Page 69 of Careless Hope

“So this guy is worth going back on an agreement you made with a friend?” His hurt was palpable, filling the room with a tension so thick I could almost grab it by the handfuls.

“I need to give it—give him—a fair shot.” My heart raced, betraying the calm facade I tried to maintain. I was lying straight to his face, to the man who, despite the charade, had started to mean more to me than I dared admit to him. So so much more.

“Fine.” The word was terse, a verbal punch that left both of us wounded. “If that’s what you want, Caroline. No more arrangement. No more . . . us.” He donned his hat and stepped back, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, every inch of distance feeling like miles stretching between us.

“Walk—” I began, but the rest of his name got stuck in my throat.

He turned sharply, the cowboy hat casting shadows over his eyes, hiding whatever emotions were swirling there. “I’ll get out of your way then. Wouldn’t want to interfere with your new . . . relationship.”

“Wait, please,” I said, a desperate plea that went unheeded. This was what I’d wanted, what could I ask him to wait for?

But he didn’t wait anyway. Not this time.

Walker stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoed through the empty space. My knees buckled, and I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter for support. The silence after the slam whispered the truth I couldn’t voice—that I’d just pushed away the one person who made me reconsider every wall I’d ever built around my heart.

My breaths came in short bursts, an inadequate attempt to stave off the despair.

The house creaked softly, responding to the shift of weight as I slid down to the hard wood floor. As much as I wanted to believe I’d done the right thing, doubt crept in like the chill from the night air seeping through the cracks in my resolve.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, staring at the closed door through blurred vision. Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, spilling over as I listened to Walker’s truck roar to life and fade into the distance, taking with it the warmth of his presence. My chest ached, hollowed out by the force of my sobs. In the dim glow of the living room lamp, shadows played across the floor, mirroring the turmoil inside me.

“Stupid,” I whispered between gasps, chastising myself. “So stupid.”

I had prided myself on being sensible, level-headed Dr. Cressley, but now? Now, I was just Caroline, sitting on the cold floor, grappling with a heart that refused to follow any prescribed logic or reason.

The silence that settled after felt oppressive. Around me, the house was still, as if holding its breath. It was in these quiet moments that the enormity of what I’d done truly sank in. I’d pushed away the person who mattered most.

I thought this decision would protect my heart, but no. I had shattered it into a million pieces.

23

Walker

Pitchfork in hand,I attacked the stall with a vengeance that had nothing to do with the mess of hay and manure. Each jab was punctuated by a muttered curse, each toss of detritus a release for the frustration boiling up inside me. Sweat trickled down my back, but it wasn’t the late morning heat or the labor that had me worked up—it was everything else.

“Damn it,” I grumbled under my breath, wrestling with the stubborn pile in the corner. The muscles in my arms bulged with the effort, the tendons standing out like ropes against my skin. This was supposed to be where I found peace, where the simple, honest work of the ranch brought me back to center. But today, the smell of hay and horse did nothing to soothe the storm churning in my chest.

The creak of leather boots on straw announced his presence before he said a word. Gray. Even without looking up, I knew it was him—the slow, measured stride, the weight of responsibility in each step.

“Morning’s almost over, Walker,” Gray’s voice carried across the stable, easy as a summer breeze, but with an undertone ofcaution that told me he knew something was off. “You’re usually done with this by now.”

I didn’t bother turning around. Didn’t trust myself to keep the edge out of my voice if we were face-to-face. Instead, I drove the pitchfork into the mound harder, as if I could bury my troubles along with the soiled straw.

“Got a late start,” I said, the words clipped and short. My grip tightened on the wooden handle, splinters threatening to pierce skin that was already rough from years of ranch work.

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t push further, just leaned against the wall, watching. I could feel his eyes on me, steady and unrelenting, like the midday sun. Gray had always been the rock, the one who shouldered the burdens without complaint. And here he was, doing what he did best—waiting me out.

“Anything you want to talk about?” There it was, the offer laid out with all the subtlety of a bull at a gate. So much for waiting me out.

“Nothing worth talking about,” I lied, tossing another forkful aside with more force than necessary. The truth was, my head was a tangled mess of thoughts and feelings, none of them good company.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the rhythmic swish of straw. Then the soft thud of his boots as he stepped into the stall, joining me in the muck. That was Gray for you. Always ready to wade into the thick of it, whether it was trouble or manure.

Even so, his presence felt like a thistle in my boot—irritating and impossible to ignore.

“Look, if you’re just gonna stand there, you might as well make yourself useful,” I snapped without looking up, hoping he’d take the hint and leave me to my sullen brooding. The lastthing I wanted was a heart-to-heart with my big brother looming over me like some sort of countrified therapist.

Gray didn’t budge—metaphorically speaking. He never did. Instead, he picked up a spare fork and started working alongside me, moving with a methodical patience that grated on my already frayed nerves.

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