Page 26 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“Then why does it seem like I’m wasting everything?” The confession rips free, tearing through whatever remained of my composure. “All those years of school and shifts and patients, and now I’m collecting eggs on a ranch in the middle of nowhere while my career sits in Ohio waiting for me to stop being a coward and come home.”

“Is that what you are?” His hand slides from my back. The loss makes me cold despite the climbing temperature. “A coward?”

I finally turn to face him. He’s standing with the rising sun behind him, painting his edges gold, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Waiting, assessing, giving me space to destroy us both with my answer.

“I ran away.” The admission costs me every remaining scrap of pride. “Walked out mid-shift. Drove three days without a plan. Ended up in a meadow because I saw a sign and couldn’t keep driving. That’s not brave. That’s just—broken.”

“That’s survival.” His hands curl at his sides, the restraint visible in the white knuckles, the locked shoulders, the controlled cadence of his words. “You gave everything you had until you had nothing left. Walking away wasn’t cowardice. It was the only choice you had left that wouldn’t kill you.”

The words land wrong. They sit in my gut like stones instead of absolution. My throat closes around the next question. “What if I’m just using you? Using this place? Hiding here until I have to face reality?”

“Are you?” The challenge sharpens his tone. “Are you using me?”

The question makes me flinch. “I don’t—maybe. I can’t tell what I’m doing or why I’m here or what happens when—” I cut myself off before the thought completes. When you discover I’m not worth the effort. When this becomes too much work. When I disappoint you the way I’ve disappointed everyone else.

He moves closer. One step, then another, until he’s within reach and I have to look upward to meet his eyes. His hands frame my face, palms cupping my jaw. The tenderness of the gesture cracks the foundation I’m standing on.

“You’re here because you chose to stay.” Each word lands with conviction that makes my bones ache. “You chose this every morning for three weeks. That’s not hiding. That’s building a life.”

“But what if I’m wrong?” The question comes out small, scared, revealing every insecurity I’ve been trying to hide. “What if I go back and discover I threw away my entire life for—for chickens and a man I barely know?”

His expression shifts. The light behind his eyes dims. His hands drop from my face, and he steps back. The distance between us opens like a chasm. I want to close it, but my feet have rooted to the ground.

“Then go back.” The statement is flat, empty of everything except resignation. “Call Dr. Meekins. Take the job. Go home to Ohio and your career and everything you worked for.”

The words detonate inside me. “Eli—”

“I won’t make you stay, Jessie.” His hands remain fisted at his sides. I can map the tremor running through his forearms where the muscle fights against restraint. “I won’t make this decision for you or tell you what you should want. You have to decide what you’re worth.”

“I’m trying.” My voice breaks on the words. “I’m trying to decide, but I can’t tell who I am without the hospital. Without the patients. Without—”

“Without the career that destroyed you?” The intensity in his tone makes me step back even though he hasn’t raised his voice. “You’re so terrified of being worthless that you’d rather return to the place that shattered you than risk discovering that you deserve to be happy just as you are.”

The accusation is a bomb detonating between us. “That’s not fair.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” He closes the distance I’d opened. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that strips away every lie I’ve been telling myself. “Tell me you’re questioning whether you might fall in love with me. Whether this is real. Whether what we have is worth choosing.” His voice drops lower, rougher around the edges. “You can’t because that’s not what you’re afraid of. You know exactly how you feel. You’re just terrified you don’t deserve to keep it.”

The truth of it seizes my lungs. My hands shake. I shove them in my pockets to hide the tremor, but he’s already witnessed the reaction. Already cataloged another piece of evidence that I’m exactly as broken as I fear.

“I need time.” The request comes out barely above a whisper. “I need space to think.”

“Fine.” He steps back, creating distance that spans miles despite the physical proximity. “Think. Figure out what you want. But Jessie?” He waits until I meet his eyes. His expression makes my knees weak. There’s pain, raw and unfiltered and directed at me. “I don’t know how long my heart can stick it out right here, right now. You’ve got one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, and you’re pissing all over today. So when you’re done thinking, you need to decide. Stay or go. All in or walk away. I’m worth more than halfway, and so are you.”

He turns and walks toward the barn without looking back. I stand in the morning sun tracking his retreat. My sternum aches. My hands won’t stop shaking despite being buried in my pockets. The egg basket sits forgotten on the workbench. I can’t remember why I came here or how to function past the static filling my skull.

The coop door hangs open. Ruckus struts out, eyeing me with avian suspicion. I should chase him back inside, but my body refuses commands. Refuses to move past the place where Eli walked away and took every scrap of certainty with him.

You’re too good to waste on chickens, sweetie.

The words circle. I pull out my phone with fingers gone numb. Dr. Meekins’ number is right there in my recent calls. One tap and I could call her back. Could accept the position. Could pack my car and drive back to the life that makes sense in theory even if it killed me in practice.

My thumb hovers over the screen. The phone’s glass is cold against my palm. A bead of sweat tracks down my spine despite the morning cool, and I register the disconnect of my body temperature spiking while my hands have gone ice-cold. Panic or decision or both.

I don’t press call. I don’t delete the number either. I stand there holding my phone like it’s a Magic 8-Ball that will tell me what I’m supposed to want. The sun climbs higher while Ruckus disappears into the pen, and I remain frozen at the fork that will determine the rest of my life.

The day passes in fragments I can’t connect into a coherent narrative.

I avoid the lodge. Avoid the barn. Avoid anywhere Eli might be because seeing him will require explaining why I’m still here when I should be making a decision. Sloane finds me at noon sitting on Bluebonnet’s porch staring at the tree line. A Mason jar of fresh-cut wildflowers sits on the railing where it wasn’t this morning, bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush, stems still fresh from cutting. He left them while I was hiding, kept showing up even after I’d pushed him away. I don’t touch them. Don’t acknowledge the gift or the man who gave it. Just let them sit there wilting in the climbing temperature while I count fence posts and try to remember how to make decisions that aren’t about survival or sacrifice.