Page 22 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

The counter where I'm standing is the same counter she leaned against the first time I kissed her. The same counter where her mug sat next to mine every morning for two weeks. The drying rack holds one mug tonight. One plate. One set of silverware.

Back to one.

My phone is in my hand. I've typed three messages and deleted all of them because none of them say what needs saying, and what needs saying can't be said in a text. It needs to be said standing in front of her, looking her in the eye, with my hands where she can see them and my walls on the ground where they belong.

Nothing tying you here.

I said that. Looked at the woman who put her bare feet in my creek and fought me over fence lines and drank terrible coffee at my kitchen table every morning. The woman who traced the scar on my ribs and kissed it. And I told her nothing was tying her here.

My father, if he were alive, would kick my ass from one end of this property to the other.

At midnight, I call my mother. She picks up on the second ring because mothers don't sleep when their sons are in trouble, even when their sons are thirty-four and should know better.

"I messed up."

"Tell me."

So I tell her. All of it. The email from the landlord. The development group. The fight. What I said. What she said back. The look on her face when she told me I was pushing her away because it was easier than being terrified.

Mom is quiet for a long time.

"She's right," she says.

"I know."

"So what are you gonna do about it?"

I look at the space heater on the table. The kitchen that felt full this morning and feels empty tonight. The east window that faces her cabin.

"Something stupid. Something big."

"Good." Mom's voice goes soft. "Your father would say the same thing."

"Dad would've gotten it right the first time."

"Your father proposed to me three times before I said yes. The first two times he forgot to actually say the words because he got nervous and just handed me the ring. The Rawlins men have never been good with words, Tate. But they've always been good with actions."

We hang up. I sit at the kitchen table until two a.m., staring at the phone number I pulled from the county records office three days ago when Piper first mentioned her landlord.

At six a.m., I call Greg Horton.

The conversation takes twenty minutes. Greg is a reasonable man. The development group offered fair market value for the cabin and the ten-acre parcel. Nothing's been signed. Nothing's final.

"I'll match the offer," I say.

Silence on the line.

"Mr. Rawlins, that's a significant purchase."

"I'm aware."

"The property needs work. The cabin alone requires new insulation, window upgrades, furnace replacement."

"I'm aware of that too."

"Can I ask why you're interested?"

Because the woman who lives there put her feet in my creek on her third day and didn't flinch when the water was cold. Because she drinks box wine out of a coffee mug and argues about property lines in bare feet. Because she's the first person in twelve years who made me want to stay at the kitchen table instead of eating standing at the counter.