Page 47 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

“I want to share some of the burden.” He hooked a thumb toward the outside. “We can take ol’ Lucille if you’d like.”

She let out a bright laugh, surprising herself. “I’d rather not.”

He blew out an exaggerated breath. “Was hoping you’d say that. My truck it is.”

Willow studied him for a long moment. Inwardly, she smiled. The voices from the dining room were growing distant now, and she wasn’t sure if it was because every morsel had disappeared or because this moment had eclipsed everything else.

“I don’t know what to say other than … thank you.”

“That’s more than enough.” Chance nodded. He turned to go, but paused. “You’re not the only one who’s tried to bury the past.”

Willow tilted her head. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Chance.”

He held her gaze for a long beat. “You do now?”

Willow nodded. She did. With everything.

The lines around his eyes softened, and he dipped his chin slightly. “Then we’re square.”

Willow stood motionless, her palms still warm from his touch, and listened to the echo of his boots retreating from the kitchen.

* * *

Four days had flown by.

The visit to her mother’s care home had been delayed twice—once when another storm rolled in without bothering to announce itself first. It washed out the main road and toppled a power line that took two days to fix. Then again when Brandy McKenna from the neighboring ranch called in a frazzled panic.

Her branding crew had lost two hands to the flu and another to a thrown shoulder. Weather had stymied their schedule already this year, so they found themselves short on both help and time.

The Sutter Creek crew pitched in, which meant Willow cooked for an extra ten cowboys, creating side dishes from leftover cornbread and meat. While grabbing oil for drizzling and coating pans, her mind wandered to the dream of turning that old orchard into something new again. She also sent up a prayer or two for divine intervention to calm the frenetic pace of those hours.

But calm had come. At ten a.m., Chance pulled up in his truck. She had already cooked, served, and cleaned up, and slammed out a batch of molasses cookies for the staff at the care home. Despite all that, she knew that the real word was yet to come—a visit with her mother to smooth things over with the care home.

She’d been praying a lot lately, and today was no exception.

As Chance pulled onto the main road, rays of sunshine stretched across the top of the Topatopa ridges. In its way, that sun was attempting to coax her out of trepidation. She didn’t mind it.

On her lap sat a manila envelope with a photo of her Uncle Ray inside. She had already emailed the image to the care home, but hoped to squelch any future visits from him by giving them a photo they could post for all the staff to see.

“You warm enough?” Chance tapped the heating vent, which blew soft and low.

She nodded, voice small. “I am. Thank you.”

He let her be.

The silence between them was easier than it had ever been. But he saw the way her fingers picked at the corner of the folder, and the tension-filled way she held her jaw. Eventually, she sighed.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“Going to visit my mother should be a pleasure, something to look forward to.”

“Been praying that for you,” Chance said.

She peeled a look over at him. “You have?”

“I doubt that coward’ll show his face again, but if he does, I’ll be ready for him.”

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