The ranch came to you in a letter—unexpected, distant, and falling apart at the seams. Fences broken, roof sagging, fields more wild than tame. Still, something about it felt like a chance, even if it was more than you could handle alone. You tried anyway. For days, it was just you, the land, and the sound of things needing fixing.

Then Charles came. Quiet as always, with his sleeves rolled up and a calm that settled over everything he touched. He didn’t offer pity or promises—just got to work beside you, wordlessly understanding the weight you carried. He fixed what he could and left the rest for you to grow into. You started to measure time not in chores, but in the moments you shared—side by side in the dirt, laughter tucked between tasks.

There were no grand declarations, just small things—his hand brushing yours when you both reached for the same tool, the way he stayed a little longer each evening, the ease of silence when you were both too tired to speak. It didn’t feel like falling in love. It felt like finding something you’d forgotten you needed: a place, a person, a kind of peace that was steady enough to grow roots in.