Page 10 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, and the air in the loft suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. He’s a brick wall with a jawline that could cut glass, and he's currently looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s tempted to throw into the fire.

"Drink the coffee, Juliette."

"I prefer tea. Earl Grey. With a slice of lemon." I’m being difficult. I know I am. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to keep the terrifying reality of my situation from crushing me.

"Black coffee’s what I’ve got. Ruthie might have tea at the house." He turns to go, his shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.

"Wait."

He stops, one hand on the top rung of the ladder.

"What happens now? Your brother wants me gone. My father wants me back in a cage. And you..." I trail off, looking at the cottonwood hawk he left on the table. One wing is smooth and sharply defined. The other remains rough, the blade marks visible beneath the morning light. Even unfinished, it’s beautiful—a startling contrast to the calloused hands that made it.

"And I’m keeping you here." Each word comes out slow and deliberate. "I told Andy. You stay."

"I'm not a responsibility, Cag. I'm a person."

"You're mine to look after. Same thing."

He disappears down the ladder before I can answer. Safety shouldn't feel this much like someone else making the decision for me, even when part of me wants to stay.

I force myself out of the cot, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. Every muscle in my body aches from yesterday’s escape, but nothing is broken except the life I left behind. I need clothes. I can’t spend the rest of my life wrapped in a Kramer-issued blanket.

A simple cotton dress lies folded on the stool. A note is pinned to the collar in Linda’s neat handwriting.

Thought you might need this.

I pull it over my head. The fabric is soft and practical, falling just below my knees. No hand-stitched lace. No hidden hooks. No boning designed to force my body into somebody else’s idea of perfection.

It isn’t armor, and it isn’t a cage.

It’s just a dress. One I’m choosing to wear.

I catch my reflection in a small, cracked mirror hanging near the washbasin. My chestnut hair is a disaster of knots from the veil, the truck, and a night spent sleeping in pins. My brown eyes look huge in my pale face, shadowed by exhaustion. I look like a woman who escaped one life before she had time to build another.

I grab the coffee—it's strong enough to strip paint—and head down the ladder.

The main floor is quiet except for the steady movement of Cag’s hands at the workbench. Sunlight pours through the open barn doors, illuminating dust and the polished sheen of dozens of saddles. He’s cleaning a piece of tack, his movements fluid and practiced.

Near the door, a woman is standing. She’s tall, with a kind face and a sketchbook tucked under her arm. This must be Linda, Andy’s wife. She looks at me, and for a second, I expect judgment. I expect her to see the heiress who brought trouble to their doorstep.

Instead, she smiles. It’s a soft, knowing thing.

"You must be Juliette," she says, her voice as gentle as a summer breeze. "I brought you some chamomile tea. And a little something to brighten the space."

She sets a steaming mug on a nearby barrel and slides a small piece of paper next to it. It’s a pencil sketch of a single magnolia blossom. My scent.

"Thank you," I whisper, genuinely touched. "I... I'm sorry for the mess I've brought here."

"The Kramers are used to messes," Linda says, glancing at Cag’s broad back. "And they’re even better at cleaning them up. Stay close to him, Juliette. He’s sturdier than he looks."

She gives me one last reassuring smile before slipping out through the barn doors. I take a sip of the tea. It’s perfect.

I move closer to Cag, watching the way his muscles ripple under his t-shirt as he works. He’s focused, his brow furrowed in concentration. There’s a scar on the back of his hand, a jagged line that speaks of a life lived hard.

"You whittle," I say, leaning against a post. "The bird. It’s beautiful."

He doesn't look up. "It’s just wood, Juliette."