Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
My throat tightens. “I will. Kiss him for me. And I’ll be by to meet him soon.”
“Yes, absolutely,” she says, and hangs up.
The apartment goes quiet again.
I sink deeper into my couch, staring at the half-decorated tree in the corner—lights half-strung, ornament box still open on the floor.
I think about Melanie and Lucas and baby Everett, all tangled up in a tiny hospital room, figuring out their new normal.
I think about Rhett up on his mountain, maybe sitting by his stove, maybe listening to the wind.
I think about myself, right here, in this small apartment with big dreams and a cracked heart and a promotion that’s going to demand everything I’ve got.
I close my eyes and breathe.
I don’t know what my happy looks like yet.
But I know I want more than hollow.
More than almost.
More than being someone’s storm exception.
I want a family someday. A home that feels like laughter and coffee and shared blankets. Someone who doesn’t walk away because it’s hard, but stays because it’s worth it.
And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t feel something like the beginning of that in a cabin on a mountain with a man who’s too scared to reach for it.
For now, I pick up one of the ornaments—tiny, wooden, hand-painted: Chimney Gorge Christmas Jubilee—and hang it carefully on my little tree.
“Come back,” Keely had said.
“Anytime,” the mayor had promised.
I don’t know if I’ll be going back for work or for me.
But as the lights on my tree blink to life, I know one thing for sure:
I’m not done with Chimney Gorge.
And if Rhett Ryder ever decides he wants more than just surviving, he’s going to have to prove it.
Because I’m done letting someone else decide what I’m worth.
SIXTEEN
RHETT
The days between Christmas and New Year’s are supposed to feel lazy.
Soft.
Like the world took off its boots and decided to nap.
Up here, they just feel empty.
The Jubilee wrapped, the tourists went home, the banners came down. The square went back to normal. Kids on sleds, Lolly’s open sign swinging in the window, bells still ringing, just…quieter.
And me?
I went back up the mountain.
Back to the cabin. Back to my routines. Back to the silence I told myself I wanted.
It’s not the same.
The couch is the worst. Every time I look at it, I see her curled against me, laughing at some dumb story, or falling asleep with her hand fisted in my shirt like I was the only solid thing in the room. The bed is worse. The mug she used is still by the sink. I washed it, but it still feels…hers.
I work.
I chop wood. Fix fences. Oil harnesses. Run maintenance rides when the weather’s clear. I keep the horses’ routines steady, because they deserve that.
The whole time, it feels like I’m moving through a copy of my life that doesn’t quite fit.
At night, the stove ticks and the cabin creaks and the wind drags its fingers through the pines. Used to be that was enough. Used to be I’d sit in my chair, drink something hot, watch the fire, and tell myself quiet was a reward.
Now it sounds like everything I didn’t say.
Ivy’s voice hangs around the edges of the room. You’re a coward. If you’d just told me you needed time… I would’ve worked with that.
I try to tell myself I did the right thing. That she’s better off in Saint Pierce, throwing herself into her new job, not worrying about whether the mountain got enough snowpack or if I slept last night.
It works for about three seconds at a time.
On the fourth day after Christmas, my phone rings.
I almost don’t answer. Most calls this time of year are either the sheriff asking about road conditions or the mayor asking if I’ll do one last sleigh loop for someone’s New Year’s proposal.
But the screen says RUIN in all caps, which means I either pick up or he drives up here and kicks my door in.
I thumb the screen. “Hey.”
“Look who remembers how to use a phone,” my brother says, his voice edged with static and Texas. “Merry late Christmas, jackass.”
“Same to you,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “How’s the Lone Star State?”
“Hotter than your stove and twice as loud,” he says. “Figured I’d see if the mountain had eaten you. Again.”
“Still here,” I say.
“That doesn’t sound like bragging anymore,” he notes.
I grunt.
He hears it.
“So,” Ruin says. “I got a half-coherent call from Lolly on Christmas Eve. Something about you, a storm, a girl, and the mayor’s bells. Want to explain?”
Traitor, I think about Lolly, who absolutely promised she wouldn’t gossip. “Not much to explain.”
“Bullshit,” he says immediately. “Start talking.”
I stare at the stove for a second, watching the flames lick at the logs. If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s Ruin. He’s seen me at my worst. We bled in the same sand. Sat in the same VA waiting room that smelled like bleach and fear. He knows the nights I don’t talk about.