Page 20 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

And even if it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to make sure she never regrets it.

Chapter seven

Jessie

Istand on Bluebonnet’s porch watching the fireflies drift through the meadow, their warm light pulsing in rhythm with nothing I can name. It’s been over a week at Granitehart Ranch, the longest I’ve been away from Mercy General in fifteen years.

My grandmother used to call them candleflies, said they were the souls of people we couldn’t let go. I count their flickers because counting is easier than thinking about the nineteen-year-old or Dr. Meekins’ voicemail. Nurse manager. Day shifts. Everything it took me an entire career to achieve. I deleted it without calling back, then sat here trying to summon guilt and got nothing in return except the phantom weight of a teenager’s ribs collapsing under my palms.

Boots on gravel. I know his footsteps now, the rhythm of Eli’s stride, how confident he is when he moves through the space like he owns it. He rounds the corner and stops when he sees me. His flannel’s rolled to his elbows, jeans sitting low on his hips, with hair disheveled like he’s been running his fingers through it. The lamplight from inside paints him in amber and shadow. My body responds before my brain catches up, pulse kicking, skin flushing, that pull in my pussy that’s become as familiar around him as breathing.

“You’re out here alone.” He delivers the observation in that low rasp that bypasses every defense I’ve tried to maintain.

“Watching fireflies.” I gesture toward the meadow. “My grandmother called them candleflies.”

He climbs the porch steps and leans against the railing beside me, close enough that his body heat radiates into the evening cool. “Did she have a story about them?”

“She said they’re the souls of people you couldn’t let go, so they turned into light instead.”

His shoulder brushes mine. The contact is light, almost accidental, except nothing about Eli is accidental. “We’ve both got people we can’t let go of. You out here thinking about that?”

The question lands in my ribs. I could deflect. Could change the subject. But I won’t. He’s giving me an opportunity to process if I need it.

“I can still hear that kid’s mother screaming at me.” My voice comes out calmer than I expected. “I kept going, even when I knew it was too late.”

Eli goes very still beside me. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer empty platitudes. Just listens with attention that makes me feel like he exists only for me.

“His mother’s voice… asking why. Why her son. Why couldn’t I do this one thing?” I press my thumb into my opposite palm, applying pressure out of habit. “I still don’t have an answer.”

The fireflies continue their drift through the meadow, indifferent to the weight pressing on my lungs.

“My body wouldn’t stop,” I continue, words tumbling out now. “Even when I knew. Even when everyone in that room knew he was gone. My hands kept moving. Counting compressions. Checking for a pulse that wasn’t there. Like if I just kept trying, kept pushing, kept giving everything I had, it would be enough.”

“Jessie.” My name is gentle, careful on his lips.

I shake my head. “I can’t stop holding on to them. The ones I lost. They’re all still in here where we’re supposed to learn not to keep them.” I press my free hand against my sternum. “And I don’t know how to exist when I’m not being the hero. When I’m not saving someone or fixing something or giving until there’s nothing left.”

His hand covers mine, palm rough, fingers curling around it. “You don’t stop carrying them. You just get some people around you who’ll help you carry the weight.”

The words dislodge something inside me. I blink hard against the burn behind my eyes, but a tear escapes anyway, tracking down my cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t try to fix what’s broken. Just holds my hand against my own heartbeat and waits.

“I’m thinking about the voicemail, the nurse manager position. Everything I worked my ass off for.” I meet his eyes. His face is shadowed, but his gaze is dark and intent and locked on mine. “I deleted the message without returning the call. After all the years I gave, something must be wrong with me that I don’t have it in me to go back.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” The words are absolute. No room for argument. “You’re healing. That’s what’s happening. Sometimes running away and healing are the same thing.” He shifts to face me fully, and his hand comes up to cup my face. His thumb is gentle as it traces the arch of my cheekbone. “You gave your life for fifteen years. Burned yourself down to keep other people alive. You’re allowed to step back. You’re allowed to choose yourself.”

My vision blurs. More tears escape, and this time he does wipe them away, his thumb catching each one. “What if I don’t know who I am without the hospital? Without the patients who need me?”

“Then you figure it out. Here. With people who aren’t going to let you disappear.” His forehead rests on mine. The contact anchors something rattling loose in my ribs. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to carry it by yourself anymore.”

The sob breaks free before I can stop it. My shoulders shake. My lungs seize, and he pulls me into him without hesitation. His arms come around me. I bury my face in his shirt and let myself fall apart. This has been building for months. For years. The kind of thing that empties you out and leaves you hollow and somehow lighter.

He doesn’t tell me to stop. Doesn’t try to quiet me or minimize what I’m releasing. Just holds me while I shatter against him, one hand stroking my hair, the other pressed firm against my lower back. His heart thrums in my ear, and I focus on that rhythm until mine begins to match it.

The sobs slow. My shoulders stop shaking. I stay pressed against him, face buried in flannel that smells like hay and clean sweat and something uniquely him. His hand continues its path through my hair, fingers combing through the tangles with patience.

“I need to tell you about my last call.” His voice rumbles through muscle into bone. “The real version.”

I pull back enough to see him. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way I haven’t witnessed before. “You don’t have to—”