled like he was proud of what I saw.

I ran my hands along his chest, feeling the warmth and the steady thump of his heart. He shivered under my touch, and the sound he made—half laugh, half groan—sparked something bold in me.

I pulled my own shirt off, tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed. Ford’s eyes went soft, then hot, as he took me in. He reached out, tracing the scar at my side with a fingertip.

He bent his head, kissing the line from start to finish. “Does it hurt?” he asked, voice low.

“No. Especially not when you touch it,” I said.

He smiled, then kissed it again. “Good.”

He worked his way up, mouth and hands learning every mark, every difference. He never flinched at the other scars—he treated them like road signs, like proof I’d made it this far. When he reached my bra, he glanced up, seeking permission.

I nodded, and he slid the straps down my arms, slow and patient. My breath caught, but not from nerves. From want.

Ford cupped my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. He bent, licking and sucking, the sensation turning me inside out. I gasped, arching into him, and he laughed softly against my skin.

He moved down, kissing my ribs, my belly, the sharp edge of my hip. When he reached the waistband of my leggings, he hesitated.

I raised my hips, wordless, and he peeled them off, taking the panties with. He trailed his fingers up my leg, marveling at the length, at the shape of my knee. He kissed the inside of my thigh, open-mouthed, and I felt my whole body go electric.

He paused, just looking at me.

“Ford, I swear to god, if you stop now, I’ll bite you,” I said, and I meant it.

He grinned. “I like that.”

He slid a finger inside, gentle but sure, testing the waters. I was already slick, and he knew it. He curled his finger, brushing just right, and I gasped, grabbing his wrist. He added a second, pumping slow and steady, watching my face the whole time.

“Want you,” I said, desperate.

He sat back, stripped his jeans and boxers off, and I had to bite my lip to keep from giggling with anticipation. I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his cock. He was thick and hot, and when I stroked him, he shuddered, eyes rolling back.

He rolled on a condom and settled between my legs. He lined himself up, but paused, the tip just barely parting me.

He leaned in, forehead against mine. “I needed you tonight,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Needed to feel you. Hold you.”

I wrapped my arms around his back, nails digging in. “You have me. I’m yours, Ford.”

He slid inside, slow and deliberate. He was big, and I felt myself stretch to accommodate him, but it wasn’t pain. It was perfect. He buried himself deep, groaning into my neck.

He set a rhythm, slow at first, then faster. He never broke eye contact, never looked away. Every time he thrust, he checked for my reaction, like he wanted to memorize every flicker of pleasure.

I met him, hips rolling, seeking more. The bed creaked below us. I felt the orgasm building, tight and sweet, and when it hit, I cried out, clutching him hard enough to leave marks. He followed, shuddering, pulse thundering against my chest.

We collapsed together, tangled in sheets and each other. My face was wet—I realized I was crying, but it wasn’t from sadness. It was relief, release, maybe joy.

Ford kissed the tears away, holding me so tight I thought we might fuse together. “You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, speechless. He didn’t press, just stroked my hair, my cheek, my shoulder. For a long time, we lay like that, his head pillowed on my chest, his arm draped over my waist.

When our breathing slowed, I traced his tattoos, finger following every line.

I thought about what he’d told me—about his father, about Ty, about all the secrets he’d carried alone.

I understood now, really understood, why he’d called me his hero.

He’d grown up in the same kind of pain I’d married into.

My heart broke at the thought of young Ford being beaten, abused, and perhaps worse—not able to admit it to anyone.

I kissed the back of his neck, the spot where a tiny arrow pointed up toward his hairline. “You’re not your father,” I said, voice shaky. “You’re nothing like him. And he can’t hurt you now. You’re so strong.”

Ford exhaled, the breath warm against my skin. “You think?”

“I know.”

He squeezed me tighter.

We drifted, the sheets cooling beneath us, the window filling with the pale light of the moon. He pulled the comforter over us, tucking me in like I was something precious.

I let myself be held.

In the dark, I thought about how lucky we were—to have found each other at the exact right moment, to be alive, to have survived. I thought about Noah, asleep down the hall, dreaming of dinosaurs and stuffed horses and a future I wanted to give him.

And I thought about Ford, the man who made me feel safe, and brave, and whole.

I ran my hand up his spine, stroking the length of his back, memorizing the shape of him.

His breathing deepened, slow and steady. I felt myself drifting, too.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness settle around us, letting it be enough.

Tonight, I was home.

Tonight, I was wanted.

And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe it could last.

I kept my hand on Ford’s back, a promise and a comfort.

And then, finally, I slept.