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Delaney stood just off the round pen’s edge, the morning sun already warm on her neck despite the September chill still clinging to the grass. Day eight of being in Montana. The first real shooting day, and her script had spilled out of the notebook and onto this land like it belonged here all along. She rolled her shoulders under the stiff new work shirt, the kind June would wear before the ranch broke it in. Everything felt electric. Alive in a way her last three studio pictures never had.

The property buzzed behind her. Production trucks lined the driveway, cables staked and taped through the dust. The riggers had been up on ladders all day yesterday. A generator hummed low and steady. Crew moved with purpose, calling out adjustments to light stands and reflectors while Kendra Walsh called the next setup from her clipboard. The ranch no longer felt like Claire’s quiet kingdom. It had turned into a set, full of voices and footsteps and the clack of equipment cases. Delaney’s pulse kicked up every time she took it in. This was hers. Not some executive’s vision. Hers.

Vivian Hale leaned against the round pen rail beside her, script pages folded in one hand. They’d spent the last hour running lines between takes, easy now that the ice had broken the morning she arrived. No awkward Hollywood small talk. Just two women who both wanted this story to work.

“That last take had real weight,” Vivian said. “The way you let June hesitate before answering Emma. Perfect.”

Delaney offered a quick smile, the compliment landing warm in her chest. “Thanks.”

The morning hummed around them. Claire’s voice carried from the barn area, steady and low, directing someone. Delaney’s gaze drifted that way before she could stop herself. There. Claire stood near the south doors with Jess Carver, the stunt rider who’d rolled in yesterday.

Delaney eyed the stunt rider’s hair, dyed close to her own, relieved that someone else would be handling the fast riding later this week. Claire adjusted the gelding’s bridle, one forearm flexing under her rolled sleeve, her loose blonde bun catching the light. She looked completely at home in the chaos, like the crew and trucks and lights were just another chore to manage.

A week of early lessons, shared dinners, Claire’s hands correcting her seat on Maple, and still nothing. Claire’s blue eyes never lingered. Her voice stayed professional, clipped. Every night Delaney had tried for one more scrap, asking about the rescue horses, about the old stunt days. Claire gave answers, short and honest, then found a reason to head to the barn or her office. Indifferent. Polite. Exactly what Delaney should want right now.

It was for the best. Really. She had to nail this. The lines. The performance. The way June was supposed to fall in love with this place and the woman who ran it. Delaney couldn’t afford to chase the real version of that story. Not when her own burnout had finally started to crack open and let something like drive back in.

She walked back to the round pen, where Maple waited tied to the rail, ears flicking at the unfamiliar voices. The mare looked unbothered by the crew, by the cameras, by any of it. Claire had promised she would. Delaney reached out and ran her hand down the chestnut neck, feeling the coarse hair and solid warmth. Grounding. This was why she’d come. Not the lights or the buzz or even the chance to prove she could write something that mattered.

Her chest loosened another notch. For the first time in two years she wasn’t trying so hard just to get through the day. The fatigue had lifted somewhere between the first riding lesson and this morning’s dawn call.

She actually wanted to be here. Wanted to get the next take right, not because the investors needed their money back but because these characters deserved it.

The thought made her straighten. She scanned the set again: the caterer setting out coffee near the equipment tent, Tom Brandt bent over his monitor, Nadia Reyes walking the perimeter with her spiral notebook. The Larkspur peaks stood sharp against a pale blue sky, no clouds yet, the air carrying hay and horse and the faint metallic tang of equipment. Sunset wouldn’t hit until after eight. Plenty of daylight left to shoot the riding lesson montage.

Claire had disappeared into the barn with Jess. The indifference shouldn’t sting. It didn’t, not really. Claire had built this life away from everything Delaney represented. Of course she wouldn’t look twice at a twenty-six-year-old actress playing dress-up on her ranch.

The crush was one-sided, growing heavier each day with every quiet correction during lessons, every shared silence over the farmhouse table. But the movie came first. Her own heart had no business getting tangled up in any of it.

“Ready for the next one?” Vivian asked.

Delaney nodded, forcing her focus to the script pages in her own hand. The words looked different out here, grounded in dirt and sunlight instead of her laptop screen. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The crew moved around them, voices rising and falling. Someone laughed near the craft table. A walkie-talkie crackled. The ranch would be her life for the next three weeks. She wanted this—work that mattered, not the manufactured stories her publicist spun for interviews.

Claire reappeared at the barn doors, Ranger’s lead in one hand, Jess riding Copper beside her toward the outdoor arena. Delaney’s eyes caught on them for half a second too long.

Delaney had a job to do, and for the first time in forever it felt like the exact right one. She turned back to the round pen, to Maple, to the scene waiting to be shot. It could stay buried under all this new energy. It had to.

Because if Claire ever looked at her with anything but professional distance, Delaney wasn’t sure she could keep her hands to herself.

8

The Dutch oven sat on the lowest rack of the cast-iron range, the dial turned down to warm. The braised beef had been ready since seven, filling the timber walls of the kitchen with the rich, heavy smell of seared meat and thyme.

Claire leaned against the counter, watching the twilight bleed out over the hay meadow. Sunset had come and gone over the Larkspur Range, leaving a faint purple stain across the western horizon. Down in the meadow, the base camp generators had finally dropped to a quiet hum. Security lanterns flickered by the catering tent, but the rest of the ranch had settled into silence.

She had forgotten to ask Delaney what time she wrapped today. That was a rookie oversight.

Having someone else in the house usually grated on her after forty-eight hours. She liked her quiet mornings, and the predictable rhythm of her life. But Delaney didn’t crowd the space. She moved through the kitchen with a soft, cautious respect, leaving her shoes in the mudroom and listening when Claire spoke. The extra conversation in the evenings didn’t bother Claire anymore. Neither did the faint, clean scent of shampoo lingering in the upstairs hallway.

The cattle guard rattled at the end of the lane. Headlights swept across the kitchen window, followed by the crunch of gravel as the rented SUV pulled up to the side entrance.

The mudroom door swung open. Heavy thuds echoed as Delaney kicked off her work boots, the thick leather ones Claire had made her buy at Juniper Falls Feed & Tack, and dropped her coat on the bench.

Delaney stepped into the kitchen with her color high. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, loose waves curling around her neck and collarbones. Dust smudged one cheekbone, but her eyes were bright.

Claire could practically feel the positive energy radiating off her. “Hey. How was today?”