Chapter 7

A week after the confrontation at the general store, life on the ranch had settled into a new rhythm.

Gwen worked alongside Ethan and the hands without hesitation now. She sat at the table for every meal. She slept in her room upstairs with the door fully closed—a small thing, but Ethan noticed.

She was building a life, not just surviving one.

But something had shifted between them since that day in town. Something unspoken but present, like the air before a summer storm.

They were careful around each other now—not distant, but aware. Every accidental touch lingered a moment too long. Every shared glance held weight.

Ethan knew what he wanted. He’d known for weeks, maybe since that first night by the campfire when she’d asked if he’d be mad if she ran.

The question was whether she was ready to hear it.

It was evening, a week to the day since Dry Gulch.

Supper was done. Dishes washed. Tom and Jesse had headed to the bunkhouse. The house was quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the soft sound of Gwen mending a torn shirt at the table.

Ethan sat across from her, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands, watching her work. Her fingers were quick and sure with the needle—surprising, given how rough her hands were from ranch work.

She glanced up, caught him watching. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ethan said. Then, after a pause: “You know, Gwen ... I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

She set down the shirt, her eyes wary. “About what?”

“In fact,” Ethan continued, “you’re all I’ve been thinking about.”