Page 63 of The Convict Gets His Girl

He jerked his head to the side of the store. "I'm good. I rode Gladys into town."

"Wanted more time away from the ranch and your mom, did ya?" Holly laughed and opened her car door. "I don't blame you at all. Enjoy your day out on the town."

"You too, have a great night, and drive safe," he replied, offering her a supportive nod. She gave him a tired smile and shut the door behind her, pulling away and leaving him alone with his thoughts in the late afternoon light.

With a deep breath, he turned back to the grocery store, steeling himself for his own modest shopping. He needed enough to get through a week at the cabin—no frills, just necessities. He'd left his own basket inside, knowing that Holly would want to know her own total and would probably pay him back whether he wanted her to or not.

As he re-entered the store, the same pair of elderly ladies emerged, their conversation halting as they eyed him. Their noses lifted ever so slightly, disdain etched into the tight lines around their mouths. They skirted past without a word, their silence louder than any critique. But he didn't need to hear their thoughts; their judgment was clear as glass.

Chase shook off the sting of their silent condemnation and focused on his own list: bread, milk, eggs, some vegetables, and meat. He wanted to try a new recipe he'd found online.

His jaw set with determination as he carried his basket down the aisles, picking out the simple ingredients that would sustain him in his self-imposed isolation.

"Self-reliance," he murmured to himself, a mantra against the tide of doubt that tried to seep in with every dismissive glance. He was more than his past, more than the whispers and wary looks. He had to be.

Otherwise, how would anyone ever love him? Jewel might not, but maybe someday, someone else would.

Chase's fingers tightened around the cold metal of the basket's handle as their whispers echoed in his mind, their disdainful glances like daggers to his already vulnerable sense of self. He maneuvered through the aisles with mechanical precision, each item he placed in his basket a tiny triumph against the gnawing doubt that clung to him like a shadow.

Can you really take care of a child?The question boomed in his head, its volume amplified by the imagined voices of the people around him. Destini's face flashed before his eyes—the not so little girl who might be his, the embodiment of a future he was both desperate for and terrified of.

"Convict doesn't mean incapable," he muttered under his breath, a feeble attempt at self-assurance. But the label clung to him, a brand marking him as less-than in the eyes of many, a constant reminder of the life he had once led and the barriers it erected between him and the world he now yearned to belong to.

At the checkout, the rhythmic beep of the scanner was a metronome to his racing thoughts. Chase paid for his groceries, avoiding eye contact with the new cashier, her benign curiosity just another reminder of how far he felt from normalcy. He quickly bagged his items, feeling the weight of each can and box as if they were bricks in the walls he'd built around himself.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot as he approached his horse, an animal that never judged him, that accepted him as he was. He carefully placed the groceries into the saddle bags over the horse's back, securing his modest provisions, his hands working deftly even as his mind wandered down darker trails.

Mounting, he took one last look at the storefront, the memory of the old ladies' scorn lingering like an aftertaste. With a gentle nudge, he coaxed the horse into a steady trot, the rhythm of her hooves on the pavement a soothing counterpoint to his troubled thoughts.

The fact remained that he was a convict, but their opinion wasn't the one that mattered to him. Destini was his priority right now, at least until they found out who her dad was.

Would she be better off with Hunter? The question haunted him, pulling at the edges of his desire for family, for normalcy. The thought of Destini calling on Hunter, relying on him instead of Chase made his chest tighten, a sharp pang amidst the dull ache of inadequacy.

But deep down, beneath the layers of self-doubt and societal judgment, there was a kernel of hope, a flicker of longing for what could be. As the town disappeared behind him and the open road stretched out ahead, Chase allowed himself to imagine a life where he was more than his past, where he was worthy of love, of family.

At the center of that dream was Destini—a girl he'd never met—and Jewel—the girl he'd never forgotten but had to let go.

ChapterTwenty-Three

The gravel crunched beneath her truck's tires, each rotation feeling like a countdown to something uncertain. The envelope sat on the seat beside her, its crisp edges drawing her eye like an accusation. White knuckles gripped the steering wheel, her breath shallow and quick.

Chase sat motionless on the wide wooden porch, the old rocking chair creaking a rhythmic protest against his weight as she got out of her truck. His silhouette was stark against the weathered farmhouse, unchanging as she approached.

The October wind swept across the ranch, carrying the sharp scent of dying grass and impending rain. Jewel's legs felt heavy, each step up the wooden steps a deliberate effort. Her body was betraying her again—the familiar tremors of a Lyme attack gathering like storm clouds at her edges.

She'd called both brothers earlier, her voice tight and controlled. Now, facing Chase, the weight of the unspoken hung between them like a physical barrier. The letter—that damn letter—felt radioactive in her sweaty grip.

On the one hand, she was glad she'd convinced Destini to take it earlier. When she'd visited Houston weeks ago, Destini had been withdrawn and sullen. There'd been no drawing her out of her attitude. It had scared Jewel, and she knew it was time to put her foot down and insist Destini move to Crimson Creek.

She just didn't know how to make it happen without losing her daughter, emotionally, forever. The stress of it was getting to her, the stress of worrying about her in Houston without her mama when they'd been each other's rocks for fifteen years.

Her muscles ached from weeks of overworking, of avoiding, of pushing through. The silence from Chase was more punishing than any words he could have spoken. The weeks since they'd slept together had been a minefield of avoidance. Chase had texted and called that first week, but nothing since then.

Another gust of wind made the porch boards creak. Chase remained motionless, a sentinel waiting, watching. She ached to crawl onto his lap and relax into the rocking. Her dad had done that with her when she'd been a kid, right before her mom had died.

Chase's body language didn't welcome her though, so she remained standing and leaned against the porch railing in front of him.

His eyes bore into hers, cold and unyielding. Not a muscle moved in his face as he seemed to search warily in her soul.

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