Page 61 of At First Dance
He crouches to slip thick socks onto my feet—quiet, matter-of-fact care that undoes me more than any grand gesture. Then he bends, scoops me up again, and carries me back down the hall.
“I’m staying right here tonight,” I murmur into his shoulder, meaning more than the room.
“I know.” His cheek brushes my hair. “Rest. The world can wait.”
He carries me past the living room and turns left instead of right, shoulder nudging a door open. His room is spare and steady—light blue walls, a plain quilt the color of wheat, and a window cracked for rain. It smells like clean cotton and him.
He lowers me onto his bed—fresh sheet, fresh blanket, pillow just so—and tucks the warm towel around my calves. The mattress gives in a way the couch never could, and my whole body sighs without asking permission. He leaves for a moment,then sets a glass of water and a small plate of crackers on the nightstand, like he’s thought three steps ahead of me all evening.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For everything. For… staying.”
“That part’s easy,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “It’s what I do. I’ll wake you up to give you another dose of medicine later.”
He clicks the lamp down to a soft halo, then drags a folded blanket to the floor beside the bed and settles with his back to the frame, one shoulder within reach—close but not crowding. I slide my hand over the edge until my fingers find his. He doesn’t startle. His palm turns, warm and broad, thumb skimming the back of my knuckles once, calm and sure.
Rain begins its patient tapping along the eaves. Heat lingers on my skin, lavender in my hair, his presence a counterweight on the rope I’ve been gripping too tightly. My eyes fall shut. The last thing I feel before sleep takes me is his thumb tracing that slow circle, keeping time with a house—and a man—that hold steady.
Chapter Eleven – Rowan
I was seventeen. It was the end of summer, hot and humid, and we’d just finished rodeo practice. The sky was streaked with orange. I remember the way she looked under the bleachers—nervous, excited, like the whole world was balanced on the edge of her words.
“I got in,” she said. “Early program. Music school in Nashville.”
I was stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She smiled, a tight little thing. “Because I want you to come with me.”
The air had gone still. My heart jumped into my throat.
“Marissa…”
“I’m serious, Rowan. We’ll figure it out. I can sing. You can work anywhere. We’ll make it. Just say yes.”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
“My whole life’s here.”
“You mean your dad’s life. Your siblings’. You don’t owe them forever.”
I remember how angry she looked. Like I’d betrayed her just by wanting to stay. When I didn’t say anything, she nodded like she already knew the answer. And then she walked away, straight into someone else’s arms.
Two months later, she was pregnant. And the town whisperedmyname first. Too bad it was the furthest thing from the truth.
I still remember the look in my best friend, Brady’s, eyes the first time he saw me after the facts came out. I wanted to deck him. Wanted to burn everything down.
But I didn’t. Because, by then, the damage was done. Because the baby wasn’t mine—but the shame still was.
People assumed. Small towns do that. Marissa never corrected them, not at first. She said she needed time. That she was confused.
By the time anyone knew the truth, I’d already buried myself in guilt and isolation. I pulled away. From her. From Brady. From everyone.
I stayed here. Fixed fences. Worked cattle. Harvested crops. Shut down any part of me that remembered what it was like to believe in more.
And now Ivy’s here, and I’m doing my damnedest not to repeat it. But the past has a crazy way of holding you back when you want nothing more but to move forward.
