Page 96 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"We should donate it the next time we go to town," she said, folding the scarf carefully but definitively.
The answer clearly surprised Meadow, his eyebrows rising as he studied her face. "Why?"
"Because that part of me is different from who I am now," she said, the words emerging with more certainty than she'd expected. "Sometimes you have to let things go to invite new things that will benefit and prosper you."
The explanation felt true in a way that resonated through her entire body. She'd spent too much of her life clinging to past versions of herself, trying to fit into molds that no longer served her. The scarf was beautiful, but it belonged to a woman who no longer existed—a woman who'd needed external validation to feel worthy, who'd compromised her own desires to maintain relationships that were ultimately one-sided.
"New things," Meadow repeated thoughtfully, and when she looked at him, she saw something like pride in his expression.
"New things," she confirmed, extending her free hand toward him. "Should we head back home for dinner?"
The word 'home' slipped out naturally, and she felt a flutter of surprise at how right it sounded. When had the ranch stopped being Meadow's place and started being home? When had thiscommunity of people stopped being his friends and started being hers as well?
Meadow's smile was warm and genuine as he took her hand, their fingers intertwining with the easy familiarity that had developed between them. "Absolutely."
As they walked back toward the ranch buildings, Marigold felt a deep sense of satisfaction that went beyond their completed work or even their growing intimacy. She'd made a choice—to let go of the past in favor of an uncertain but promising future, to prioritize her own growth over the comfort of familiar patterns.
The pride she felt in herself was matched only by the way Meadow's approval made her stomach flip with need and anticipation.
Whatever complications Cypress's presence might introduce or challenges lay ahead in navigating her feelings for multiple people, she was confident in her ability to handle them with grace and authenticity.
18
ROWAN'S RETURN
~MARIGOLD~
The afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the ranch yard when the sound of an unfamiliar engine broke the peaceful quiet that had settled over the property.
Marigold looked up from where she was helping Flint organize tools in the workshop, the distant rumble of what sounded like an expensive car completely out of place in their rural setting.
Most visitors to the ranch arrived in practical trucks or well-worn sedans—vehicles chosen for function over form, designed to handle country roads and working life.
This engine had a different quality to it, the smooth purr of German engineering and premium gasoline, the kind of sound that spoke to money and status rather than utility. She felt her stomach clench with unease, though she couldn't immediately identify why the approaching vehicle filled her with such dread.
"Expecting someone?" Flint asked, noting her sudden tension as he set down the wrench he'd been examining.
"No," she replied, moving toward the workshop's open door to get a better view of the driveway. "Nobody knows I'm here except..."
The words died in her throat as a sleek black BMW rounded the final curve of the ranch's entrance road, its pristine surface gleaming in the afternoon light like a predator's hide. Even at a distance, she could make out the familiar silhouette behind the wheel—broad shoulders, perfectly styled hair, the kind of confident posture that came from a lifetime of having the world arrange itself according to his desires.
"Rowan," she breathed, his name emerging as barely more than a whisper while ice formed in her veins.
The car pulled to a stop near the main house with mechanical precision, the engine cutting off to leave an silence that felt heavy with threat. For a moment, nothing happened—no movement from within the vehicle, no indication of the driver's intentions. Then the door opened, and Rowan Thorne stepped out onto the gravel with the same calculated grace she remembered, every movement designed to command attention and establish dominance.
He looked exactly the same—impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, his dark hair styled with the kind of casual perfection that required significant time and money to achieve. Even here, in the middle of rural Montana, he carried himself like he owned everything he surveyed, like the ranch and its inhabitants were simply props in a stage production starring him.
Marigold felt her entire body tense as if preparing for physical attack, every instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to do anything except face the man who had humiliated her so thoroughly and publicly. But anger was rising alongside the fear—hot, righteous fury at the audacity of him coming here, ofinvading the sanctuary she'd built for herself, of threatening the peace she'd fought so hard to achieve.
"Who the hell is that?" Flint asked, moving to stand beside her in the doorway, his voice carrying the kind of protective edge that suggested he'd already sized up the situation and found it wanting.
"My former fiancé," she managed, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "The one who humiliated me at the gala."
Understanding flickered across Flint's features, followed immediately by something dark and dangerous. "Want me to make him leave?"
The offer was tempting—God, how tempting it was to let someone else handle this confrontation, to hide behind the protection of people who actually cared about her wellbeing. But some part of her knew that she needed to face this herself, needed to prove to herself that she was strong enough to handle whatever Rowan had brought to her doorstep.
"No," she said quietly, squaring her shoulders and stepping out of the workshop. "I need to deal with this."
