Page 41 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

“You should show her around the place,” he says, his tone casual. “Take the old buggy. She doesn’t know how to ride, and being in her condition…” He gestures vaguely toward Emily’s stomach.

“I’m pregnant, Mr. Ryder, not an invalid,” Emily says with an amused smile.

“Clay,” he grunts back, “and I know you’re with child,” he mutters as if the phrase is somehow more acceptable.

I laugh, grabbing my jacket. “Come on, Em. Let’s go.”

The buggy is an old relic from when I was a kid, but it still works. The wheels slightly creak as we make our way down the dirt path that winds through the pastures.

Emily sits beside me, contentedly sighing as she takes in the view. The fields stretch out endlessly, the tall grass swaying in the breeze, and the sound of birds fills the air.

“You know the quiet used to bother me. I was always playing my guitar to ward off the silence,” I admit, with a slight shake of my head. “But now, when I’m out here–I relish the quiet.”

“It is a change from the band’s constant music,” she says softly, “It’s beautiful out here.” Turning to watch how the sunlight catches in her hair, how naturally she fits into this piece of my past.

“Yeah,” I agree, my voice softer than usual. “It is.”

She glances at me, her eyes searching mine. “You care about this place, don’t you?”

I nod, my grip tightening on the reins. “It’s home. Always has been.”

“And your dad?”

“I care about him, too,” I admit, my voice rough. “I just—I wish I could do more. Be here more often. He works too hard and won’t let me help. At least, not how I want to.”

Emily places a hand on my arm, her touch light but supportive. “It sounds like you help out a lot, Sam. I’m sure your dad appreciates it.”

I look at her, the sincerity in her eyes cutting through the slight guilt that’s been weighing me down.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

She smiles, and for a moment, everything feels right with the world.

Thirteen

Emily

The morning sunlight streams through the farm’s kitchen window, brightening the worn kitchen with a warm glow.

Sam leans against the counter, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching his dad move about the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Emily, will you be okay here by yourself?” Sam says, his attentive gaze on me.

I roll my eyes, barely resisting the urge to cross my arms. “I’m not helpless, Sam. And I have a phone.”

Clay lets out a quiet chuckle as he sets his mug in the sink. “She’s got a point, son.”

“Fine.” Sam grins, his lips twitching with amusement. “But reception isn’t that good out here. So use the landline if you need to. Just promise me you’ll take it easy.”

“Go check the fencing,” I reply, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”

The sound of hooves against packed earth grows faint as Sam and his dad ride off into the distance, their figures growing smaller until they’re specks on the horizon. The house feels quiet without them.

I wander slowly through the house, my fingers grazing the edges of furniture and picture frames, each a glimpse into Sam’s life before he became a famous rockstar in the Wild Band.

There’s a framed photograph of Sam as a kid on the mantel, grinning widely with a missing front tooth. He’s holding a chicken, his small arms wrapped around the squawking bird, while Clay stands behind him, his expression somewhere between pride and exasperation.

I can’t help but smile at the image. Even then, Sam had that same playful energy that makes him impossible to ignore.

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