Page 22 of Ghosted Cowboy
"He asked you out? Gran, that's wonderful!"
"We're just two people enjoying each other's company." But her eyes went bright again. "Now stop deflecting. Tell me about Ransom."
I set down the dust rag, leaned against the counter, and let out a long breath. "He told me everything. About Aiden, the cartel, why he left."
Gran's eyes widened. "The cartel?"
"Aiden got mixed up with drug dealers. Death threats. Ransom had to get him into witness protection—couldn't contact anyone for months. By the time he could..." I traced the grain of the wooden counter with one finger. "I think he was too scared I'd already moved on. Thought it was too late."
"Oh, sweetheart." Gran's expression softened with understanding.
"I get why he did it. How could I not? Aiden's his brother. He was saving his life." My voice dropped. "But understanding doesn't make the last five years disappear. It doesn't erase all those nights I wondered what I'd done wrong, or all the times I checked my phone hoping for just one message."
"No," Gran agreed. "It doesn't. But forgiveness isn't about erasing the past. It's about choosing what kind of future you want."
"What if he leaves again? What if something happens with his family, or the ranch, or—"
What if he doesn't?" She took my face in both hands, the way she used to when I was small. "What if this is your second chance? Your real chance? Josiah's right—you never get over your first love. But honey, if you're lucky enough to get them back?" Tears welled in her eyes. "You grab on with both hands and you don't let go."
I thought about Tuesday night. About Ransom's confession, the rawness in his voice when he'd told me he'd never stopped loving me. About the way he'd held me after, like he was afraid I might disappear. About waking up Wednesday morning to find him still there, watching me sleep with such tenderness my breath had caught.
"I'm terrified," I whispered. "I don't think I could survive losing him again."
"Then don't lose him." Gran pulled me into a hug. "Love always requires courage, Rainey. Always. But you're braver than you think."
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of customers—tourists buying vintage holiday decor, locals picking up consignment pieces, everyone buzzing with festival excitement. Ellie stopped by with a box of ghost-shaped cookies, stayed for coffee, and grilled me mercilessly about "that delicious cowboy" until I kicked her out, laughing.
By the time I left for my afternoon rehearsal break, my phone showed two texts from Ransom:
Miss you
Can't wait to see you later
Those simple words made heat pool low in my belly. I sent back a string of flame emojis and a winky face, then headed toward the theater.
Outside, the October afternoon was cold—that sharp, clear chill that finally felt like real autumn. The cold front had settled in, bringing temperatures down to the fifties, making me thankful I'd grabbed a sweater before leaving.
The theater was already bustling when I arrived. I slipped inside, letting the doors close behind me.
Vivian stood center stage with Clay, blocking out a scene for the finale. Mason worked on something in the wings—I could hear his hammer, steady and rhythmic. A few other cast members milled about, running lines, adjusting costumes.
"Rainey!" Vivian waved me over. "Perfect timing. We're working on your entrance for the séance scene. I want to adjust the lighting—make it more dramatic when Ransom's ghost appears behind you."
I climbed the stage steps, taking my mark while Clay made notes on his worn clipboard. Darcy was in the lighting booth, phone out as always, probably filming for her "behind the scenes" content.
"Positions!" Vivian called.
I moved to center stage, right beneath the main chandelier. Above me, the ancient lighting rig creaked—a sound I'd heard a thousand times before, old theater settling, nothing unusual.
Except this time, the creak became a groan.
Then a snap.
I looked up just as the heavy Victorian curtain rod broke free from its moorings, its ornate iron end plummeting straight toward my head.
Time stretched. I saw every detail with terrible clarity—the rust on the metal, the sharp decorative finial, the way shadows played across its surface as it fell.
Then I was flying.
