Page 73 of Stolen for Keeps
We arrived at the stables.
I forced out a casual tone. “Would it be rude if I left you to deal with the horses on your own?”
Noah barely glanced up from unbuckling his saddle. “Of course not.”
I felt relief. And then guilt, thick and heavy.
“I desperately need the bathroom.”
He nodded toward the barn. “There’s one just beside it. It’s clean. I promise.”
I forced a smile before walking off, my pulse hammering.
But I didn’t stop at the barn. I veered left, past the paddock, my boots nearly silent against the damp grass.
The oak tree stood tall, its branches stretching over the ranch like they’d always belonged. Just like the necklace should’ve belonged to my mother.
My fingers worked fast, pushing past the cool dirt at the base of the tree.
It was still there.
A moment later, the necklace was in my hands. Heavy. And colder than I remembered.
I shoved it into my bag, yanked the zipper shut, and held it tight against my side.
This was it.
I turned back, but Noah wasn’t in the stable.
Panic flared, but I swallowed it down and forced myself forward, my steps careful and measured. Then, just as I cleared the last row of stalls, he was there.
I nearly crashed into him, my heart lurching.
“Hey,” he said, easy and warm, but something in his eyes made my stomach twist. Had they always been that sharp?
He ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight. “I had a great night.”
I should’ve walked away. I should’ve made it quick and clean.
Instead, I let myself have this one last moment.
“Me too,” I said.
“Do this again sometime?” His mouth curved, but his eyes—God, his eyes—told a different story.
“Yeah.”
A lie.
An aching lie.
Visions of what could’ve been flashed in front of me. They were wrenching, almost pushing a tear to spill.
I swore.
More than anything, I wanted mornings that smelled like cinnamon rolls and fresh bread. I wanted to tie on that Butterberry Oven apron and work a job I chose, not one handed to me behind a locked kitchen door. And I wantedthis man. I wanted to press my fingers to the curve of his jaw in the dark, just to make sure he was real. And to fold into him at night and not wake up wondering when it would all be ripped away.
If I let myself dream, really dream, I’d picture us married. A future, with Reko curled at our feet and maybe a second rescue dog snoring beside him. A porch that creaked under Sunday mornings, not escape plans.
