Page 12 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Twelve

Halfway Home

Tessa

I woke to the faint clatter of silverware and the hiss of the gas stove lighting—the smell of instant coffee filtered through the small trailer like a peace offering.

Callie was already up, tiptoeing around the kitchenette, wearing the same tank top from yesterday and her favorite flannel pajama pants with faded steer heads.

“You want first crack at the bathroom?” she asked without looking back.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll sip on my coffee first.”

She poured a second mug and handed it over. “Brave woman.”

I slipped on yesterday’s hoodie and ducked out the door, coffee in hand.

Outside, the morning air still held a chill, but the sun was bright and getting brighter.

We’d parked the trailer in Rhett’s side yard, wedged between his fancy hot tub and new barn.

He’d strung an extension cord and a hose across the grass like it was nothing—hospitality, Rhett-style.

No speeches. No pity. Just the practical kindness of a man who still remembered what survival looked like.

Callie joined me at the picnic table in the yard. We sat across from each other, sipping quietly.

“You know what’s wild?” she said after a while. “This time last week, we were in Dallas.”

I gave a dry laugh. “This time last week, we were millionaires in our heads.”

“Well, we’ve still got a few thousand. That’s got to count for something.”

It did. We had parked Reckless at Rhett’s garage, next to his antique car collection, on a trailer with wheels that hadn’t fallen off.

We have enough money left over from the prize purse to keep food on our table for the foreseeable future.

However, it was a stark contrast to the season we had envisioned.

She grinned but didn’t meet my eyes. “I applied at the grocery store yesterday. Cashier gig, just part-time until we figure out the next move.”

“You didn’t have to?—”

“Yes, I did.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “We’re not living on dreams anymore, Tessa. We’ve got to be smart with what’s left.”

I let that settle. She wasn’t wrong. I had my appointment with Mama’s case manager at eleven. Depending on how that went, everything could shift again.

“You want me to drive you?” she asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

We sat for a moment, sipping. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees, unaware that a block away, my childhood home was now just blackened beams and ash. Every time we drove past it on the way to Rhett’s spread on Lucky Ranch, I felt my stomach tighten like a fist.

Callie glanced sideways. “Have you stopped by the house…?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

She didn’t push.

Instead, she let the silence stretch, then broke it like she always did—with humor like duct tape. “Guess it’s a good thing we never bought those throw pillows off Etsy.”

It hit me sideways, that laugh. Quick and startled, right from the chest.

“Those ridiculous ones with the embroidery?”

“‘Live. Laugh. Lug Nuts,’” she quoted solemnly.

I snorted, and she beamed like she’d won something. Maybe she had.

We sat there a little longer, the sun climbing above the trees, warming the metal trailer behind us. For a second, we could almost pretend we were just two friends on a camping trip. No fire. No hospital. No decisions that felt too big for either of us.

But the weight was still there.

Just tucked beneath the laughter, lingering.

The hospital conference room was small, with beige walls and a round table that tried its best to feel warm. It didn’t succeed. Nothing in this place ever really did.

Helen was already there, seated with a slim folder open in front of her. She stood when I walked in, offering a kind smile and a hand that was both steady and soft.

“Tessa. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, though part of me wished I could’ve.

She motioned to the chair across from her and waited until I sat before easing back down herself. The folder remained open, a quiet weight between us.

“I’ll get right to it,” Helen said gently. “Your mother’s recovering well from the smoke inhalation, but she has pneumonia. It’s mild but enough to keep her here for a few more days.”

I nodded. That much I expected.

“But there’s something else,” she continued. “We’ve run a cognitive assessment based on the symptoms you described in her chart—the confusion, the memory lapses, the repetitive stories.”

My stomach tightened. I braced myself.

“She’s showing signs of early-stage dementia. We can’t say how fast it will progress, but her doctors are confident in the diagnosis.”

I blinked. Nodded again. Tried to swallow around the ache building in my throat.

“She can’t live alone,” Helen added. “Not safely.”

I stared at the folder. “Okay. What… what are the options?”

“Well, there’s some good news,” she said, tapping the top sheet. “Your mother qualifies for a clinical trial involving a new memory drug. It’s still early in testing, but results so far are very encouraging.”

Hope flared. Thin, but real.

“She’d receive the medication, monitored here at the hospital initially, then by a certified provider wherever she’s placed. There’s no cost to you—if you’re willing to consent on her behalf, we can start as early as tomorrow.”

“Placed,” I repeated, as my head began to spin.

Helen’s eyes softened. “Tessa… she won’t be able to return to the life she had before.”

I bit my bottom lip as the room seemed to shift on its axis.

Helen grabbed my hand. “Tessa, are you feeling well? Your face just turned pale.”

I shook it off and nodded, “Yes. It’s just a lot to take in. The problem is, Mom doesn’t have a home to go back to,” I said. “The fire took it. Everything.”

Helen’s features morphed into quiet empathy. She didn’t try to smooth it over. She didn’t offer platitudes. Just let the moment hang.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, blinking hard. “Me too.”

We sat there in that stillness, and for the first time since all this began, I felt the grief settle, not like a wave, but like roots wrapping around my ribs.

“I can help with placement,” Helen said. “Rehab facilities with memory care. We can start with short-term options and reevaluate as the trial progresses.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I admitted. “I don’t trust reviews on Google right now.”

Her smile was understanding. “I’ll send over a list of vetted facilities after I review availability. You’ll have a few days to think through it. Nothing’s final today.”

I nodded, and she handed me a slim stack of forms.

I signed. My name looked foreign on the paper.

By the time we wrapped up, the room felt smaller. Like the air had thickened with everything that wasn’t said. I rose from the chair, unsure if my legs would hold.

Helen walked me to the door. Her hand brushed my arm, warm and solid.

“You’re doing better than you think,” she said softly.

I gave her a nod. One of those automatic, polite things you do when someone means well.

But inside?

I wasn’t so sure. Something felt different.

I found Colt standing on his own two feet—or trying to, anyway.

Colt gripped the walker like it had personally offended him. His back was stiff, his arms tense, but he was upright and stubborn about it, which meant he was definitely on the mend.

“If you tell Rhett I look like a baby giraffe, I swear…” he muttered without looking up.

I grinned, walking over. “Too late. I already texted him. Added a photo for dramatic effect.”

He groaned and side-eyed me, but I saw the smile threatening behind it. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t add a caption.”

He shook his head with mock dismay, and I stepped closer. “Want a hand?”

He hesitated for a second—pride, probably—but then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I offered my arm, and he slid one hand over it. The contact was warm. Familiar. It sent a flicker of something sweet and sharp straight through me.

We took it slow, the two of us shuffling down the hallway like we had nowhere better to be. In a way, maybe we didn’t.

The family room wasn’t far—just past a nurse’s station, where a cluster of bad paintings hung like they might distract from fluorescent lights and antiseptic air.

Inside, wide windows looked out toward the hills. Beyond them, just barely in view, lay the long stretch of pastureland, Lucky Ranch.

We sat, easing into mismatched armchairs that had probably been donated two decades ago. I watched the muscles in his jaw relax once he was off his feet.

“You good?” I asked.

He nodded. “Better with you here.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I let the silence bloom around us. It didn’t feel heavy. Not anymore. We were getting better at that—being quiet together.

I glanced out the window, eyes tracing the ridge of hills.

“I met with the case manager today,” I said finally.

Colt’s eyes stayed on mine. Steady. No rush.

“They’re keeping Mom a few more days. The pneumonia from the smoke isn’t too bad, but…” I exhaled. “They diagnosed early-stage dementia. She can’t live alone.”

Colt didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer empty words. Just reached across the space between us and took my hand.

I squeezed it once before continuing. “There’s a trial drug they want to try—memory stuff. Promising results, apparently. They’re hopeful.”

He nodded. “And you?”

“I’m trying to be.”

We sat like that for a moment, the silence stretching between heartbeats—quiet, but not empty. Just us, side by side, letting the weight of everything settle in.

Then he said it.

“Y’all could come stay with me.”

I blinked, unsure if I’d heard him right.

“Just for now,” he added quickly. “Till it’s sorted. You, Callie, your mom. There’s plenty of room. Hell, there’s peace.”

His voice wasn’t pushy, just gentle. Steady. Like the offer came from some deep part of him that he didn’t show often. I turned to face him fully. The look in his eyes stopped me cold.

It wasn’t just kindness—it was hope. A flicker of something he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. And maybe it had been there for a while, quiet in the background, waiting for the right moment to rise.

It broke something in me to say no.

“I appreciate it,” I said softly, meaning every syllable. “I really do. But… she’s not ready. And everything between us?—”

I trailed off, biting my lip, trying to find a version of the truth that didn’t crush whatever fragile thread we were weaving back together.

“It’s still new,” I finished. “I don’t want to mess it up before it’s even begun.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just nodded slowly, like part of him had braced for that answer.

“I get it,” he said. And maybe he did.

His fingers stayed wrapped around mine, solid and warm like an anchor, not a chain.

I let my head drift down until it rested against his shoulder, careful not to lean too hard. The fabric of his hospital gown was crisp beneath my cheek, but his scent caught me off guard—faint soap, a trace of pine, and something else that felt like home.

We didn’t say anything else.

We didn’t have to.

Outside, the sky was shifting. The clouds had thinned, letting late afternoon light stream over the hills like a promise.

I didn’t know where we’d go from here. How much of this mess could we actually clean up?

But at that moment, his shoulder beneath my cheek and his hand cradling mine felt like shelter. Because maybe love wasn’t always a grand gesture.

Perhaps it was this—just a quiet offer, a hand that didn’t let go… even when the answer was no.