Page 56 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

The cottage is yours for as long as you want it—rent-free, no strings attached. I was wrong to keep the truth from you. I was scared of losing you, and instead of trusting you with that fear, I tried to control the situation. I'm sorry.

I respect your independence and your right to make your own choices. Whatever you decide about staying or going, I'll support you.

When you're ready to talk—I'll be here.

Grant

I leave the keys beside the note.

“That's a big move,” Mason comments, reading over my shoulder.

“It's the right one,” I reply, suddenly certain. “This place was always meant for someone who could appreciate it. Might as well be her.”

Mason heads home, and when I get into bed, I fall into a restless sleep, dreaming of Mia swimming in the river, always just out of reach.

***

Morning brings the sound of the coffee machine brewing in the kitchen. I'm on my feet instantly, heart hammering against my ribs as I hear movement down the hall. Mia stands at the fridge taking out the creamer, her face carefully neutral.

“Hey,” I say, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

“Hey.” She sets her cup down between us. “I got your note.”

“And?” Hope rising in my chest.

“And I've accepted a training opportunity in London with Dr. Mikhailov's team.” She keeps her eyes on the counter, not meeting my gaze. “I leave in two days.”

The news hits me like a rodeo bull to the chest, knocking the wind from my lungs. London. An ocean away. In two days.

“That's... that's amazing,” I manage, forcing a smile I don't feel. “His programs are legendary.”

“You know about Mikhailov?” She looks up for the first time since I’ve walked into the kitchen, surprise coloring her features.

“I might have done some research.” I shrug, aiming for casual despite the way my world is crumbling. “When you care about someone, you try to understand what matters to them.”

She flinches and her expression softens slightly. “Thank you for the cottage. You didn't have to do all that.”

“Yes, I did.” I take a careful step toward her. “Mia, what I did was wrong. I see that now. I was so afraid of you leaving that I... I became the very thing you've been running from.”

“You're not like my father,” she says quietly. “That was unfair of me to put that on you. He would never have admitted he was wrong.”

Hope flickers, fragile and wavering. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

“It means I understand.” She meets my eyes at last. “Fear makes us do stupid things. I know that better than most.”

I stuff my hands in my pocket and shuffle on my feet. “London, huh?” I try to keep my voice steady. “That's a big opportunity.”

“It's what I've been working toward my whole career.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I've come to adore. “Two months with the best training team in the world, right before Olympic qualifiers. I'd be crazy to turn it down.”

“Yeah, you would,” I agree, my heart breaking with each word.

She studies me, something unreadable in her expression. “Just like that? No argument? No attempt to make me stay?”

I shake my head. “That would just prove I haven't learned anything, wouldn't it?” I move to the window, looking out at the land that has defined my entire existence—the land I've never imagined leaving.

“Your dreams matter, Mia. Your independence matters.

I won't be another person who tries to clip your wings.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with words unsaid.

“I’ll leave my old suitcase here,” she says softly, eyes flicking to the corner of the room like she’s already letting go. “The one with my Portree Mains stuff. If that’s okay.”

For a beat, I can’t breathe. My chest swells with stupid, reckless hope.

That suitcase—battered and sun-faded—feels like more than fabric and zippers. It’s a tether. A breadcrumb trail back to me. Maybe this means she’s not closing the door completely. Maybe she’ll come back.

But then she adds, with a shrug so casual it guts me, “You can keep it. Or toss it. I won’t need winter clothes in London during summer.”

And just like that, the floor shifts beneath me. The hope in my chest curdles, crashes. Because her words are too light, too dismissive, like she’s already halfway across the ocean. Like none of this— us —was ever more than temporary to her.

It’s such a small thing, that suitcase. But to me, it’s a monument. And watching her walk away from it feels a hell of a lot like watching her walk away from me .

“Of course,” I say, trying my best to sound unaffected. “I'll keep it safe.”

“I know you will.” She hesitates, then adds, “I'd like you to drive me to the airport. Day after tomorrow.” Her voice cracking slightly “If that’s ok?”

The request surprises me. “You sure?”

“Unless you'd rather not.”

“No, I'd... I'd like that.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “What about tonight? Tomorrow? Where will you stay?”

“The cottage.” She offers a small smile. “Lily did an amazing job with it. Seems a shame not to use it at least once.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She's leaving. She's forgiven me enough to let me drive her to the airport, to leave a suitcase in my care, but she's still leaving.

“I should go,” she says, backing toward the door. “I have packing to do, calls to make. You understand.”

“Yeah.” I force another smile. “Go do what you need to do. I'll be here.”

After she leaves, I walk in a daze to the lounge and sink onto the couch, the weight of her decision pressing down on me like a physical thing. Two months. Maybe forever. This is exactly what I feared, exactly what I tried to prevent.

All I can do is respect her choice and hope, that she might choose to come back when those two months are up.

***

The day of her departure arrives too quickly. I pull up to the cottage at dawn, my truck freshly washed, my heart freshly broken. Mia is waiting on the porch with a single suitcase, her hair pulled back in that messy bun I've grown to love.

“All set?” I ask, taking her bag.

“As I'll ever be.” She hesitates, looking back at the cottage. “Thank you again for this place. It's perfect.”

“It suits you.” I load her suitcase into the truck, careful to keep my tone light. “Let me know if you want any changes while you're gone. I could add a hot tub, maybe an Olympic-sized pool in the backyard.”

She laughs, the sound both wonderful and painful. “Always going overboard, Taylor.”

“Only for the right people.” I say, not able to meet her eyes.

The drive to the airport passes too quickly. We talk about safe topics—her training schedule in London, the upcoming rodeo season, my shoulder therapy. We carefully avoid discussing what happens after her two months in London, whether she'll return to Texas at all.

In the departures terminal, we stand facing each other, surrounded by strangers. Time seems to slow while the rest of the world rushes past in a blur of rolling suitcases and overhead announcements.

“So,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets like that’ll somehow keep them from shaking—or reaching for her.

“So,” she echoes, her voice tight, eyes fixed on her boarding pass like it might rewrite itself and say stay .

I clear my throat. “Knock 'em dead in London, Darlin’”. Show those Brits what Texas swimming does to a girl.”

She smiles at that, small and trembly, the kind of smile that tries to be brave but folds at the edges. “I will.”

“And maybe...” I hesitate, my throat tight, then push through it. “Maybe send a postcard or something? Let me know you haven't been kidnapped by the Queen's Guard?”

She snorts softly. “The Queen died in 2022, cowboy” she corrects automatically.

“See? Exactly why I need you,” I say, half-grinning. “I need you to keep me culturally informed.”

We laugh—sort of—but it’s hollow. A space-filler. A last defense.

We're dancing around the goodbye, both reluctant to make it final.

“I should go through security,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Right. Yeah. Of course. Flight and all.” I nod. “Well, have a safe flight.”

Neither of us moves.

And then she does—drops her bag and throws her arms around my neck like letting go would split her wide open.

I freeze, stunned by the sheer emotion in her hold.

Then I wrap her up in my arms and bury my face in her neck, breathing her in like I’ll never get another chance, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, memorizing the feel of her body against mine.

“Thank you,” she whispers against my neck.

“For what?” My voice cracks.

“For letting me go.”

The words cut deeper than she could know. I've never been good at letting go—not of Jake. Not of people I love. Not of mistakes. Not of grief I've carried for so long. But for Mia, I'm trying.

“Always,” I murmur, though it costs me everything.

She steps back, and I see the shimmer in her eyes—mine match, I’m sure. My arms feel cold. Empty. Her absence already aches.

“Goodbye, Grant,” she says, her voice breaking on my name.

“Not goodbye,” I say, forcing out a smile even though it’s killing me. “Just… see you later.”

She hesitates. Just long enough to make me think she might stay.

But then she picks up her bag, turns, and walks toward security without looking back.

And I just stand there. Big boy brave face on. Cowboy posture locked in.

Dying inside.

***

The drive home is the longest of my life. Every mile feels like a physical strain, pulling me further from her. By the time I reach the ranch, my knuckles are white on the steering wheel, my jaw aching from clenching it.

I park outside my parent’s house rather than my own place, needing the chaos of family to drown out the silence in my head. Inside, I find Dad on the couch watching rodeo highlights.

“She gone?” he asks, turning down the volume.

“Yup.” I drop onto the couch beside him, emotionally exhausted.

“You let her go without telling her you love her, didn't you?” He shakes his head. “Dumbass.”

I stare at him. “How did you—”

“Son, I've been watching you look at that girl like she hung the moon. Everyone sees it but you.” He turns back to the TV. “Love makes men stupid. Taylor men especially.”

“It doesn't matter,” I mutter, sinking lower into the cushions. “She's gone.”

“For now,” Dad says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “But that girl's got the look of someone who's found something worth coming back for.”

“You think?” I hate the hope in my voice.

“I know.” He claps my shoulder. “Now shut up and watch this ride. Martinez is using your technique, but his form's all wrong.”