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“I had more. There was a whole speech.”

“I’m devastated.”

“I got tangled.”

“I noticed.”

“Priya.”

Her face went still.

I stopped trying to earn the sentence.

“I love you.”

There.

No joke around it. No grin to change its weight. No fast words after it so she wouldn’t have time to look too closely.

I loved her.

The sentence stood.

Her breath caught.

I closed my fingers around the chain.

“Stay.”

The word came out rougher than the others.

“Stay in Montana. Stay at Carrow Creek. Stay in the bunkhouse or build a house on top of Wyatt’s office if that makes you happy. Produce events. Don’t produce events. Work for yourself. Work for us. Sit on a hay bale and do nothing every afternoon until winter.” I swallowed. “I don’t care what the logistics are. We’ll figure them out after. Just stay with me.”

She touched the paper-thin edge of the horseshoe in my hand.

“Yes,” she said.

Every part of me went quiet.

“Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll stay.”

I searched her face, because Priya said precise things and I needed every edge of this one.

“You’re sure?”

“I drove eleven hours without stopping because you put a badly drawn cow in my bag.”

“Your cow.”

“Our cow.”

My throat tightened.

She took the chain from my palm and held it between us.

“I love you too,” she said. “You exhausting, reckless, kind man. I love you. I love the bunkhouse floor. I love the stupid westerns. I love the rule at nine.” Her voice shook, but she kept going. “I love that you take things out of my hands and never make me feel weak for letting go. I want evenings. I want mornings. I want the ordinary parts.”