Page 67 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

Chance blinked. “Wait. You mean …?” The edge in his voice lifted slightly in disbelief. “You boughtLucillewith?—?”

“With money my mom gave me,” Willow said, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know it was from …thatmoney. Not at first. I should have asked questions, but I didn’t. It felt like a gift. Like she was proud of me. I just wanted to believe it was clean.”

Chance stared at her, stunned.

“I didn’t mean to deceive anyone,” she said. “I swear. I would’ve never taken that money if I’d known where it came from. By the time I found out, the car was bought and paid for. I also used a little bit to pay for school. When everything came out, when Mom got arrested and my uncle disappeared, I didn’t have anything left.”

She paused, waiting for a reply.

Chance shook his head once, muttering under his breath, “Lucille.”

She might have smiled at the reference if his expression hadn’t turned so … cold.

He turned away suddenly, running a hand down his face before letting out a frustrated breath. “I need a minute.”

“Chance—”

But he was already walking away, back through the trees, his figure growing smaller as he moved toward the pasture.

Willow stood still for a long time, heart thudding painfully. Her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

She had wanted to protect this new life from all the bad news from the past. But now that the whole truth was out, and he hadn’t taken it well, all she could do was watch him walk away.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER

The kitchen never stopped.

Not for grief.

Not for guilt.

It had been forty-eight hours since they lost Ace. Forty-eight hours filled with shock, then phone calls, then neighbors dropping by with casseroles—Willow was grateful for the extra freezer in the mudroom—and nonstop chatter mixed with moments of utter silence.

Through it all, Willow kept moving. It was her job, yes, but it proved her survival too. The rhythm of the ranch kitchen had always been steady—dawn light, coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, mouths fed. Over the past day, though, Willow found herself anchored to that cadence like she was hanging onto a lifeline in a rising tide.

Hours after the news spread like fire through the ranch, Willow spotted Chance standing near his truck by the main house, head bowed, the muscles in his back and shoulders tense.

She scurried over and pulled him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Chance.”

He responded by wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck, his embrace tight, almost desperate. But he didn’t say a word, and she didn’t push.

She told herself that his silence was a sign of grief. Of course, it was grief.

That still small part of her, the voice that ran outside of hers offering up counterpoints to her inner pep talks, worried about the damage she’d done to their relationship. She’d wounded him by not being completely upfront about her uncle’s blackmail—and what he had on her.

And beneath the storm of silence that hung between them, she wondered if the wound she’d inflicted still stung.

So, she turned on the jets, working longer and harder. She would not let one mouth go unfed, door be unanswered, or dish stay unwashed. Running the kitchen kept her from spiraling from questions without answers.

Late afternoon sun spilled through the windows now, and for one hot second, Willow allowed herself to take in the view. It was her favorite kind of day yet felt unfair without Ace in it.

A stock pot simmered on the back burner, the aroma of chicken, celery, onion, and herbs wafting through the kitchen. Two loaves of bread cooled on a rack, and another pair browned in the oven. If ever there was a time for comfort food, this was it.

Willow moved between counters, wiping them down whether they needed it or not. She folded the same towels three times, her body running on repetition, habit, and the need to keep doing something. Anything helpful.

Eli clomped inside the kitchen, and Willow winced, picturing caked mud all over her swept floor. “Smells good, chef,” he said, his voice upbeat like he was trying extra hard today. “This place smells suspiciously better than my mom’s kitchen ever did.”

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