Claire Bennet left Siloam Springs nearly twenty years ago with big dreams and no intention of looking back. Now one of Dallas’s top wedding planners, she’s built a life around picture perfect celebrations, and walls high enough to keep love at a safe distance.
But when a high profile wedding takes her back to her hometown, Claire’s carefully planned week is thrown into chaos the second she steps onto Cedar Sky Ranch. That’s when she comes face to face with Tyler Owens. Her first love. Her first heartbreak. The one man she’s never quite been able to forget.
Tyler traded the thrill of chasing storms for the steady rhythm of life on his family’s struggling ranch. He’s poured everything into keeping it afloat, and the last thing he expected was for the girl who once stole his heart to be the one who might help save it.
With a wedding that could make or break the ranch’s future, Claire and Tyler are forced to work side by side. As old memories spark and new feelings take root, they’ll have to decide if this is just business or the beginning of the forever they’ve both been waiting for.
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Summary: In the quiet aftermath of the El Reno tornado, you find Scott Miller sitting alone, stripped of the arrogance he wore the day before. As the devastation stretches out around you, so does the weight of what was said.
Warnings: Mentions of tornadoes, natural disasters, and destruction related to them. Emotional distress and guilt. Sight themes of accountability and redemption.
Prompt: Dawn + Pairing: Scott Miller x Reader (Twisters)
The sight before you when you step out of your motel room the day after the El Reno tornado is not the one you were expecting.
Scott Miller is sitting on the tailgate of a truck, boots just barely off the ground, elbows resting loosely on his knees. The sun has only just started to rise. The day feels different than yesterday. Everything is quieter. Like the atmosphere has chosen not to disturb what has already been damaged
For a moment you debate not approaching him at all. After all the things he said to Javi showed his true colors. If you were being honest with yourself, you feel a little disappointed. You had defended him in length to the rest of the team. You had assured them that he was a decent guy underneath the hard shell.
But after yesterday, well now you weren’t so sure.
You pause near the railing of the balcony and just take him in. He seems…different. Folded inward almost. His attention is fixed somewhere else entirely as he stares at the cracked pavement beneath him. An empty gas station coffee cup rests beside him, forgotten.
You stop a few steps away, unsure whether to announce yourself or let him exist in whatever fragile pocket of silence he’s carved out. Before you decide, he speaks.
“I know I messed up,” he says, voice calm, almost neutral.
It isn’t an apology. It isn’t an explanation. It’s a simple fact offered freely, and for Scott Miller, that alone feels significant. Because the Scott Miller you know wouldn’t own up to a mistake.
You sit beside him, metal of the tailgate cold even through your clothes. From here, the damage is impossible to ignore. Fields flattened. Debris scattered like punctuation marks left behind by violence. A house in the distance stands at an angle that doesn’t look survivable, yet somehow is.
“Really made an ass of yourself yesterday,” you say finally.
Scott exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh, though it carries no humor. “Yeah.”
He rubs a hand over his face, lingering at his eyes longer than necessary. You’ve seen him exhausted before. After long drives, after near misses, after nights where everything went wrong, but this is different. There’s no edge to him now. No forward momentum. Just stillness.
You glance at him, and really look at him. The way his shoulders are slightly hunched. The way he hasn’t reached for the coffee once. The way his gaze keeps tracking the path the tornado carved, like it might answer him if he stares long enough.
“Javi told me what you said to him in the car. About not caring about the people who could get hurt.”
He looks over at you, and something in his expression tightens. You wait. He seems to gather himself, fingers flexing once against his knee.
“I didn’t mean that,” he continues quietly.
You glance at him, surprised by how openly he offers the truth now, in the thin light of morning.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, almost reluctantly. “Kept thinking about where everyone was when the funnel shifted. Kept thinking about you.”
You don’t answer right away, but you take in what he’s saying. You believe him.
“I kept replaying it,” he goes on. “What if someone was hurt because I made the call I did.” His voice drops. “What I’d say if it was you.”
The sun clears the horizon then, light spilling over the wreckage, stripping it of shadows without offering forgiveness. This is the part no one films. The reckoning after survival. Usually by this part the news crews have moved on to the next story and all that’s left are the people who just lost everything they’ve worked their whole lives for.
Scott’s gaze shifts past you, something over your shoulder having caught his attention. You follow it and see the rest of the team emerging slowly from motel rooms. No one speaks at first. Doors close softly. People pause, take stock of what’s still standing, what isn’t. There’s a distance there that hadn’t existed before last night.
Scott notices it too. Something settles into him, heavier than exhaustion.
“I said things,” he says quietly, eyes still forward. “Did things. I don’t know if they’re going to want me back on the team.”
The way he says back tells you he already considers himself apart. Like it’s already been decided that he is no longer a part of the team.
You lean your head against his shoulder, tentative at first, giving him time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. Instead, he exhales slowly, as if grounding himself in the contact.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not loud, not public. Just for you. “For last night. For not saying what I should have and saying what I shouldn’t have.”
You tilt your head slightly, feeling the tension in him ease just a fraction.
“I can talk to them,” You say before pausing, choosing your words carefully. “But if you go back out there with us it has to be as this guy.”
He glances down at you, a question in his eyes.
“The one who owns the mistakes,” you continue. “The one who lets people matter. Not the version who hides behind numbers and excuses.”
Scott nods once.
The sun is fully up now, light washing the night clean without erasing what it took. The team starts to move again. Coffee starts being poured, equipment is checked, and quiet conversations begin.
Nothing is resolved yet, but something has shifted.
Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 8: Fixer Upper
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One broken ramp, one heavy sign, and one very distracting cowboy.
By mid-morning, the barn smelled like fresh cedar, wildflowers, and the faint sweetness of the lavender sachets Claire was tucking into each welcome basket. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, casting stripes across the floorboards as she arranged jars of local honey and carefully wrapped bundles of herbs for the Caldwell guests.
She’d just knelt to reorganize a stack of small gift boxes when the barn door slid open with a groan and thud thud thud as heavy boots crossed the threshold.
Tyler stepped inside with a weathered toolbox in one hand and a long plank of wood balanced across one shoulder. He looked like a damn farmhand calendar came to life, dust in his hair, shirt clinging in places it had no business clinging, confidence radiating off him like heat.
“You,” he announced, “are about to get the deluxe treatment.”
Claire eyed him over her shoulder. “Of what?”
“Fixing that back ramp so your fancy vendors don’t trip in their designer boots.” He set the plank down with a solid whump. “Figure it’s a public service.”
She rose to her feet, dusting off her hands. “Good. Wouldn’t want a lawsuit on my hands before we even say ‘I do’—” She paused, correcting herself with a wry little grimace. “For them, I mean.”
Tyler gave her a look like he’d caught something she hadn’t meant to reveal, but he let it pass. “Sure.”
He crouched near the back ramp and immediately started yanking up loose boards like they’d personally offended him. The hammering started a moment later. Sharp, rhythmic thwacks that echoed off the rafters and vibrated through her baskets.
Claire tried to stay focused on her arrangement of ribbon tied mini jams, but her attention kept drifting. It wasn’t her fault he worked like that: sleeves shoved up, forearms flexing, jaw set in that annoyingly attractive way. Concentration looked good on him. Too good.
She peeked again.
Unfortunately, he caught her this time. Tyler didn’t even pause the swing of his hammer, just glanced sideways, one brow raised, mouth tipping into a slow, knowing smirk.
“Need something, Bennett?”
Heat hit her cheeks faster than she could hide it, and she snapped her attention back to her work.
“Yeah,” she said dryly, “less noise.”
“Oh, I can do quiet.” He drove another nail in, louder on purpose. “But it’s not nearly as productive.”
She grabbed a bundle of rosemary and pretended to arrange it with extreme focus. “Strange, I seem to get plenty done without announcing every nail I’m hammering.”
“That so?”
“Mmhmm.”
“You’re welcome to grab a hammer anytime.” His tone was just this side of teasing, an invitation wrapped in trouble. “If you think you can do it better.
Claire shot him a flat look. “Got welcome baskets that need made, but thanks.”
“Shame,” he said, pulling another board free with a satisfying crack. “Would’ve paid good money to see you swing a hammer.”
“You’re hilarious.” She turned, adding, “Truly. A born comedian.”
Tyler’s chuckle was low and warm, and for some reason it curled down her spine in a way that annoyed her almost as much as it pleased her.
He set another board in place, the muscles in his back rolling under his shirt, and Claire felt her attention snag again. She told herself it was the noise. The proximity. The stress of the wedding timeline.
Not…him. Definitely not him.
But when he paused to wipe sweat from his temple with the back of his arm, sun slanting across his shoulders, she inhaled too sharply, and he heard that too.
Tyler didn’t look up from his work, but his voice carried a thread of amusement.
“You sure you’re not the one making noise now?”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Hammer your boards, Owens.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And that smug smile, the one she could see in her head even without looking at him, stuck around while the hammering resumed.
* * * * * * *
Claire had been in the barn for almost an hour, and the place looked like a welcome basket explosion. Cellophane. Ribbon ties. Mini bottles of locally sourced honey. Even smaller bottles of whiskey and whine. Notes from the bride and groom that needed to be included in each one.
She finally tied the last bow, leaned back on her heels, and sighed. Done. Finally.
She glanced toward the ramp where Tyler was still working. The rhythmic thud of his hammer pulsing through the barn walls like an obnoxiously steady heartbeat. She tried ignoring it. She really did. But whenever he paused for breath, she found her gaze drifting right back to him through the open barn doors.
He was crouched near the bottom of the ramp now, sun hitting his shoulders, T-shirt stretched along his arms. He was so focused that he didn’t notice her lingering. He wedged a pry bar beneath a warped plank and leaned his weight into it…forearms straining, jaw tight.
Okay, that was…irritatingly nice to look at.
She cleared her throat, as if that would clear the thought too.
“All right,” she muttered to herself, brushing stray ribbon from her jeans. “Baskets done. What’s next? Escort cards? Signage? Crying on the floor?”
She looked over the list, and immediately groaned. The big wooden welcome sign the bride’s mother insisted had to be hung by the entrance needed to go up. The one she never should’ve agreed to be installed. The one currently propped against the wall like it was judging her back.
She checked her clipboard. She checked the sign again. Then she checked her arms, which were decidedly not built for hoisting a seventy pound plank across the barn and out to the entrance.
“Nope,” she declared. “Absolutely not. I’ll hire a forklift before I throw my back out before this wedding.”
Except…there was a perfectly good forklift replacement making noise outside.
Tyler’s hammer thunked rhythmically against the ramp boards. Loud enough to be annoying, but also…dependable. Strong. Annoyingly useful.
Claire stared at the sign one more time, squinting like maybe, if she glared hard enough, it would magically teleport to its correct location. It did not.
She sighed, long and theatrical.
“Fine,” she said to no one in particular. “I guess there’s no avoiding it.”
She grabbed her clipboard like a shield and headed out toward the ramp, every step radiating reluctant dignity, the kind that said I am absolutely not going to admit I need help, even though I one hundred percent need help.
Tyler was crouched at the bottom of the ramp, focused, sawdust in his hair, forearms flexing like he’d been cast specifically for this moment in a renovation show. He didn’t notice her at first.
“You know,” she called, crossing her arms, “if you angled that plank two degrees left, you’d get a cleaner line.”
He didn’t even look up. “If you’re gonna critique, Bennett,” he said around a half smile, “you can grab the other end.”
Claire lifted her chin. “Actually, I came to…ask for help. Maybe.”
“Oh?” He finally glanced up, one brow raised, far too entertained. “And what catastrophe brought you out here?”
She gestured vaguely toward the barn. “There’s a…situation.”
“Mhmm.”
“A structural situation.”
He leaned back on his heels. “What needs lifting?”
She glared at his ability to read her so well. He smirked back.
“The welcome sign,” she said. “It needs to go to the entrance.”
Tyler stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and nodded once like this was life or death business.
“Well,” he said, grabbing his gloves, “let’s go get it moved then.”
When they reached the massive welcome sign, Tyler stopped dead, let out a low whistle, and pushed his hat back with one finger.
“Well, hell. No wonder you needed help. This thing’s basically a piece of furniture.”
Claire bristled. “It’s elegant. And handcrafted.”
“It’s heavy,” he shot back, already crouching. “Which is why you should’ve asked me sooner instead of giving it the stink-eye from across the barn.”
“I wasn’t…” She cut herself off. “Just…be careful with it, okay?”
Tyler looked up at her like she’d just requested he perform open-heart surgery on a baby deer.
“Darlin’,” he said slowly, “I’m carrying it. Not chuckin’ it in a river.”
The nickname landed like a hit straight to the sternum. It knocked the wind clean out of her. She told herself it was nothing. A habit. A syllable Tyler probably tosses at every woman under fifty in a ten mile radius. But her pulse still kicked up anyway.
“Still,” she insisted, hovering as he checked his grip, “it’s delicate.”
“It’s a chunk of cedar the size of a door.”
Before she could bite back, he tipped the sign up, balancing the whole thing against his shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing.
Claire blinked. “Is that…comfortable?”
Tyler shrugged one-handed. “Sure.”
“Should you…brace your back? Or something?”
“Claire,” he said, already walking, “stop fussin’.”
“I’m not fussing.” She cleared her throat and tried to pretend she wasn't seconds away from combusting internally.
“You don’t have to show off,” she muttered, far too quickly.
Tyler glanced at her, amused. “Showin’ off would be juggling it.”
“Please don’t.”
“No promises, darlin’.”
There it is again. He tosses the word out casually, but now she hears it differently — like he’s testing it, seeing if it still fits between them.
And unfortunately, it fits too well.
She turned and started marching ahead of him toward the barn entrance, absolutely refusing to let him see the way her stomach flipped like a malfunctioning carnival ride. If she could just get this sign where it belonged, maybe she could get her sanity back.
“Be careful by the gravel,” she warned.
He stepped right into the gravel without hesitation.
“Tyler!”
“What? I got it.”
“That’s not the point!”
“That’s exactly the point.”
She stomped ahead so she wouldn’t have to see his grin, clearing the way toward the main ranch entrance where the sign was supposed to stand. The decorative easel she’d ordered sat waiting beside the gate, metal legs planted firmly.
Tyler stopped in front of it and nodded approvingly. “Alright. Show me where you want it.”
Claire smoothed her hair. Straightened her shirt. Willed her nerves to behave.
“Centered,” she said. “But angled slightly toward the drive.”
“Mmhmm. And do you want it leaning or standing full upright?”
“Leaning, but carefully.”
Tyler adjusted the sign with almost absurd precision, like he was humoring a very bossy ghost. He eased it down onto the easel, hands steady, movements gentle.
Claire hovered at his elbow. “Wait, not that angle.”
“It’s the angle you asked for.”
“No, I meant angled this direction.”
Tyler stepped aside. “Do you wanna fix it?”
She reached out, nudging the sign half an inch. Then another. Then exactly one-sixteenth more.
Tyler watched with crossed arms, amused affection flickering around the edges of his expression. “You sure you don’t want a measuring tape?”
She glared. “I know what straight looks like.”
“That so?” He murmured.
Before she could unpack that comment or decide whether or not it could be considered flirting, the porch door squeaked open. Martha stepped out, dish towel in one hand, the other shading her eyes.
“Well,” she called, voice full of that gentle mischief Claire had come to recognize, “if this isn’t déjà vu.”
Claire froze. “Martha…hi.”
Martha leaned against the porch post, smiling knowingly. “Tyler James, you carried that whole thing by yourself?”
He shrugged. “It’s not that heavy.”
“I heard it scraping the barn floor from the kitchen.”
“That was Claire fussin’, not the sign.”
Claire gasped. “I was not fussing.”
Martha gave her a look that clearly showed she doubted that objection. But she didn’t linger too long on it. “It looks lovely. Kinda like that one you two hung on the edge of town for the Fourth of July festival your senior year.”
Claire’s heart gave a tiny, traitorous kick. Tyler’s jaw flexed once, barely noticeable, but she noticed.
Martha turned to go back inside, tossing one last comment over her shoulder. “You make a good team. Always did.”
The door snapped shut behind her. Silence then spread out around them. Tyler didn’t move. Claire couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him.
Finally he cleared his throat. “Well. That woman sees too much.”
Claire let out a shaky breath. “She really does.”
She turned her attention back to the sign because it was safer than looking at him.
“It looks good,” she murmured. “Perfect, actually. Thanks for helping with it.”
Tyler’s voice was quieter than before, rough around the edges. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”
I’m reading your Tyler Owens series ‘Second Chance at Cedar Sky’ (loving it so far, btw). And I noticed that chapter 3 is a duplicate of chapter 2. Thought I’d let you know in case you weren’t aware :)
Thank you so much for pointing that out! This has been updated and all parts should be correct now :)
Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 7: Market Day
OTHER CHAPTERS CAN BE FOUND ON SERIES MASTERLIST BELOW:
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Fresh produce, old feelings, and gossip as ripe as the peaches.
Martha was sitting on the front porch of the house when Claire walked up, clipboard tucked under one arm.
“I’m heading into town,” Claire said, flipping to the page marked Welcome Baskets. “Need to grab some local flowers, maybe a few baked goods if I can find anything decent.”
Martha smiled. “The farmers’ market’ll have everything you need. Tyler’s heading that way soon if you want to—”
Before she could finish, a voice came from the mudroom. “Heading where soon?”
Tyler stepped inside, dusting off his hands. His hat was pushed back, hair still damp from a shower.
“The market,” Martha said, a knowing lilt to her tone. “Claire was just about to head over.”
He leaned against the doorframe, one brow lifting. “You’re gonna try to fit all that in your fancy SUV?”
Claire crossed her arms. “It’s a Range Rover. It can handle it.”
“Mm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Tell you what, why don’t I drive? My truck can carry more than that thing..”
Martha hid a smile behind her mug. Claire exhaled slowly, weighing her options. The market wasn’t far, but the backroads could be a mess after the rain. And she really didn’t want to deal with unloading everything on her own. At least if Tyler drove, he’d probably offer to help her unload later.
“Fine,” she said at last, snapping the clipboard closed. “But we’re getting coffee on the way.”
“I’ll buy.”
Martha chuckled as they headed towards his truck parked in the drive. “Y’all play nice now.”
Claire climbed in, brushing a faint layer of dust from the seat. The cab smelled faintly of leather and pine, with an old country song humming low through the radio. Tyler adjusted the volume, glancing over at her as he started the engine.
“Buckle up, Dallas,” he said. “Backroads can get bumpy.”
The tires kicked up a little dust as they headed toward town, sunlight glinting off the wet pasture behind them, the air between them light enough to feel almost easy. Almost.
Tyler kept one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh to the beat of whatever old twangy song played on the radio.
Claire leaned her elbow against the window, hair pulled into a loose ponytail that the breeze kept teasing loose. She wasn’t used to quiet feeling this comfortable.
“You always this talkative?” Tyler asked after a few minutes, side eyeing her.
She smirked. “I’m pacing myself. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you before caffeine.”
He huffed a laugh. “Good call. I’m a real delicate flower before coffee.”
They stopped at a roadside café with a porch swing and hand-painted sign that read Bean There, Done That. The bell above the door jingled when they stepped inside. The air smelled like espresso and cinnamon rolls, the low murmur of conversation wrapping around them.
Claire ordered a latte. Tyler went for plain black. Back in the truck, she sipped her coffee while he pulled onto Main Street, the windows cracked to let in the warm wind. The radio shuffled through static before landing on a familiar song, a late ’90s country ballad that used to play on repeat the summer before she left for college.
She froze mid-sip. “No way this is still on the air.”
Tyler’s mouth curved. “You used to know every word.”
Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “So did you.”
He reached forward, and turned it up. And for the next few miles, they both sang. Half laughing, half serious, the lyrics spilling out like muscle memory. Their voices didn’t blend perfectly anymore. Hers had grown softer, his rougher with time. But it still worked in a slightly off pitched harmony somehow.
By the last chorus, they were laughing outright, the truck echoing with sound that felt too big for the cab and too good to stop.
When the song faded, the quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. Just full.
Tyler glanced her way, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Still got it.”
She smiled into her cup. “Guess some things don’t change.”
* * * * * * *
The town square was alive when they made it into town. Sunlight slanted through the trees, and the streets were filled with the hum of voices. Tyler eased the truck into a spot along the edge of the lot, the gravel crunching beneath the tires.
“Guess it’s grown a little,” he said, watching the rows of tents and tables ahead.
Claire pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, scanning the crowd. “A little? They didn’t even have a block worth of stalls the last time I was here.”
“Progress,” he said, shutting off the engine. “You gonna be alright out there, city girl?”
She shot him a look. “Please. I’ve survived Dallas Bridezillas and Mother of the Bride meltdowns. I can handle a farmers’ market.”
“Fair warning, people here still remember you. Probably gonna get cornered a few times.”
She opened the door, balancing her coffee as she stepped out. “Then you better keep up.”
They fell into step together, their pace matching without effort. The smell hit her first: kettle corn, basil, cut grass, and a hint of barbecue from the food trucks lined along Main. Kids darted between legs with dripping snow cones, and dogs tugged their leashes toward anything remotely edible.
Claire’s eyes drifted from booth to booth: woven baskets of sunflowers, mason jars filled with honey, stacks of fresh bread still warm in paper bags. She spotted faces she hadn’t seen in decades. Mrs. Langley from the post office, now selling soaps shaped like roses. Old man Rutledge, still trying to push the same homegrown tomatoes he’d bragged about since the late ’90s.
“Morning, Miss Claire!” someone called. A woman behind a stand of lavender waved, her hair silver now but her smile unchanged.
Claire returned the wave, something soft flickering behind her eyes. “Hey, Jan. It’s been a while.”
“Sure has. You here visiting?”
“Working, actually. Got a wedding out at the ranch next weekend.”
Jan nodded approvingly. “Well, if you need flowers, I’ve got plenty. The good kind, not those imported ones
Claire reached for a bundle of wildflowers, and inhaled, taking in the scent of them.
“These might work for the welcome baskets.”
Jan beamed, already wrapping the stems in brown paper.
As they moved on, Tyler carried the bouquet under one arm, teasing, “You’re gonna have this whole truck filled before we even get to the produce.”
“That’s the goal.”
They passed a small stage where a man with a guitar was playing something slow and familiar. For a moment, Claire paused, the melody catching at a thread of memory she didn’t quite want to tug.
Tyler noticed. “You used to love this song.”
She nodded. “Used to.”
He studied her a second longer but didn’t press. Just adjusted the flowers in his grip and nodded toward the next row of stalls. “Come on. Let’s find you some local honey before Jan chases us down with another sales pitch.”
Claire laughed, letting him steer them deeper into the market crowd.
They hadn’t been walking another five minutes before the first ambush. Mrs. Calloway, still in her wide brimmed sun hat, beamed as soon as she spotted them.
“Well, this is a sight I didn’t think I’d see again.”
Claire forced a polite smile. “Hi, Mrs. Calloway, how are—”
“Good to see you too, ma’am,” Tyler said smoothly, already steering their cart forward with a hand on the handle.
Claire blinked at him. “You just…you can’t just walk away mid conversation.”
He kept his gaze forward, mouth twitching. “Sure I can.”
“She thinks we’re…” Claire dropped her voice, glancing over her shoulder. “Tyler, she thinks we’re back together.”
Tyler didn’t look particularly bothered. “So? Let her think whatever she wants.”
“That’s not…”
He shot her a sidelong glance, easy grin curving his mouth. “You worried about rumors, city girl?”
“I’m not worried,” she lied. “I just don’t want to fuel the small-town gossip mill.”
They moved on, her list in hand, his stride maddeningly unhurried. The next stall was run by a woman around their age with an overgrown ponytail and a tie dye apron. Mandy, maybe? Claire remembered her vaguely from school, though she’d been a few years younger.
Mandy’s eyes widened when she saw them. “No way. Claire Bennett and Tyler Owens, together again.”
Claire laughed awkwardly. “Just here for some work. Not–”
“You could do worse,” Mandy said, leaning on the table, grinning straight at her. “I mean, look at him.”
Tyler didn’t even blink. “She tells herself that every day.”
Claire’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
He handed Mandy a couple of bills. “Appreciate the endorsement.”
Mandy laughed, and bagged a few cucumbers, still eyeing them like she was watching a soap opera unfold. Claire snatched the bag before Tyler could say another word, and stalked off down the next row.
She slowed near a table selling homemade honey, and Tyler slowly caught up with her, stopping to say hello to a few familiar faces.
The vendor, a man in his sixties or seventies with a sun-worn face, and gave them both a smile that had a hidden meaning behind it for sure.
“Good to see y’all back together. Town’s been too quiet without you two.”
Claire opened her mouth, but Tyler beat her to it.
“We’ll take two jars,” he said.
When they walked away, she swatted his arm. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Letting people think—”
He cut her a look that wasn’t quite teasing this time. “Does it really matter?”
The noise of the market seemed to dim a little. The laughter of kids. Someone strumming a guitar in the city park. But the air between them shifted.
“Of course it matters,” she said, but it came out softer than she meant it to.
“Why?” His voice stayed easy, almost quiet. “Because folks’ll talk? They always do. They’ll forget by next week.”
She looked away, pretending to study the jars of jam on the next table. “You don’t get it. You never cared what people thought.”
“And you always did,” he said. Not unkindly, just stating a fact.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her pulse jumping in her throat. He wasn’t wrong.
Finally, she cleared her throat and forced a smile, trying to shake it off. “You really know how to make a farmers’ market existential, huh?”
That earned her a low laugh. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
They continued making their way down the street. At one point Claire knelt to smell a bundle of wildflowers, her hair catching the sunlight like a halo. She asked the vendor questions Tyler couldn’t quite make out because he hung back a few yards, pretending to check his phone but mostly just watching. She fit here more than she realized: boots dusted from being on the ranch, and her shoulders loose for once. The kind of easy that had been missing from her when she first rolled into town.
He shifted the sack in his arms filled with things Claire had picked up “just to sample”. He didn’t really mind though. It felt good, being useful to her again
“Well look at that,” a voice said from behind him, dry and amused. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you carrying bags for her again.”
Tyler turned to see his younger brother standing there in his work jeans, sunglasses hanging from the neck of his shirt, grinning like the devil himself.
Tyler exhaled through his nose. “She needed help carrying stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Caleb’s eyes flicked to Claire, who was now handing a few bills to the flower vendor, smiling in a way that hit just a little too soft for casual. “She looks good, Ty.”
“Don’t start,” Tyler warned, shifting his grip on the sack.
Caleb crossed his arms, eyes still tracking Claire. “What? I’m just saying, seeing her here…it’s like stepping into a time machine. You two were thick as thieves back then.”
Tyler gave a short laugh. “That was a long damn time ago.”
“Long time don’t mean gone,” Caleb said, tilting his head. “You ever actually tell her why you didn’t follow her when she left?”
“Drop it.”
“Or that you drove all the way to Fort Worth that one time and turned around before you hit the city limits?”
Tyler’s jaw locked, the muscle in his cheek ticking hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Caleb gave a knowing shrug. “Sure I do. You’ve been punishing yourself ever since. Acting like sticking close to this place makes up for it.”
Tyler looked past him, to where Claire was laughing with the flower vendor, sunlight cutting across her face. The sound hit him right in the ribs.
Caleb’s tone softened a notch. “She’s here now, Ty. Not wearing a ring. Not runnin’ off. Maybe that’s the universe givin’ you a second chance.”
Tyler met his gaze finally. “Or maybe it’s just business. She’s here for a wedding, not for me.”
Caleb studied him for a beat, then smirked. “You always did know how to talk yourself out of good things.”
Before Tyler could answer, Claire started walking toward them, tote on her shoulder, a bouquet of wildflowers cradled in one arm.
Caleb straightened, grin widening. “Well, speak of the angel herself.”
Claire smiled, slowing as she approached. “Caleb. Wow. it’s been forever.”
“Too long,” Caleb said, pulling her into a quick hug. “You look exactly the same.”
She laughed, stepping back. “You’re lying, but I’ll take it.”
“Nah, just upgraded a little. Dallas looks good on you.”
Tyler shifted beside them. “You done flirtin’ with the wedding vendors, Caleb?”
Caleb just grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll leave that to you.”
Claire blinked, a little thrown, but Tyler gave Caleb a look sharp enough to cut steel. Caleb raised his hands, backing away toward his truck.
“Good seeing you, Claire,” he called, still grinning. “Y’all take care now.”
Tyler gave a low huff of laughter and nodded toward the lot. “C’mon, before the kettle corn stand tempts you again.”
They crossed the lot, the sun high enough now to turn the pavement white hot. Tyler reached the truck first, holding the passenger door open for Claire.
Claire arched a brow, juggling her tote and the flowers she was holding. “You’re awfully polite today.”
He just grinned before walking around the front of the truck, and sliding into the driver’s seat. The air through the open windows was warm, carrying the faint sweetness of the market: kettle corn, sunflowers, something baked with cinnamon. They rode in comfortable quiet for a while with the radio playing and tires humming against the county road.
Claire broke the silence first. “I forgot how good this stretch smells after it rains. Dallas just smells like exhaust.”
“Yeah, well, exhaust doesn't grow wildflowers,” he said, nodding toward the open pasture. “You just don’t get this kind of air in a city.”
“True.” She leaned her arm against the window, wind teasing her hair loose from its clip. “Sometimes I forget how different it feels out here. Slower, I guess. Easier to breathe.”
He glanced at her, sunlight glinting off the rim of her sunglasses. “You always said you couldn’t wait to get away from slow.”
She laughed softly, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. Sixteen-year-old me had a lot of opinions.”
“Yeah, she did,” he said under his breath.
Her head turned just enough to catch him smiling, and she shook hers. “You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?”
The radio switched songs, static fading into a familiar guitar riff. Claire froze for half a beat, then groaned. “Oh my God. This song.”
Tyler barked a laugh. “You used to play it on repeat till everyone hated it.”
“You loved it!” she protested.
“I tolerated it.”
“You sang the harmony!”
He chuckled, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You still remember the words?”
“Don’t test me.”
“Too late.”
He cranked the volume just enough for the old tune to fill the cab, and before she could stop herself, Claire started singing along — a little off-key, a lot more carefree than she’d planned to be today. Tyler joined in halfway through the chorus, and for a moment, they were just kids again — two voices, windows down, the world wide open in front of them.
When the song ended, the quiet settled back in, thicker this time. Claire stared out the window, smiling faintly. “Can’t believe I still know every word.”
A few miles later, the ranch’s long drive came into view, golden grass on either side, fence line stretching straight into the horizon.
“Guess we’re back to work,” she said.
“Guess so,” he replied, but there was something softer in his tone, like maybe he wouldn’t have minded the drive being a little longer.
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Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 6: The Hayloft
Dust, sunlight, and the weight of a name carved in wood.
The morning broke clean and bright, sunlight cutting through the last wisps of fog that clung to the pastures. The rain the previous day had rinsed everything new again. The air was sharp and fresh, the grass jeweled with drops that caught the light like glass. From the driveway where she parked, Claire could hear the hum of bees in the clover and the faint rustle of the horses down by the fence line.
She tugged on her boots that she had bought in town yesterday, and headed toward the barn, binder tucked under her arm. The ground squelched faintly underfoot, but the sky overhead was a perfect, endless blue.
Tyler was already there, leaning against the open barn doors with a mug of coffee in hand. His hair was still damp from a shower, dark at the edges where it curled under his cap.
“Morning,” she called as she approached.
He looked up, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile. “Well, would you look at that. You came prepared.”
Claire glanced down at her boots and smirked. “Don’t want to hear you complain about my city shoes again.”
“They weren’t shoes,” he said, deadpan. “They were liabilities.”
She rolled her eyes, stepping past him into the barn. The air inside was warm, carrying the mingled scents of hay, wood polish, and faint traces of the rain that had seeped through the night before. The fairy lights strung from the rafters swayed slightly in the breeze, catching the sunlight like tiny sparks.
“Looks good in here,” she said, scanning the open space. “The wood dried faster than I thought.”
“Sun came out early,” he said. “Roof held up fine too. I checked it this morning.”
Claire looked at him over her shoulder. “You checked it?”
He shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Didn’t want anything or anyone getting rained on.”
She turned her focus back to the space, flipping open her binder. “Okay, so for today, we’ll start testing the layout. I want to mark off table placement, ceremony flow, and where the band’s setup will go. We’ll need to move some of those hay bales too.”
Tyler groaned under his breath. “You mean my hay bales.”
“They’re not staying,” she said briskly. “They’re blocking where the dance floor will go.”
He gave her a long look. “You’re killing me, Bennett.”
“You’ll live,” she said sweetly.
He chuckled and set his mug aside. “All right, boss lady. Tell me where you want ‘em.”
They worked side by side, shifting the heavy bales to the far side of the barn. The morning light slanted through the open doors, dust motes spinning in the air between them. Every so often, Claire caught him watching her, not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but like he couldn’t quite help it. And she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop.
After a while, she leaned against one of the posts, brushing loose strands of hair out of her face.
“You know,” she said, “you could’ve told me you check on the barn before sunrise every day. Would’ve saved me from showing up before sunrise.”
He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked up at her, smile softening. “Would’ve missed the fun of you tryin’ to boss me around before my first cup of coffee.”
“Who says I was bossing you around?”
“Claire,” he said, eyes dancing. “You have a binder.”
She laughed, unable to argue. “Okay, fair point.”
They stood there a moment longer with quiet filling the space between them. From outside came the sound of a horse whinnying and the slow creak of the windmill turning. Claire closed her binder with a soft thud.
“So,” she said finally, “think you can handle a little more manual labor before lunch?”
Tyler reached for another bale, grinning. “Depends. You gonna help, or just stand there takin’ notes?”
“Someone has to make sure you’re doing it right.”
He shot her a look that made her pulse flicker, but she turned back to her work before he could see it.
By midmorning, the barn had started to look more like a floor plan than a project. Chalk Xs dotted the floor where tables would go. Painter’s tape marked the walkway through the middle of the space that would double as the aisle if it rained and an outdoor reception wasn’t possible. A cluster of crates filled with rentals waited near the door.
Claire stood in the middle of the barn, binder open to a hand drawn floor plan. She traced the imagined flow with her pen. Arch at the far doors, reception tables fanning outward, dance floor centered under the main beam. It was working in her head. Now she had to make it work in real life.
“The only thing I’m not loving,” she said, half to herself, “is where to stash day of overflow. Extra votives, emergency kit, backup linens. Close enough to grab, hidden enough to keep the photos clean.”
Tyler followed her line of sight, then tipped his chin toward the shadowed opening above them. “There’s still space up in the loft. Could use it, if you don’t mind climbing.”
Claire’s gaze lifted. The square cutout in the ceiling yawned quietly, a slice of darker air framed by old wood. The ladder, same one as always, by the look of it, leaned against the joist like it had never been updated or replaced.
Her stomach did a small, traitorous dip.
She hadn’t been up there since high school. Back then, it had been their place. Dust and sunlight and the scrape of his pocketknife carving promises into pine.
“Loft works,” she said, too brisk, snapping her binder shut. “As long as it’s stable and dry.”
“It’s both.” Tyler’s mouth pulled into a small, sure smile. “I checked it this morning.”
Of course he had.
“Alright,” she said, exhaling. “Let’s take a look.”
The ladder complained in soft creaks as Tyler put a boot to the first rung. He tested his weight for a second, then climbed, as if his body remembered the count of these slats the way hers remembered the feel of summer nights.
He disappeared through the opening, the boards above thumping once as he stepped over. A moment later he leaned down, forearms braced on the edge. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” she said, setting the binder at the base of the ladder and dusting her hands against her jeans. “Don’t hover.”
He huffed a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The wood was warm under her palms. She climbed, the barn opening and narrowing around her with each rung, the smell of sun baked timber, a faint sweetness of old hay, the higher hush of the rafters. At the top, Tyler’s hand was there without her asking. She let him take her wrist anyway, just for a second, letting him guide her that last small pull.
Dust motes drifted like tiny planets in shafts of light that cut through the wall slats. Stacks of old square bales that were sun bleached and frayed made low terraces across the loft. On one wall, a couple of antique bridles hung beside a coil of rope and a rusted set of hames, the leather dark with age. Everything smelled of hay and leather and a note of rain that had snuck in overnight and then dried away.
Claire turned slowly, absorbing the angles, counting the beats between floor joists, measuring by instinct.
“This will work,” she said, softer than she meant to. “We can stage extra candles here. Backup florals. Maybe build two low racks for linens, labeled by table number, so volunteers can grab and go.”
Tyler nodded, following the map of her hands as she spoke. “I can throw together racks by tomorrow. I’ve got enough two-by-fours and a box of screws that’s been dying to be useful.”
“Perfect,” she said.
Claire’s hand drifted across the beam again, fingertips brushing through the thin layer of dust until the grooves emerged. They were uneven, rough, but unmistakable.
C + T
The lines were shallow in places, deeper in others, the work of a boy with his dad’s pocket knife, too much heart, and not enough patience. The sight stopped her breath for a second. It wasn’t just the carving itself, it was everything that came with it.
That night came rushing back in fragments: summer air thick with the smell of cut hay, the rasp of crickets in the distance, Tyler beside her with a pocketknife and a crooked grin.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her palm to the letters, thumb tracing the edge of the T until a smudge of dust clung to her skin. Behind her, Tyler’s footsteps creaked on the boards. He didn’t come too close, just far enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back.
She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. “You used to say this place would still be ours one day.”
He looked away, jaw shifting like he was chewing on something unspoken. “Yeah. Guess we were dumb enough to believe that.”
Claire smiled faintly, though it tugged at something deeper. “We were just…kids.”
“Maybe.” He rested a hand on the railing, eyes fixed on the carving. “Or maybe we just didn’t know how much the world can change.”
For a beat, neither of them moved. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of light cutting through the loft slats.
“You ever think about it?” he asked.
She smiled faintly, not turning. “About what?”
He hesitated, then: “About us. About what might’ve happened if you’d stayed.”
Her chest went still. The question hung there between them, heavier than the air in the loft.
She finally looked back at him. “Tyler…”
He met her eyes, and there was no teasing in his face this time. “I’m not tryin’ to make it complicated. I just…” He swallowed, searching for words. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever thought about comin’ back. About me.”
For a beat, the only sound was the slow tick of rainwater still dripping off the eaves outside.
Claire exhaled through her nose, forcing a small, polite smile. “It’s been almost twenty years, Tyler. Life doesn’t exactly wait around that long.”
His brow furrowed, but his tone stayed even. “Wasn’t sayin’ it did.”
“Besides,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the loft, the barn, the ranch beyond. “I figured by now you’d be married. Couple kids. Maybe a dog that follows you around the pasture.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped him, but it didn’t sound amused.
“Had a few chances,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the post. “Never really stuck. Guess no one ever wanted the chaos that comes with a guy who chases storms for a living.”
She looked at him then, studying the way the light caught on his jaw.
“That’s not why,” she said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. “No?”
Claire shook her head. “You’ve just always been…more than most people know what to do with.”
That earned a flicker of a smile. Small but real.
“Guess I could say the same about you.” His gaze softened, lingering on her face. “You got someone waitin’ on you in Dallas?”
The question hit her square in the ribs. For a second, she thought about lying. She thought about saying yes, or saying something neat and easy that would close this space between them again. But she was tired of pretending things didn’t still ache when it came to the divorce. And no matter how hard she tried she’d never really been able to lie to Tyler.
“Not anymore,” she said. The words landed flat, unadorned.
He let out a long breath and nodded toward the beam, voice rougher than before. “Guess that makes us both bad at lettin’ go.”
Claire’s hand drifted back to the carving, tracing the curve of his initial. “Or maybe just bad at pretending we already did.”
Claire moved toward one of the old wooden trunks pushed against the loft wall, its brass hinges dulled with age. She brushed off the lid, leaving streaks through the dust.
“What’s this?” She murmured.
Tyler crouched beside her, helping pry it open. The hinges groaned, and the smell of old hay and paper drifted out. Inside were odds and ends from the ranch’s past: faded bridles, a cracked photo frame, a few dusty Mason jars. Then, beneath it all, a spiral notebook with a torn red cover.
“Holy hell,” he said softly. “You remember that thing?”
Claire blinked. “No way. That can’t be—” She reached in carefully, pulling it free. The front was labeled in messy Sharpie handwriting: “Plans, Dreams, and Dumb Ideas — T + C.”
Her laugh came out a little shaky. “Oh my God. We actually named it that.”
Tyler grinned, tilting his head toward her. “Told you I was a visionary.”
“You were something,” she said, settling onto a haybale as she flipped it open. The first page was covered in doodles: horses, tornadoes, and what might’ve been a sketch of a wedding cake. She snorted. “What were we even doing?”
He sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Planning our future, apparently.”
“Future,” she repeated with a grin. “More like pure nonsense. Listen to this—” She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘Tyler Owens and Claire Bennett will travel the country chasing storms until they save enough to buy a ranch in Texas and adopt at least three dogs.’”
Tyler chuckled low in his chest. “Still think that’s a solid business plan.”
She turned another page, eyes skimming their teenage scrawl. “We were ridiculous.”
“Hopeful,” he corrected quietly.
That sobered her just a little. “You kept this up here all these years?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t even know it was still here. Thought it got tossed when we cleaned the place out a few years back.”
She flipped to the middle, pausing when she found a folded scrap of notebook paper tucked between the pages. When she opened it, her breath caught as two tiny Polaroids fell out. One of them laughing in the hayloft, heads tilted together, and another of him kissing her cheek while she tried to glare at the camera.
Her thumb brushed over the second one. “God, look at us.”
They sat like that for a while, flipping through pages of doodles and lists with dream vacations, names for the imaginary dogs, ideas for a food truck that sold barbecue and peach pie. With every turn of the page, the laughter came easier.
When she finally closed the notebook, the smile she wore lingered. “We were idiots.”
Tyler leaned back on his hands, still grinning. “Yeah. But we were happy idiots.”
For a moment, neither said anything. The air between them was easy again, the lightest it had been since she arrived back in Siloam Springs.
She glanced over at him, and for a moment just looked at him. Then she cleared her throat, closing the notebook.
“Well. We’ve officially got the floor plan figured out, I think.”
“Guess we have,” he said, though neither of them made a move to leave right away.
Finally, she stood, dusting straw from her jeans. “Come on, old man. Before we get sentimental.”
He chuckled, rising to his feet. “Think it might be a little too late for that.”
Claire looked down at the notebook, and then handed it to Tyler, hesitating before she let go.
“You keep it,” she said. “It belongs here.”
He turned it over in his hands like it was something fragile. “Okay.”
The climb down was slower this time, careful. He went first, boots thudding softly against each rung, then turned and reached up for her like he had a hundred times before when they were kids. He reached up and put his hands on her hips to steady her, and for one suspended second it was just like it used to be, her trusting him to catch her.
She hit the ground, and stepped back, smoothing her shirt. “I should probably go. The florist is meeting me in town to go over a couple things.”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “You go on. I’ll finish up some things around here.”
She smiled, small but genuine. “Don’t overdo it.”
He gave a half shrug, thumb hooking into his belt loop. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Claire grabbed her binder and headed toward the open barn doors. The sunlight caught her hair as she stepped outside, and for a moment, he could almost see the seventeen-year-old version of her again — bright-eyed, unstoppable, walking toward the world she swore she’d conquer.
Tyler lingered in the quiet, watching her cross the yard toward her car. The old notebook was still in his hand, the cover soft from years of wear.
He flipped it open to the first page again, thumb brushing over the words scrawled in her teenage handwriting: “Never lose sight of where you came from.”
He exhaled, long and slow, as the sound of her engine drifted up the hill and faded.
Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 5: Stuck in the Rain
A little rain never hurt…unless it made you remember what you’d been mising.
The sky had been flirting with rain all morning, the kind of soft gray clouds that promised more mood than menace. By midday, the light had gone flat and the air pressed heavy against the pastures. Perfect, Claire decided, for testing out the spot she had in mind for the outdoor cocktail hour.
She walked the edge of the gravel drive with her binder tucked under her arm, squinting toward the back pasture. The land there sloped gently down toward a grove of cottonwoods, a spot she remembered vaguely from her childhood, though she’d never pictured it as a place for highball glasses and hors d’oeuvres.
“Planning to hike out there in those shoes?”
She turned. Tyler leaned against the side of his truck, arms folded across his chest, watching her with that maddening mix of amusement and challenge.
“They’re perfectly fine,” she said, glancing down at her low block heels.
“That road’ll chew your city tires up, and your shoes won’t do much better.” He pushed off the truck with a lazy kind of grace, swinging the door open. “Come on. I’ll drive you over.”
Claire hesitated. The professional in her wanted to insist she was capable. But the practical side knew he was right. With a sigh, she walked toward him.
Inside, the truck smelled faintly of leather and pine, a green air freshener swinging from the rearview. The bench seat creaked as she settled in, tugging her skirt smooth. Tyler started the engine, and the country radio crackled to life at a low hum. The windows were already rolled down, letting in warm wind that carried the faintest scent of clover.
They bumped down the dirt road, the truck rocking gently over ruts.
“Not exactly Range Rover terrain,” Tyler said, shooting her a sidelong glance.
“I’ll take comfort over character any day,” she replied. “My clients aren’t paying me to arrive with mud up to my knees.”
He chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road. “Your fancy Dallas clients wouldn’t last ten minutes out here. No valet, no sparkling water, no…whatever else they think they need to survive.”
Claire tilted her head, smirking. “You say that like they’re soft.”
“They are soft,” he said easily. “I saw a guy once nearly faint at the sight of a cow.”
Claire laughed, the sound surprising her as much as him. “Okay, that’s fair. But not everyone’s built for mud and fence posts, Tyler. Some of us actually like air conditioning and restaurants that don’t serve everything fried.”
“Blasphemy,” he said, though his grin gave him away.
The truck rattled over a rut, jolting them closer for a moment before it evened out again. Claire shifted in her seat, trying to ignore the brush of his arm against hers, the heat of it lingering far longer than it should have.
“So,” he said after a stretch of quiet, “what’s the actual verdict on that life you got out there in Texas? Dallas everything you thought it’d be?”
“Like I said on the porch, It’s good,” she answered carefully. “Busy. Competitive. But it’s where I wanted to be.”
He nodded, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. You always knew what you wanted.”
Claire glanced out the window, at the rolling fields and the cottonwoods ahead. The landscape felt both foreign and familiar, like a place she’d once belonged to but couldn’t quite claim anymore.
She cleared her throat. “And you? You’ve traded tornadoes for cattle.”
“Cattle don’t chase me down highways,” he said, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “Though sometimes I miss the adrenaline. Ranch work’s different. Slower. But it’s steady.”
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and Claire had to look away before it stretched into something she wasn’t ready for.
The truck slowed as they reached the pasture’s edge. Tyler cut the engine, and silence swept in, filled only by the buzz of cicadas and the whisper of the breeze.
“Here we are,” he said.
The air had gone still by the time they stepped out of the truck. The cottonwoods loomed tall, their leaves whispering softly in the shifting breeze. Claire flipped open her binder and started scanning the space, already picturing where cocktail tables could go, where string lights might hang, how the pond beyond could shimmer in the evening light.
Tyler stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, taking in her vision with a half-smile. “Gotta say,” he murmured, “never thought I’d see this pasture dressed up for champagne and canapés.”
“Don’t knock it till you see it,” she said, crouching to check the firmness of the ground. “With the right lighting and furniture layout, it could be beautiful. Rustic charm, but refined.”
He chuckled under his breath. “There it is, the Dallas touch.”
Claire shot him a look over her shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Didn’t say that,” he said easily. “Just…not used to hearin’ words like refined tossed around next to cow manure.”
She was about to retort when a low rumble rolled through the air. The sound was distant, but deep enough that both of them stilled.
Tyler lifted his gaze toward the horizon, where the clouds had thickened to a bruised gray. “That’s about to dump on us.”
Claire glanced up, frowning. “We’ll be fine. I just need five more minutes to—”
“Five minutes, huh?”
Another rumble, closer this time.
“Tyler, it’s fine,” she insisted, flipping a page in her binder. “We can—”
The first fat drops splattered against the paper. Then another. And then, all at once, the sky opened up.
“Okay,” she muttered, clutching her binder to her chest as the rain came hard and fast, soaking her hair in seconds.
Tyler swore softly under his breath and reached for her hand. “Come on!”
She stumbled as he pulled her toward the truck, boots slipping on the slick grass. The rain pounded against the earth, a sheet of silver that blurred everything beyond a few feet.
They were halfway back when Tyler stopped short, squinting through the downpour.
“Too far,” he said, turning abruptly.
“What?” Claire shouted over the roar.
“Truck’s too far, we’ll be drenched by the time we get there. This way!”
He didn’t give her time to argue, tugging her toward a small structure tucked near the fence line, a weathered toolshed, half hidden behind a row of cedar trees.
By the time they reached it, both of them were soaked to the skin. Tyler yanked the door open, ushering her inside.
The shed wasn’t much to look at, but it beat standing out in the storm. Tyler pushed the door closed behind them, the sound of the rain dulling to a muffled roar against the tin roof. Claire blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light. The space was cramped, maybe ten feet wide, built from rough cut planks that had long since darkened with age. Tools hung along one wall, a tractor tire leaned in the corner half buried under a trap, and the faint smell of hay mixed with oil and wood.
Tyler reached up, tugged the pull cord on a single hanging bulb. It flickered twice before humming to life, casting a pale, yellow glow.
“Welcome to the lap of luxury,” he said. “Five star accommodations as you can see, if you don’t mind the smell.”
Claire laughed under her breath, brushing water from her face. “At least it’s dry.”
“Mostly.” He glanced up as a few stray drops dripped through a seam in the roof.
He smirked, but his gaze lingered on her a little longer this time. The bulb’s light caught the droplets clinging to her lashes, the soft flush in her cheeks from the run. She looked both exactly the same and completely different from the girl he’d known.
She shifted under the weight of his stare, looking down at her soaked blouse. “I’m going to have to change before the meeting with the florist. I look like I went swimming.”
Tyler’s grin softened into something closer to a smile.
“Here.” He reached for a clean rag hanging from a nail and handed it to her. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled before carefully taking it from him, their fingers brushing for just a moment.
Outside, the rain drummed steady on the tin roof. Inside, the air was warm, close. Time seemed to slow, stretched thin by the rhythm of the storm.
“Guess you still have the instinct when it comes to weather.”
He shrugged. “Can’t unlearn the sky.”
She swallowed hard, forcing her focus back to the clipboard in her hand. “When it stops, we should check the ground. Make sure the rain didn’t flood the spot.”
“Always back to work, aren’t you?” He teased, though it wasn’t unkind.
“Well that is what I’m here for.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like before, like she was still his person, laughing beside him in the storm, both of them caught between what they were supposed to do and w
hat they wanted. But the second she said that’s what I’m here for, it hit him square in the chest. A reminder.
This wasn’t anything more than business. She was here for a job, to pull off some high dollar wedding, not to look at him the way she used to. And he was just the guy hauling boxes and fixing fences, same as always.
Tyler leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, the motion easy but his stomach tight.
“Right,” he said after a moment, steadying his voice. “Just work.”
Claire looked up, like she might say something else, but the silence swallowed it. The rain softened, shifting from a downpour to a whisper on the tin roof.
Tyler stood by the door, watching the drops slide down the warped boards. The gray light outside had mellowed, the edges of the clouds already starting to break.
“Looks like it’s easing,” he said finally, reaching for the latch.
Claire glanced up from where she stood, her binder pressed against her chest like armor. “Good. I’ve had enough excitement for one afternoon.”
Tyler smiled faintly. “Guess that makes two of us.”
He cracked the door open, cool air spilling in. The rain was barely more than mist now, glinting in the thin sliver of sunlight pushing through the clouds. Without thinking, he shrugged out of his jacket — a faded canvas thing with worn elbows and a faint scent of cedar — and held it out to her.
“Here.”
She blinked, surprised. “Tyler, we’re maybe two minutes from the truck.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice easy, “but that’s two minutes too long for you to catch a chill.”
Her lips curved, part amusement, part something else. “You know, I do own a raincoat.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but mine’s right here.”
For a second, she just looked at him — at the damp hair curling under the edge of his cap, the rain still clinging to his lashes. Then, with a small sigh that wasn’t quite protest, she slipped the jacket on. It was too big, the sleeves covering most of her hands.
“Happy?” she asked.
He tipped his head. “Getting there.”
They stepped outside together, boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. The air was fresh, sharp with petrichor. Water beaded on the grass, glittering where the light broke through.
Claire tilted her face up to the sky, breathing it in. “It’s beautiful after a storm,” she said softly.
Tyler’s gaze lingered on her profile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”
By the time they climbed into the truck, the rain had all but stopped. The cab smelled of damp clothes and pine, the air thick with that in-between quiet storms leave behind. Tyler started the engine, the hum of the radio filling the silence. The tires hissed softly on the wet dirt path, and the world outside blurred.
Claire leaned her head against the window, watching the reflection of the sky as it brightened. Her hair had started to dry in loose, messy waves. She caught herself smiling without meaning to, the kind that crept up when she wasn’t paying attention.
She turned slightly, catching Tyler’s profile in the reflection of the glass. His focus was steady on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. He looked settled, she thought. At peace in a way he hadn’t been when they were younger, all restless energy and adrenaline.
“Thanks,” she said finally.
He glanced at her. “For what?”
“For not letting me get struck by lightning back there.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “Anytime. It’s in the job description.”
She laughed softly. “Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
“I can handle it.”
The rest of the drive slipped by in comfortable quiet. The barn came into view, sunlight breaking clean through the clouds now, catching the damp boards in a soft glow.
As Tyler eased the truck to a stop, Claire reached for her binder. He killed the engine, and for a second neither moved. The air between them was thick with something unspoken, the kind of silence that said more than conversation ever could.
Finally, he broke it. “Guess tomorrow we check the weather first.”
Claire smiled, opening the door. “Guess so.”
But as she stepped down from the truck, the jacket still draped around her shoulders, she knew neither of them meant it.
Because if she were honest, she wouldn’t have changed a thing. And judging by the look in Tyler’s eyes as she walked back toward the barn, neither would he.
Summary: When a former storm chasing partner’s memorial brings you back to the small town you swore you’d never return to, the weather isn’t the only thing stirring up ghost stories. You and Tyler reunite for the first time since losing your friend Cal, your best friend, teammate, and the man who always swore he’d get you and Tyler together someday. But as thunder rolls and strange things begin to flicker through the static, you start to wonder if maybe Cal’s finally trying to make good on his promise.
Warnings: Themes of grief and loss. Mentions of storms and lightning. Mild alcohol use. Supernatural elements (friendly haunting, static voices), one singular brief kiss.
Word Count: ~5,459
Author’s Note: This piece was written for The Written Brain Discord and was inspired by the prompt: Ghost Stories + “Look at the moon”. This is my first time doing any kind of writing challenge or writing something based on a prompt so hopefully I did okay. Hope you all enjoy it!
The radio cut in and out as you crossed the county line, nothing but static and half caught voices bleeding through the speakers. You didn’t bother changing the station. It felt right, like the air itself was remembering too much.
The horizon stretched flat and endless, wheat fields giving way to stretches of red dirt. A few storm bent trees dotted the roadside, their limbs warped from years of wind. You rolled the window down and let the air hit your face. It smelled like dust and ozone, that faint metal tang that always came before rain.
You hadn’t driven this route in years. Every mile marker felt like an old scar. The last time you’d taken it, Cal had been in the passenger seat, hollering about cloud formations and insisting he could “feel” a funnel coming before Doppler could. You’d laughed, told him he was full of it. He’d winked and said, Just wait, rookie.
You still saw that smile sometimes, when thunder rolled too close, and you closed your eyes.
By the time the town’s lone gas station came into view, the sun was already sinking low, gold spilling across the cracked asphalt. The same rusted sign still leaned toward the road, the Crossroads Fuel & Mart letters faded to ghosts of white. And parked out front, of course was a dust caked Dodge pickup you could recognize anywhere.
Tyler Owens. He leaned against the hood, arms crossed, wind tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. A cap shaded his eyes, but when he looked up, recognition cut through the distance between you like lightning. He didn’t smile right away, but something in his jaw eased.
You pulled up beside him, engine ticking as it cooled. Neither of you spoke at first. Just the creak of a sign in the wind and the hum of cicadas filling the silence.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see that SUV again,” he said finally, voice low and rough around the edges.
You climbed out, closing the door with more care than needed. “Didn’t think I’d ever drive it back here.”
He gave a half smile, the kind that came and went too quick to trust. “You heard about tonight?”
“Crew’s getting together at the bar,” you said. “Yeah. Figured I should show up once, at least.”
Tyler nodded, glancing down the road where the old water tower rose like a ghost on the horizon. “Everyone’s been doing it every year since…you know.”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. Cal’s name sat between you, heavy and unspoken.
You shifted your weight, eyes flicking to the sky. Thin clouds stretched over the fading sun, the edges tinted pink and violet. “Looks like rain,” you murmured.
“Always does this time of year.” He pushed off the truck, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You staying at the same motel?”
“Figured I would.” You forced a small smile. “Assuming it’s still standing.”
“It is.” His lips twitched. “Renovated the sign last summer. Still flickers, though.”
That earned a soft laugh from you, your first since crossing the state line. Tyler’s eyes caught on the sound like it startled him. For a second, you both just stood there, memory filling the gaps words couldn’t.
He cleared his throat. “Crew’s meeting at eight. Gonna do a round for Cal, tell the same bad stories.”
“You still chasing?” you asked, curious.
“Yeah. Slowed down some.” He hesitated. “Not the same without him.”
You nodded. “I stopped. Couldn’t bring myself to go out again after that last one.”
“Can’t blame you for that. It was a bad one.”
A long silence stretched. The breeze picked up, carrying that faint electric charge that meant a storm was turning somewhere out west. It always found you, one way or another.
Tyler tilted his head, studying you. “You sure you want to be here?”
You took in the old station, the dust on your hood, the hum of life that never really left this place.
“No,” you said softly. “But I think I need to be.”
He seemed to accept that. Pushed his cap back, squinting at the horizon. “Bar’s still the same. Sticky floors, jukebox half working. You can follow me there if you need to.”
You started to reply, but he’d already turned toward his truck, the sunset painting the back of his shoulders gold. Something in your chest loosened and ached all at once.
As you climbed back behind the wheel, the radio crackled just for a moment, before a faint voice broke through the static.
—storm chasing legends Cal Hansen and—
The rest dissolved into white noise.
You stared at the console, pulse quick and stupid. The sound had been warped, probably just an old news clip bleeding through another frequency. Still, you reached to adjust the dial, but it was gone. Nothing but the soft whine of interference.
“Get a grip,” you muttered, shaking your head. Long drive, long day. That’s all.
Outside, Tyler’s taillights flared red in the dust, a slow blink against the falling dark. You followed them out of the lot, telling yourself you hadn’t heard anything at all.
You pulled into the spot beside Tyler and glanced up at the bar. It didn’t bother pretending it was anything new or shiny. When you stepped inside it was all the same. Same neon beer signs casted red and blue over the wood paneled walls. Same jukebox in the corner wheezing out old classic rock. Same pool table with the rip by the corner pocket where Cal would try to hustle everyone.
A handful of old faces had already gathered, dampening coasters with sweating bottles. June lifted a hand when she saw you. June, who used to hang out the passenger window yelling wind speeds like Tyler couldn’t read a gauge. Bo was there too, taller somehow, lines deeper. Miguel slid a tray of cheap shots onto the table with the solemnity of a priest. There were a few other faces that Tyler greeted that you didn’t recognize. A couple of girls around your age, an older guy, and then a shorter guy with scraggily hair and a bandana and camo shorts. You wondered if maybe they were part of the new crew he chased with.
“Thought you were a ghost,” June said when you reached her, pulling you into a hug that smelled like lemon cleaner and Marlboros. “Look at you.”
“Still breathing,” you said, and the words landed heavier than they should have.
Tyler came in behind you, tipping his Stetson at the room like it owed him change. The energy shifted a notch. It always did around him. People made a little more space, listened a little closer, even when he wasn’t saying anything.
“You took your time,” Bo said, clapping Tyler on the shoulder. “I was about to drink yours for you.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Tyler said mildly. “You’re mean on Jim Beam.”
Miguel passed around the shot glasses. “All right,” he said, voice roughening, “no speeches. He’d hate speeches.”
“Mm,” June said, soft. “But he liked the truth.”
Tyler nodded. “Then the truth is: To Cal…who never missed a storm, even the ones he should’ve.”
Glasses lifted. “To Cal,” everyone echoed. Liquid burned your throat, the heat punching a hole right through your chest.
Someone spun the jukebox dial until Lynyrd Skynyrd started playing. Then the talk started to loosen. Those who chased back then told the newer ones old stories about “the good old days.”
“Remember the Blue Silo?” June said, eyes lit the way they only got when she was telling the good kind of lie that had a fact’s bones. “Cal swore the silo light flickered before a funnel touch downed. Said it was the ‘ghost grid.’”
“It was wired wrong,” Miguel muttered.
“Let her have it,” Bo said. “Cal said if you saw the blue flicker, you buttoned up and prayed.”
“He also said he’d haunt us if we ever put a GoPro on a brush guard again,” June added, grinning. “Said that was where he drew the line. Not the highway speeds, not the backroads, not that time Tyler tried to jump a creek—”
“—We cleared it,” Tyler said, a defensive cough of a laugh.
“You cleared it,” June corrected. “The trailer did not.”
Laughter rolled, thin at first, then warmer. It landed on you and did that strange thing that both hurt and helped at the same time.
“Hey,” Bo said, lifting his beer, “to Cal’s right hand crusaders.” He aimed his bottle between you and Tyler like an arrow. “Three whole years that man tried to get you two together.”
“Oof,” June laughed. “A mission from God, he called it.”
Miguel shook his head. “He once made up promise to to lock the doors on some storm shelter and not let you two out ‘til someone made a move.”
Heat climbed your neck before the laugh caught in your throat. You rolled your eyes to give yourself a beat, and Tyler’s mouth tipped at the corner, like he was fighting his own smile and losing.
“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging it off, “he wasn’t always right.”
June’s eyes went soft. “He wasn’t always wrong, either.”
The jukebox hiccuped into a new track. Lightning flashed somewhere far off; the front windows brightened and dimmed like the bar was blinking. The group started break up into groups then. A handful found themselves at the pool table and another couple found themselves at the bar debating cell towers versus instinct.
You drifted between them, half listening, collecting details you didn’t know you’d missed: the chalk dust on Bo’s fingers, June’s habit of twisting her hair when she was about to lie, the wall calendar still turned to last month. Tyler hovered nearby without hovering, close enough that his presence read as steady rather than watchful.
“Ghost stories,” June announced suddenly, pointing at the table like a judge. “Cal would demand ghost stories.”
“He was the only one who told them,” Miguel said.
“Then we tell his.” She took a breath. “Fine. The Hitchhiker on County Road 17.”
Groans scattered. Bo crossed himself theatrically. You felt yourself smiling, ready for the familiar beats.
“You’re driving,” June began, settling into the cadence Cal used to use: low and dramatic, a smile tucked beneath. “Rain so heavy your wipers give up. You crest the hill by the feed store and there she is again: soaked, standing in the middle of the road. You stop because your grandmama raised you right. She gets in without a word. She smells like petrichor and lilacs. You drive two miles. She taps the glass and says, ‘Right here is fine.’ You pull over. You look to the shoulder. She’s gone. Only the seat’s wet.”
“You always add the lilacs,” Miguel said.
June just laughed and claimed that Cal always added a few of his own details, so why couldn’t she? After a while, the crowd thinned. Bo pressed a tight hug to your shoulders and said he had an early morning job. June kissed both your cheeks, eyes shining, and promised to text an old video. Miguel stacked glasses, methodical. He’d always been the one to tidy up after the group.
Humidity wrapped close, summer’s breath on your neck. The bar’s neon smeared on the wet asphalt, red and blue bleeding into a kind of purple that didn’t belong to either. Somewhere, a train horn dragged a low note across the distance. Thunder answered, lazy and mean.
“Still the same,” you said, hopping up onto the tailgate of Tyler’s truck. The metal was warm from the day.
“Mm.” He leaned against the bumper, hands tucked into his back pockets. “Except for everything.”
You watched the parking lot breathe. Moths battered the light over the door. The smell of spilled beer threaded with the iron scent of rain on concrete. Your shoulders loosened for the first time since the county line.
“You ever think about coming back? Doing it again?” He asked, eyes on the horizon.
“I do.”
The simple truth of it surprised you with how it felt. He nodded, jaw working like there was an answer he couldn’t quite land on.
“I still go out. Got a new crew. They're good,” he said after a moment. “It’s different now, though.”
It was silent between you for a few minutes. He didn’t say more, and you didn’t try to fill the silence. Then he looked over at you.
“Cal used to talk like the storms had a say, you know? Like they picked their people. I never bought that.” A pause. “Then he was gone and…I don’t know. I catch myself asking the sky for permission before a chase sometimes.”
You looked down at your hands, the old callus at the base of your thumb where the radio mic used to sit.
“I still sleep with the scanner app on sometimes,” you admitted. “Not really listening. Just…knowing it’s there.”
The air shifted. A cooler tongue of wind slid over your skin. Tyler noticed the same instant you did.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket without making a production of it.
He held it out, and for a second your fingertips brushed as you took it. The jacket was heavier than it looked, smelling like motor oil and and that faint cinnamon flavor of his gum you pretended not to like. You slid your arms into it and felt ridiculously, instantly steadier.
“Thanks,” you said, not trusting your voice for anything more complicated.
Clouds began to muscle across the sky, pushing over the shape of the moon until it turned into a soft smear. The first distant sprinkle tap-tapped the truck bed near your thigh, not decided on being rain yet.
“Looks like a storm,” you murmured.
Tyler followed your gaze. Lightning stitched the belly of the clouds.
“Maybe he’s still chasing,” he said, almost to himself. “Refusing to miss one.”
You let the idea sit. That Cal was out there somewhere,ankle deep in red dirt, swearing at the radar and laughing at the sky. It didn’t make sense. But in the same way it did.
Behind you, the bar door swung open and shut; voices rose and fell and then were swallowed by the night. You drew the jacket tighter, breathed in slow. Tyler didn’t move, but the space between you had changed. Not smaller exactly. Just… quieter. Like the static had tuned to a frequency you could bear.
“Same time next year?” You asked, the joke shaped like a promise even as you tossed it away.
* * * * *
The Sunrise Motor Inn had never once lived up to its name. The sign out by the frontage road still blinked SUN I E in stuttering intervals, like the motel was practicing Morse code and never quite getting the message right. Your key was a real one attached to a cracked plastic fob shaped like Oklahoma. The room smelled faintly of old air conditioner and somebody else’s cologne rinsed off in the shower months ago.
You locked the door, set your bag on the little dresser, and let the silence stretch. It felt different than the silence of the plains. Denser, held in by sheetrock and thin carpet. You toed off your shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. The spread was that nubby floral fabric every roadside motel used, the kind that hid stains by being a stain.
Through the thin window glass, the parking lot hummed with insects. The neon flicker outside smeared red-blue across the curtains. Farther off, thunder stitched itself to the horizon, patient.
You exhaled, long and slow, and let your shoulders drop. It should’ve ended there. You should shower, and try to get some sleep before going home tomorrow. But the light above the sink hiccuped. Off, on. Off again. The air conditioner coughed like a smoker. You frowned and tapped the lamp on the nightstand with a knuckle. It steadied.
You told yourself the quiet felt heavy because it was late and you were tired. Because the day had been long and the town had pressed its thumb into all the old bruises. Because the radio earlier had played tricks on you. You reached for the remote, thumbed the TV on, then off again at the assault of local news. No. You were not doing that. Not that. Not tonight.
The first flicker of the power was quick enough you almost missed it. Everything cutting out, then surging back with a low, collective exhale. The second flicker came slower, with a soft click from somewhere behind the headboard. The alarm clock on the nightstand reset and blinked 12:00 12:00 12:00 like a dare.
“Old wiring,” you said into the room, the way people talk to cats who aren’t sure they want to come closer.
Then, without a touch, the radio on the dresser, one of those faux-retro sets motels bought by the dozen, crackled to life.
Not a station. Not music. Just the meat of static, tuned from nowhere to nowhere. Then, clear as someone leaning in close…A laugh. Not just a laugh. Cal’s laugh: that short, bright burst he had when the world surprised him, like a good gust catching the brim of his cap. It cut through you so sharply your eyes stung. The radio went dead. The room held its breath for you.
You sat very still. The silence roared. Your mind began its tidy work. Old clip. Overlapping frequency. Pareidolia. A long day.
You were halfway to standing when a knock shook the door, knuckles quick and mannerly. You startled, pulse thudding. It repeated, a light rap rap, the rhythm of someone who didn’t want to wake the whole motel.
You checked the peephole. Tyler’s cap brim, the arc of his shoulder under a T-shirt gone darker with sweat. You slid the chain and opened up.
His eyes swept your face, reading something there you hadn’t had time to rearrange. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you said, and heard the lie like a poorly tuned chord.
He tipped his head toward the parking lot. “My lights went out. Yours too?”
“Twice.” You stepped back, waved him in. “Come in.”
He crossed the threshold, took off his cap, and held it for a second like he wasn’t sure where to set it. You pointed at the dresser. He set it gently beside the radio, which sat quiet and innocent as a toy.
“Place looks the same as the last time we were here with him,” he said, a half grin working. “Maybe a new stain.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” you said, patting the bedspread. “She’s sensitive.”
He huffed a laugh and leaned against the wall by the window. The thunder had come closer without bothering to announce itself. You could feel it now, not just hear it, a soft thud in your ribs that wasn’t your heart.
“Radar says the line’s gonna split and slide north,” Tyler said. “We’ll get the skirts.”
You nodded. You had the app on your phone too; your thumb had hovered over it twice since you’d checked in and then abandoned the impulse both times, the way you might avoid an ex’s page on purpose.
“Power’s probably going to keep flirting with us,” Tyler added. “Transformer out by the truck stop’s been cranky all summer.”
You hummed like that made sense, and it did. But the radio on the dresser had nothing to do with transformers or truck stops and your skin knew it.
“Want some water?” you asked. “Or is that offensive to your brand?”
“I’m not whiskey all the time,” he said, amused. “Sometimes I’m respectable.”
You dug two bottles from your bag and passed him one. The plastic crackled. His fingers brushed yours, a quick static pop, tiny and bright. He glanced at the radio then, as if drawn, and it made your mouth go dry.
“I had a thing happen,” you said before you could talk yourself out of it. “Just now.”
He didn’t smile or look away. “What kind of thing?”
You gestured at the radio. “It came on. For a second. I think I…heard him.”
“Cal,” he said, not asking.
“Yeah.”
Tyler’s gaze moved from the radio to your face and back like he was triangulating a storm. “What’d you hear?”
“A laugh.” Your mouth found a shape between a smile and a grimace. “His stupid, perfect laugh.”
Tyler looked down at the cap he’d left beside the radio. He reached for it and then didn’t. “He used to laugh like that when he guessed a shift right.”
“He used to laugh like that when the wind yanked his hat off his head and he pretended he meant it to happen.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, softer. “That too.”
You sat on the edge of the bed and pulled open your bag. Under the extra T-shirt and the charger, the old photo waited where you’d slid it that afternoon. The one you’d swiped years ago from the van’s sun visor without confessing. The three of you in front of the truck. Cal with his arm slung across both your shoulders like he’d invented the idea of holding people together. You with your hair in a mean ponytail and a grin that could be mistaken for brave. Tyler half smiling with the sun in his eyes and a squint.
You held it up. “Look what I brought.”
Tyler leaned over to look sat it and smiled. “Didn’t think I’d see that again. He loved that shot.”
You propped the photo against the lamp base on the dresser. The lamp’s light made a small halo on the glass. You could see the room in it, the two of you reflected, a little warped.
Outside, the rain arrived in earnest, a light rustle that gathered to a whisper, then to a steady drum on the walkway railing. The neon outside painted the water on the window in drifting colors. The air smelled different. The motel’s stale breath cut with petrichor, that metallic-sweet promise of wet ground.
The picture frame on the wall, the generic print of a windmill at sunset, shifted. You watched it tilt one degree, two. It held there, wrong and obvious. Tyler registered it a beat later. You both stared. Something inside you rolled its eyes. Old building, shifting foundation, humidity. But the part of you that had slept beside scanners and run toward thunder knew better: sometimes the air had hands.
The cap that Tyler had left on the dresser wobbled a second, then toppled with a hollow thump to the carpet.
Neither of you moved.
“Okay,” Tyler said after a long, level beat, his voice the kind he used when he didn’t want to spook anyone, including himself. “That’s… new.”
You tried for a smile and got something a little crooked.
“You think it’s him?” The lightness in your tone was a costume you’d outgrown.
Tyler didn’t look away from the dresser. His eyes flicked once to the window, to the rain, to the stack of clouds ironing the sky flat.
“If anyone could find a way to talk through static,” he said, “it’d be Cal.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been rationing. “He always said if he went first, he’d come back and rearrange furniture just to piss us off.”
“Guess the windmill’s step one,” Tyler said. The corner of his mouth tugged. “Maybe he got tired of the same old ghost stories.”
“And now he’s writing his own,” you finished.
It landed between you, ridiculous and perfect. You laughed. Tyler did too, not loud, just a warm sound that unknotted something in your chest.
The storm, having made its point, settled. The thunder moved downfield. The rain softened from drum to hush. The room exhaled. You realized you were still sitting on the very edge of the mattress like a person waiting to be told where to stand.
“Sit,” you said to Tyler, and patted the chair by the window. He didn’t take it. He sat on the carpet instead, back to the wall, long legs out, like a man waiting out a line under an overpass. It made you ache for reasons that had nothing to do with weather.
“Sorry,” he said, noticing your look. “Hard to sit and not be able to see the sky. Habit.”
“I know,” you said. You slid down, mirroring him, shoulder to the wall, knees up. The carpet prickled through your jeans. For a while, neither of you spoke. The AC sighed back to life with a grateful groan. Somewhere down the row, a door opened and closed, footsteps thumped past, and a woman laughed.
Tyler tipped his head toward the photo on the dresser. “You know he would’ve roasted us for not being together by now.”
“He would’ve tried to officiate something with a Dairy Queen napkin in a parking lot long before now.”
“He would’ve told the hitchhiker story at our wedding.”
“He would’ve worn the wrong boots.”
Tyler smiled without showing teeth. “He would’ve danced like hell.”
You let the cataloging taper out before it became pleading. The radio did not come on again. Nothing else tipped. The room, satisfied you’d noticed, returned to plainness.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked, after enough quiet passed that the question could be honest.
You thought about the laugh on the radio. About the picture frame tilting, the beer can surrendering. About the soft, mean way grief could elbow you when you were finally still. About the jacket he’d put on your shoulders in the parking lot and how the ghost of that gesture still warmed your skin.
“No,” you said. “Stay a minute.”
He nodded like that was easy. He drew one knee up and rested an arm across it, the pose of someone who’d learned a long time ago how to make his body read as calm. Outside, the rain thinned to a fine hiss, like TV snow. The neon cycled SUN I E, SUN I E, unbothered.
You let your head tip back against the wall and closed your eyes for a breath. The dark behind your lids felt like the inside of a storm…electric, crowded, expectant. When you opened them again, the room was the same, but it had shifted around you both, the way a road looks different when you turn your brights off and let your eyes adjust.
Then the lights went out all at once. It was like someone finally got tired of their annoying hum and pulled the plug.
There was no clatter. No pop. No click. Just a clean cut to dark. The AC stuttered to silence. The SUN I E outside died mid-blink. And if it really was Cal, he was playing a hell of a trick on you knowing your fear of the dark.
“Tyler?”
The word barely made it out before you felt movement.. A soft scuff of his boots across the carpet, the creak of the bedframe as he reached for you.
“I’m here,” he said, voice low but solid. A hand found your arm, steady and warm. “Hey, you okay?”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Just… forgot how dark it gets when everything cuts out.”
The moon eased its way through the blinds then. Thin, silver stripes painting him in slanted light. His hand was still on your arm, thumb moving slow.
He studied you in that dim light. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” you said. “Just…hate not being able to see what’s coming.”
Tyler’s lips tipped faintly. “Guess that’s why you stopped chasing.”
You tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. He stepped closer, closing the space without asking, hands finding your shoulders this time.
“Hey,” he murmured, tilting his head to catch your eyes. “You’re safe. Power’ll be back soon.”
“I know.”
“Then breathe.”
You did. Not because he told you to, but because the weight of his hands made it easier.
When you finally looked up, the light caught his face just enough to remind you how much he’d changed and how much he hadn’t. The same scar by his jaw, the same furrow that showed when he worried.
“He always said I’d regret not doing something about this,” Tyler said suddenly, almost to himself.
You blinked. “What?”
“Cal,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “He used to tell me that. Said one day I’d stop waiting for the perfect girl and realize all I needed was standing right in front of me.”
You huffed out a shaky breath. “Yeah, well, he also said tornadoes were romantic.”
That earned you a low chuckle. “Maybe he wasn’t wrong.”
You rolled your eyes, the fear slowly ebbing into something softer. “You really think this is romantic? Middle of nowhere, no lights, probably haunted—”
He cut you off with a half-smile. “I think you in my arms feels pretty damn close.”
It should’ve felt too easy, too soon after everything, but it didn’t. It just felt right.
The quiet stretched, filled only by the soft rush of rain outside. You could feel his breath when he spoke next.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he said. “Us. How much I didn’t say back then.”
You swallowed. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought chasing storms was enough. Until it wasn’t.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you lest instinct decide, resting your forehead against his chest. His arms wrapped around you automatically, pulling you in until the fear, the grief, the static all fell away.
“I kept missing him,” you murmured against him. “And every time I did, I missed you too.”
His hand came up, fingers brushing through your hair. He leaned back just enough to look at you, moonlight threading between you. “You still scared of the dark?”
“Maybe a little.”
He let his hand trace down your arm until it found yours, thumb brushing your knuckles once, twice, before he leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t sudden. It was the kind that happens after silence has done all it can. His mouth was warm, careful, a little uncertain until you kissed him back. Then it deepened, like exhaling after holding your breath for years.
Outside, lightning stitched the sky, and for a second the room was bright—Cal’s photo on the dresser catching the flash, his grin split between shadow and light.
You broke apart just long enough to glance that way.
“Think he’s laughing right now?” You asked, breathless.
“Smug as ever,” Tyler said, thumb sweeping across your jaw. “Probably saying ‘I told you so’ on one of those gold streets.”
The radio hummed then. Not loud, just a faint crackle from the corner of the room. The kind of sound that could’ve been static or could’ve been something else, depending on what you wanted to believe.
You smiled into the noise, into Tyler’s shoulder. “Sounds like approval.”
He chuckled low. “Yeah. He’s probably bragging already.”
“Feels strange,” you said finally. “Like everything’s quiet for the first time.”
“Maybe that’s what he wanted,” Tyler said. “We finally did something about this and now he got what he wanted.”
The radio gave one last soft flicker, a whisper of laughter swallowed by white noise. Then it went still.
Tyler kissed your temple. “Guess he’s satisfied.”
Just then something caught your attention. It was a full moon tonight. But that’s not what you were looking at. No, there, haloing the moon’s rim was something else. Three faint rings of color just barely visible. Almost like the aurora but less noticeable.
It was the exact phenomenon Cal used to swear was his good luck sign before every chase. He’d called it the wink.
“Look at the moon.”
You felt Tyler’s breath hitch beside you. “You seeing that too, right?”
You nodded, a half laugh breaking through your chest. “Yeah. That’s him.”
He reached for the blinds cord but stopped halfway, like tugging would break it. The moonlight hit the photo still propped on the dresser, lighting Cal’s grin again, the glass throwing a soft reflection onto the wall. A second, less noticeable grin.
Tyler exhaled slow. “Show off.”
“He always was,” you said.
Tyler pulls you in closer to him. For a long minute, you just watched the sky work its quiet magic. The rings shifted, shimmered once, then faded as clouds rolled back in. You leaned into his shoulder, letting your head find the safety of his chest. The two of you stood there in the glow, watching the moon drift until it disappeared behind the clouds.
Tyler finally spoke. “We should go see him before we leave town.”
You nodded. “Yeah. Bring him a beer. Tell him he was right.”
Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 4: Early Mornings
The work begins at dawn, but the past wakes up with them.
The sky was still more night than morning when Claire’s Range Rover turned down the long gravel drive the next day. Headlights cut twin paths across the pasture, catching the pale outline of the barn at the hill’s base. She rolled down the window; the air was heavy with dew and carried that faint, earthy scent of hay and horses.
Claire stifled a yawn and checked the clock glowing on the dash. 6:14. Not exactly her preferred hour, but the forecast promised ninety-five degrees by noon. Better to unload linens, florals, and the extra lighting rigs before the Arkansas sun turned the barn into an oven.
She pulled into the gravel lot, headlights sweeping across the open barn doors. Her stomach gave a small jolt. A figure was already there.
Tyler.
He was in a faded hoodie layered over a t-shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, baseball cap pulled low. He was hefting square bales of hay into the bed of his red Dodge like it was nothing, his breath visible in the cool air. The sound of boots scuffing and hay thudding into place carried through the quiet morning.
Claire cut the engine and stepped out, the slam of her door echoing across the stillness. Tyler glanced up, pausing mid-lift, then set the bale into the truck bed with easy efficiency.
“You always up before the sun,” she called, tucking her binder against her hip, “or is this for my benefit?”
One corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Ranch work doesn’t wait for a wedding planner’s alarm clock.”
Claire smiled despite herself, walking closer. “Well, lucky for you, I brought reinforcements.” She nodded toward the delivery truck pulling up behind her, its headlights bouncing across the gravel.
Tyler tipped his chin toward it, already climbing down from the truck bed. “You weren’t kidding about early.”
“Heat and flowers don’t mix,” Claire replied. She pulled her hair into a quick ponytail, already mentally rearranging her checklist. “Linens, floral supplies, some lighting equipment. All needs to be unloaded and organized before the crew gets here.”
Tyler gave a low whistle. “You plan on doing all that by yourself?”
“Of course.” She arched a brow, teasing. “Unless you’re volunteering to help.”
He smirked, tugging the brim of his cap lower. “Guess I’m already here.”
* * * * * * *
The truck doors rattled open, revealing stacks of boxes labeled with florists’ scrawls and shipping stickers. Claire scanned her list, ticking off items as the driver wheeled the first load toward the barn. Tyler stepped up beside him, already reaching for a box stamped Fragile – Candles.
“Careful,” Claire said, moving quickly to intercept.
Tyler gave her a look over the cardboard edge. “I know how to carry a box, Claire.”
“Yes, but those are six dozen pillar candles. If they break—”
“Then you’ll have ambiance for half the price,” he cut in, smirking as he walked backward through the barn doors.
Claire huffed, biting back her retort, and bent for the next stack. The box was heavier than it looked, and she had to shift her grip twice to get a good hold. She’d barely cleared the truck bed when Tyler reappeared, setting his load down with effortless ease.
“Here,” he said, reaching for her box. “You’re gonna throw your back out.”
“I’ve got it.” She angled away, tightening her grip.
“Claire.” His tone had that steady, no nonsense weight she remembered from long ago.
She shot him a glare. “I’m not helpless.”
“Never said you were,” he drawled, though his hands hovered just in case. “But there’s no prize for carrying more than you should.”
They maneuvered through the wide barn doors together, her heels clicking softly on the worn wooden floor, his boots thudding beside her. At the stack of tables, she lowered her box onto the pile, trying not to notice the way his presence filled the space beside her.
“See?” she said, straightening with a satisfied breath. “Perfectly capable.”
Tyler’s mouth curved, like he wanted to argue but knew better. Instead, he reached for the next load.
The work settled into a rhythm. Tyler carried the heaviest boxes with practiced ease, shoulders straining against the thin cotton of his hoodie. Claire focused on her list, sorting through centerpieces and linens, directing where things should go.
Every so often their paths crossed, hands brushing when they passed a box, her shoulder grazing his arm as they carried a stack of chairs together. Each touch was small, fleeting, but charged enough to make her pulse jump.
At one point, as they shifted a particularly awkward bundle of runners through the door, she stumbled sideways into him. His hand shot out, steadying her elbow.
“Careful.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
Tyler didn’t press, just released her with a nod and went back to the load. But when she glanced up a few minutes later, she caught him watching her with a quiet and steady gaze. She ducked her head, focusing on unfolding linens, willing her pulse to slow.
The delivery truck rumbled away an hour later, the lot emptying into silence. Inside the barn, the stacks were taller, the space beginning to take shape under Claire’s careful eye. Tyler leaned against a post, rolling his shoulder where the hoodie clung damp with sweat.
“Well,” he said, surveying the organized piles. “Looks like you’re officially ahead of schedule.”
Claire capped her pen and tucked the binder under her arm. “That’s the goal.” She hesitated, then added, “Thanks for the help.”
Tyler’s grin flickered easy. “Anytime.”
And for one beat too long, neither of them looked away.
“Mom’s probably here and got coffee goin by now. It’ll be fresh if you want some,” Tyler said, breaking the silence. He stood by the open barn doors, tugging the brim of his cap lower against the first hints of sunlight.
Claire hesitated, her instincts pulling her back toward the neat safety of her car, her lists, her schedule. But the lure of caffeine won out. She was thinking about running into town for her coffee, this would just save her the trip.
“Sure,” she said.
The main house glowed soft in the pre-dawn light as they walked up the gravel path. Tyler pushed the screen door open with a casual flick, motioning her inside before he disappeared toward the kitchen. When he returned, he carried two mugs, steam curling up into the cool morning air.
They settled onto the front porch, each in a rocking chair that creaked softly against the wooden floorboards. The horizon was just beginning to lift from blue-black to pale pink. Horses moved slow and steady in the pasture, tails swishing lazily as the first rooster crowed somewhere behind the house.
Claire wrapped both hands around her mug, grateful for the warmth seeping into her fingers.
“You really are up this early every day?” she asked, breaking the quiet.
“Every day,” Tyler said. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out toward the steps. “Animals don’t feed themselves. Ranch doesn’t run itself.”
Claire smiled into her cup. “I’m not sure I even knew five a.m. existed before this week.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You had that delivery truck here before sunrise.”
“That was survival,” she corrected. “Going to be putting in more hours than usual this week.”
Tyler chuckled, the sound low and easy. They sat in companionable silence for a while after that, sipping coffee, watching the sun inch higher. The light washed the fields in gold, painting everything softer, newer.
“How’s Dallas treating you?” He asked at last, voice casual.
Claire took a measured sip. “Busy. Which is good for business. Keeps me on my toes.”
He nodded like he expected that answer. “I figured you’d do well out there. Always did have a plan.”
The words landed gentler than she anticipated, stirring something in her chest. She looked away, out across the pasture. “And you? I heard you’ve stepped back from chasing storms.”
He tilted his mug in acknowledgment. “Yeah. Been spending more time here. Helping out with the ranch, keeping things running.”
“Do you miss it?”
A beat of quiet stretched before he answered. “Sometimes. But home’s home. Hard to walk away from that.”
Claire nodded, though she kept her eyes on the horizon. The conversation was easy, surface level, but beneath it ran the quiet hum of everything they weren’t saying. About the years between them. About the porch swing summers. About what it meant to be sitting here now, side by side with coffee in hand, as if nothing had changed and everything had.
She tightened her grip on the mug, steadying herself with the heat. Surface level was safer. For now.
The porch had just settled into a comfortable quiet again when the screen door creaked open behind them. Martha stepped out, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, her silver-streaked hair twisted into its usual loose bun.
“Well now, look at this,” she said, smiling as she eased into the third rocking chair. “Both of you out here like it’s old times.”
Claire shifted, suddenly aware of how close her chair was angled toward Tyler’s. She forced a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Owens.”
“Martha,” the older woman corrected with a wave of her hand. “You know better than that.” She wrapped her hands around her own steaming mug, looking out over the pasture. “Lord, mornings like this make all the work worth it. Don’t you think?”
Tyler hummed in agreement, stretching his legs out. “Best part of the day.”
Martha’s gaze flicked between them, her smile softening into something more knowing. “I used to find you two out here nearly every sunrise one summer. Couldn’t drag you apart if I tried.”
Claire let out a small laugh, ducking her head. “I think we just liked the porch swing.”
“Mm-hm.” Martha’s tone said she wasn’t fooled. She rocked once, twice, then added, “Some things don’t change. You both still look good out here together.”
Claire tightened her grip on her mug. Tyler didn’t respond, though she could feel his gaze flick toward her. She kept her eyes on the horizon, pretending to study the horses grazing along the fence line.
“How’s Dallas treating you, Claire?” Martha asked after a beat, her tone light.
“Busy,” Claire said with practiced ease. “The kind of busy I wanted, though. Keeps me focused.”
“And this wedding?”
Claire exhaled, grateful for the pivot. “It’s big. A lot of moving parts. But it’ll come together.”
“It has to,” Martha said, the words slipping out softer than she probably meant. Her smile faltered just a fraction, and Tyler gave her a quick look that Claire didn’t miss.
“I’ll make sure it does,” Claire said gently.
Martha’s smile returned, wider this time. “I don’t doubt that.”
For a moment the three of them sat in easy quiet, the chairs creaking in rhythm, the sun climbing higher. A breeze carried the scent of clover across the porch, stirring the steam rising from their mugs.
Finally, Martha pushed to her feet. “Well, I better get breakfast going before Caleb eats all the bacon.” She gave Tyler a pointed glance. “Don’t let her work too hard, you hear?”
“Got it, Mom,” Tyler said, though his smirk undercut the obedience.
Martha leaned down, giving Claire’s arm a quick squeeze before heading inside. The screen door shut behind her, leaving the two of them alone again, the air between them charged in a way Claire couldn’t quite name.
She set her empty mug down, standing slowly. “I should get back to the barn. More deliveries coming.”
Tyler rose too, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. “I’ll give you a hand.”
Claire shook her head, already stepping toward the steps. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he said easily, following anyway. “But I will.”
And just like that, the easy surface of the morning slipped back into motion, though the echoes of Martha’s words, you both still look good out here together, stayed with Claire longer than she wanted to admit.
Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 3: Old Wounds and Familiar Faces
One town. Too many ghosts.
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Other Chapters: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2
The next morning, Claire woke to the thin light of Arkansas sun pressing against the hotel’s thin curtains. For a moment, she lay still listening to the sounds of traffic faint through the glass. The hum of a delivery truck, the slam of a car door. It wasn’t the city, but it wasn’t silence either. She sat up, stretching, before glancing at the binder spread open across the desk. Her to do list was scrawled in looping handwriting across the first page.
She exhaled slowly. A full day ahead, and that was before she even set foot back at the ranch.
By seven-thirty, she was dressed, hair swept into a low bun, binder tucked under one arm, and a coffee from the lobby clutched in the other. The hotel clerk had asked if she wanted directions for driving into town, but Claire had waved him off. She wanted to walk, to see things for herself. The hotel sat only a few blocks from Main Street, and she figured the small town air would do her some good before bracing herself for another round of Owens family awkwardness.
The sun was already warm, the air faintly humid, and the sky washed in the pale blue of late spring. She turned onto Main Street, and the town unfurled before her like a snapshot from memory, equal parts familiar and new.
Brick storefronts lined either side of the street, some freshly painted, others showing their age. Window boxes overflowed with marigolds and petunias, colors spilling against the weathered wood frames. The Maple Leaf Café sent the scent of cinnamon and strong coffee drifting out onto the sidewalk, making her stomach clench with sudden hunger.
Claire slowed, absorbing details, and jotting quick notes in her binder as she went. Possible vendors to have as a backup in case one of the current ones back out. She liked to be prepared, and if the Owens ranch was going to host a quarter-million-dollar wedding this far outside of Dallas, she’d need every local contact she could gather.
Halfway down the block, a group of retirees occupied their usual bench outside the barbershop. Four men in ballcaps, Styrofoam cups in hand, watching the morning unfold like it was entertainment. Their conversation dipped as she passed, eyes following.
“Morning,” Claire offered with a polite smile.
The men nodded, one tipping his cap in return, though she could feel their speculation lingering after she’d walked on. Claire Bennet, back in town. Or maybe they still knew her as her married name, Claire Reynolds, in their minds. She wasn’t sure how far gossip about her divorce had traveled. Either way, she kept moving, chin high, refusing to let it needle her.
She crossed at the corner, pausing to study a small little antique shop that she didn’t remember being there when she was younger. A local shop like this could be a gold mine for some of the accent pieces she might need. Things like candlesticks, mismatched frames for the seating chart that aligned with the bride’s vision, things she could weave into the reception decor to give it some texture. She made another quick note before moving on.
Main Street was bustling in its own quiet way. A woman in an apron dragged a sandwich board outside the café, chalk squeaking as she scrawled the daily special. A kid zipped by on a bike, nearly colliding with Claire before swerving at the last second, muttering a rushed apology. Somewhere, a dog barked.
And for a moment, Claire let herself breathe. The town hadn’t swallowed her whole yet. She wasn’t sixteen, she wasn’t heartbroken, and she wasn’t the girl chasing dreams too big for Siloam Springs. She was a professional, here to do a job, binder full of answers and strategies.
But as she glanced back toward the courthouse at the far end of the street, she couldn’t shake the thought that all it would take was one wrong step, one unexpected encounter, and this place would remind her exactly who she used to be.
* * * * * *
The bell above the door jingled as Claire stepped inside Mason’s Hardware. The place smelled faintly of sawdust and fertilizer, the kind of scent baked into the walls after decades of business. She grabbed a basket by the door and flipped open her binder, eyes scanning her list. Hooks, twine, maybe some extra extension cords to start with. Simple enough.
She’d only made it to the first aisle when the crunch of tires outside caught her ear. Glancing through the front window, she stilled. A red Dodge truck pulled into the lot, dust swirling up behind it, and Tyler Owens climbed out. Ball cap, worn jeans, that stride she remembered all too well.
He spotted her immediately, his mouth quirking as their eyes met. He pushed the door open, the bell ringing again.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He glanced around at the aisles stacked with tools and seed packets. “Well, considering it’s a hardware store, I figured I’d pick up a few things. Fence stain, maybe a new drill bit.” His eyes flicked back to her, amused. “What about you?”
Claire looked down at her list, defensive without meaning to be. “A few things I need for the barn.”
“Mm.” He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. Tell you what, why don’t we save each other some time and shop together? Two birds, one stone.”
Her first instinct was to refuse, to keep things as separate as possible. But the memory of Martha’s expectant smile last night tugged at her. Keeping things professional didn’t mean refusing help.
“Fine,” she said, snapping her binder shut. “As long as you don’t slow me down.”
His grin widened just enough to be irritating. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They’d only taken a few steps when a voice rang out from behind the counter.
“Well, if it isn’t Claire Bennet and Tyler Owens.”
Claire froze, turning toward the register. Jenny Harper stood there, perched behind it with the same eager expression she’d worn in high school. Now married with two kids, if Claire remembered right. And judging by the glint in her eye, still thriving on gossip.
Jenny leaned forward, grin widening. “Look at you, Claire. You look so grown up. And you—” she flicked her gaze to Tyler, eyebrows lifting. “You two talking again?”
Heat rose in Claire’s neck, but she forced a polite smile. “Just work. I’m coordinating a wedding at the ranch.”
Jenny tilted her head, smile sharpening. “Just work, huh? Folks are gonna be mighty interested to see you two together again. Y’all let me know if you need help finding anything.”
“Will do,” Tyler said easily, then gestured for Claire to follow him down the aisle.
They moved slowly through the aisles, baskets filling one item at a time. Claire paused by a display of twine, checking the strength between her fingers. Tyler reached past her and grabbed the heavier gauge.
“You’ll want this one,” he said. “That thinner stuff’ll snap if you’re hanging anything from the beams.”
Claire raised a brow. “Since when are you an expert on hanging things?”
“Since I’ve had to hang a few hundred things in this barn.” His mouth curved into a quick grin before he looked away, dropping the roll into her basket.
She shook her head, but the edge of her lips softened. “Fine. You win this round.”
By the time they reached the paint aisle, his basket was nearly full. He crouched to grab a can of stain, glancing up at her binder. “You always keep lists that neat, or is this just for show?”
Claire hesitated, then let the corner of her mouth lift. “I like order. It makes things feel… manageable.”
Tyler studied her for a moment, then nodded like he understood more than she’d said. “Nothing wrong with manageable.”
For the first time since arriving in town, Claire felt a little of the tension ease. The silence between them wasn’t heavy like last night. It was almost comfortable. Almost.
* * * *
Tyler’s POV
The afternoon sun bore down on the fence line, the air thick with the smell of fresh stain. Tyler dragged the brush across a post, slow and steady, the wood drinking in the dark color. Sweat trickled down his back beneath his faded t-shirt, but he ignored it, focused on the rhythm of the work.
Caleb, as usual, was more leaning than working. He rested an elbow on the next post, brush dangling limp in his hand, smirking like he was just waiting for the right moment.
“So,” Caleb said finally, his voice casual in the way that never meant anything good, “heard from Mom that Claire Bennett’s back in town.”
Tyler didn’t pause. Didn’t look up. Just dipped his brush again and worked it into the wood. “She’s here for the Caldwell wedding.”
“Mmhmm.” Caleb’s grin widened, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “That’s why you’re suddenly in a rush to knock out every item on her honey-do list.”
Tyler pressed the brush harder than necessary, stain bleeding fast into the lighter patches. “I’m just restaining a fence, Caleb. Mom’s been mentioning it since last summer.”
Caleb barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure. And it just happens to be the same fence she’ll see when she drives up? Total coincidence.”
Tyler straightened and shot him a look, jaw tight. “Drop it.”
But Caleb never did. “Come on, Ty. You can’t tell me seeing her didn’t knock the wind out of you. I saw your face yesterday. You looked like somebody dug up a ghost and set her right in front of you.”
“You sure got a hell of an imagination,” Tyler muttered, dipping the brush again.
“Imagination’s got nothing to do with it.” Caleb leaned on the rail now, arms crossed. “You haven’t been able to commit to a single woman since high school, and we both know why.”
The words hit harder than Tyler wanted to admit. He kept his eyes on the post, on the stain soaking deep into the wood, like focus could drown out the truth. He’d thought about Claire more in the last twenty-four hours than he had in twenty years. Or maybe he’d never really stopped. Maybe she’d just been tucked into the corners of his mind all this time. A song on the radio. A summer storm. The sight of that old porch swing.
“She’s the planner,” he said finally, voice flat. “She’ll be here a week, then she’ll head back to Dallas. That’s all there is to it.”
Caleb gave a low whistle. “You keep sayin’ that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Tyler shot him a sharp look, but Caleb only grinned wider.
“Look,” Caleb went on, “I get it. You don’t wanna stir up old mess. But don’t stand there and act like she’s just another client. You lit up like a damn lantern when you saw her. Then you went real quiet, which around here is the same thing as shouting it from the rooftops.”
Tyler snorted. “You’re full of it.”
Caleb shoved his brush into the bucket with a thump. “Nah. I just know you. Always have. You can play stubborn all you want, but I see through it. Hell, everybody does.”
Tyler set his own brush down, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked out across the pasture, the horses flicking their tails in the heat, the barn rising steady in the distance. Claire was probably out in town right now, binder in hand, already making her lists and plans.
“You ever think,” Caleb said after a long beat, quieter now, “that maybe she’s not here just for the wedding? Maybe life circled her back for a reason?”
Tyler blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Don’t start with that fate crap.”
Caleb shrugged, grin easing into something almost kind. “Fine. Forget fate. Call it timing, then. All I’m saying is—you’ve got a shot most people don’t get. Don’t be so damn proud you miss it twice.”
The silence stretched. Tyler bent to pick up his brush again, needing the distraction, the motion, something steady. “It’s not like that.”
“Yeah?” Caleb pushed off the rail, smirking again. “Guess we’ll see.”
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The venue might shine with a little work. Working with him would be the harder part.
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The walk down from the main house was quiet, save for the steady crunch of gravel beneath their shoes. Tyler kept a comfortable distance ahead, one hand hooked in his back pocket as he gestured toward a weathered wooden arch that looked over a small pond.
“Some couples like to use it for the ceremony if the weather’s good,” he said, glancing over at her.
Claire slowed, taking a moment to take it in. The pond caught the sunlight, and really was a beautiful backdrop for a ceremony. The arch itself was solid enough, but the wood could use a fresh coat of stain, and the wildflowers around the space could be replaced with something a little more intentional.
She pulled her pen from the binder’s spine and jotted a quick note.
They continued toward the barn, the smell of warm hay and cedar drifting on the breeze. When they reached the big double doors, Tyler slid one back with an easy push, the sound of of the metal track grating overhead.
Claire stepped inside and paused as she took it all in. The space opened up before her. High ceilings, beams stretching overhead like the ribs of an old ship. Haphazard strings of fairy lights drooped from rafter to rafter, charming in theory but in need of some finesse. The wooden floor was clean but bore the scars of years of use, deep scuffs and faded patches where the finish had worn away.
Light poured in through the opposite set of wide doors, spilling across mismatched stacks of folding chairs and tables pushed together into one corner. A faint smell of hay still lingered in another, a reminder of the barn’s working days.
She set her binder against her hip, scanning the space with a practiced eye. The bones were better than she could have hoped for, especially considering she’d agreed to this job without seeing the venue in person. If she could restring the lights in cleaner lines, add some drapery to soften the beams, and bring in matching rentals, it could be transformed into something worthy of the Caldwell’s quarter million dollar wedding.
Tyler leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching her. “So…how bad is it?”
She turned toward him. “It’s got potential.”
One corner of his mouth ticked up. “That the polite way of saying it needs work?”
Claire gave a small shrug, pretending to study the far wall instead of meeting his gaze. “Every venue needs work. This one just…needs a little more love than most.”
Her pen scratched across the paper again, making notes about lighting angles, fabric colors, and which vendors she might need to try to come in for last minute upgrades.
Tyler pushed off the doorframe, walking toward the opposite end of the barn.
“We usually keep both sets of doors open during events when the weather’s decent. Gets a nice breeze through here, keeps people from roasting.”
She followed him, her heels clicking softly against the wood. “Good airflow’s a plus.”
They stopped near the back, where the open doors framed the pond in the distance, sunlight glinting off its surface. For a moment, they just stood there in the stillness, the air between them threaded with something unspoken.
Claire broke it first, tapping her pen against her binder. “Okay. I’ve seen enough to start planning. We’ll need to make a few adjustments to get it where it needs to be, but…it’s workable.”
Tyler’s gaze drifted back to her as they started toward the barn doors again. “If you’ve got a list of things that need fixing,” he said, tipping his chin toward the binder in her arms, “I can help. Been doing most of the repairs around here lately anyway.”
“I’ll…think about it,” she said, keeping her tone even as she tucked her pen into the binder’s spine.
“Thinking about it just means you know I’m right,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
Before she could fire back, the sound of footsteps crunching over gravel drew her attention. Martha was making her way down the hill from the main house, her apron still on and her hair now loose from its bun, silver strands catching the sunlight.
“Tyler, honey, you got a minute?” she called, smiling at them both.
He glanced at Claire, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he nodded.
“Be right back for that list,” he said quietly to her, and then turned to meet Martha halfway.
Claire exhaled, adjusting her grip on the binder as the two of them stepped a few paces away. From here, she could only hear the low hum of their voices, Martha’s gestures animated while Tyler listened with that quiet patience she remembered all too well.
Left alone, she turned back toward the barn. The sunlight spilling in through the open doors shifted with the breeze, casting moving patterns across the scuffed wooden floor. She scanned the rafters again, picturing where she could run fresh lines of lights, how she could drape soft white fabric between the beams to frame the space.
Her pen was in her hand before she realized it. Notes spilling onto the page. Measurements to take. Vendors to call. Rental orders to double check. The more she looked, the more she saw. And if she was being honest with herself, some of the easier fixes Tyler had offered to handle would make her life a lot easier.
Claire made another note about replacing the mismatched chairs before tucking the pen behind her ear. Out of habit, her gaze flicked to where Tyler and Martha stood a few yards away, half in shadow near the edge of the barn.
She hadn’t planned on moving closer. But a flash of something at the base of one of the posts caught her attention. She stepped toward it, binder balanced against her hip.
It brought her within earshot.
“…need this one to go well,” Martha was saying, her voice low but carrying just enough in the still air. “And you better not ruin it because of the past.”
Claire froze, halfway crouched to inspect the discoloration she had spotted.
Tyler’s answer was steady. “It’s not gonna be an issue, mama.”
Martha’s brows drew together, the lines in her forehead deepening. “It can’t be. You hear me? We can’t afford another cancellation.”
A muscle in Tyler’s jaw flexed. “It’ll be perfect.”
Claire didn’t want them to know she’d heard. Whatever Martha was talking about clearly carried weight. Enough for her to say it to her own son in that tone.
And the bit about not affording another cancellation? She’d been in the business long enough to know how brutal a blow like that could be for a venue.
Her mind worked on its own, calculating. Tight finances meant less flexibility for last-minute changes. It meant scrutinizing every little expense, every decision. It meant that if something went wrong, there might be pressure to cut corners.
But cutting corners just wasn’t acceptable for a wedding with a quarter of a million dollar price tag.
She straightened and took another slow walk along the wall of the barn, eyes scanning the structure but not really seeing it. Instead, her thoughts kept circling back to the exchange she’d overheard.
By the time she reached the big sliding doors again, she’d schooled her face back into neutral. Professional. Unreadable.
Tyler and Martha were still talking, but their heads turned as she stepped into the sunlight. Martha smiled warmly, like nothing had been said at all.
She adjusted the binder in her arms. “Found a couple more things to add to the list,” she said, as if that were all she’d been doing.
Tyler’s mouth tugged into something close to a smirk. “Told you I’d be back for it.”
Martha turned toward Claire, her smile warm but her eyes searching. “So…what do you think?”
It wasn’t a casual question. Claire could see it in the way Martha’s hands fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, the way her eyes stayed just a fraction too steady. This wasn’t just curiosity. This was bracing for impact.
Claire glanced around the barn again. She could list the imperfections. She had listed them on her pad, but she also saw the potential. And she knew better than to crush the hope in Martha’s face.
“I think it’s got great bones,” Claire said honestly, letting a small smile soften her tone. “The beams are beautiful. The light’s perfect. A few adjustments, a little polish, and it’ll be exactly the kind of space they’re paying for.”
Relief flickered across Martha’s features, enough to ease the stiffness in her shoulders. “That’s good to hear.”
Claire tucked the pen into the binder’s pocket. “What’s the forecast look like for the weekend? If we get rain, do you have an alternate space for the ceremony?”
Before Martha could answer, Tyler spoke up from where he leaned against the doorway.
“Highs in the low eighties, forty percent chance of scattered showers Friday, ten percent Saturday afternoon. No storms in the long range model yet, but you know how that goes.” His delivery was smooth, practiced…like someone who’d spent years reading charts and sky patterns.
Claire glanced at him, caught off guard. “I'm impressed. You used to work with the weather?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Something like that.”
Martha clapped her hands lightly, cutting through the tension. “Well, sounds like you two have it under control.”
Tyler shifted his gaze back to Claire. “What time do you want to start tomorrow? I can meet you down here, start knocking out whatever’s on that list of yours.”
For a moment, she hesitated. Keeping things professional…and keeping contact with Tyler to a minimum…had been her plan from the moment she realized who owned the ranch. But there was no denying he knew the space better than anyone, and time wasn’t exactly on her side.
“Ten'll be just fine,” she said finally. “That’ll give me time to re go over everything in the morning.”
He nodded once, like they’d struck a deal.
Martha and Claire then walked together toward the main house, the conversation staying light. They talked logistics. Supply deliveries, parking arrangements for the guests. At the driveway, Claire thanked Martha for their time, and promised to be back in the morning. Then she slid into the driver’s seat of her Range Rover.
The GPS plotted the short route to her hotel in town, but she didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, she let her eyes wander over the property from this higher vantage point. The main house, catching the last of the afternoon light. The long slope of pasture leading to the barn. The pond glinting just beyond the wooden arch.
Finally, she put the car in gear and eased down the drive. Dust curled in the side mirrors as she passed between the rows of trees. At the bend, curiosity got the better of her and she glanced in the rearview mirror.
Tyler stood just outside the barn, hands planted on his hips, watching her go.
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. It was easy, too easy really, to imagine he was watching her drive away for reasons that had nothing to do with the wedding. But she shook the thought off before it could style.
He’s just worried about the wedding. At least…that’s what she told herself.
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Second Chance at Cedar Sky - Chapter 1: The Reunion
One week. One wedding. One more shot at forever.
Claire Bennet left Siloam Springs nearly twenty years ago with big dreams and no intention of looking back. Now one of Dallas’s top wedding planners, she’s built a life around picture perfect celebrations, and walls high enough to keep love at a safe distance.
But when a high profile wedding takes her back to her hometown, Claire’s carefully planned week is thrown into chaos the second she steps onto Cedar Sky Ranch. That’s when she comes face to face with Tyler Owens. Her first love. Her first heartbreak. The one man she’s never quite been able to forget.
Tyler traded the thrill of chasing storms for the steady rhythm of life on his family’s struggling ranch. He’s poured everything into keeping it afloat, and the last thing he expected was for the girl who once stole his heart to be the one who might help save it.
With a wedding that could make or break the ranch’s future, Claire and Tyler are forced to work side by side. As old memories spark and new feelings take root, they’ll have to decide if this is just business or the beginning of the forever they’ve both been waiting for.
Coming home was the last thing she wanted. Seeing him was the last thing she expected.
Claire Bennett crossed the Arkansas state line as her polished black Range Rover hummed beneath her on the two lane highway. Dallas still clung to her in the scent of her perfume, the faint shine of her manicure, and the soft leather seats around her.
Out here though, it didn’t quite fit. She was like a fish out of water.
She eased past a weathered farm stand advertising Fresh Eggs in peeling red paint. A beat up Chevy pickup rumbled by in the opposite lane, the driver lifting two fingers from the steering wheel in a wave.
Even the gas station looked older. The brick front now faded. The once bright red Coca-Cola signs now sun bleached to a dusty pink color.
Her GPS swore she was on the right road, but the turns and hills felt tighter than she remembered. Rust colored barns stood on the horizon. Fields stretched out under an early spring sky. Miles and miles of green dotted with the white blooms of the dogwood trees.
Siloam Springs had always been small. But now, after almost twenty years away, it felt even smaller.
She made the turn onto Main Street. A few blocks of angled parking spots and sidewalks lined with shopfronts that looked just as they had in the early 2000s.
The Maple Leaf Cafe still sat on the corner. She caught a glimpse of the same green and white awning she’d walked under countless times when going for Sunday brunch with her family after church.
Next door, Harrison’s Feed & Supply displayed a pyramid of seed bags in the window next to a hand made Chicks for Sale sign taped to the glass.
She drove down to the next block, past The Rusty Spur. Its weathered sign swung gently in the breeze. Even in daylight the bar looked dark inside.
A few doors down the old movie theater marquee proudly announced its “Summer Classic Series.” Casablanca this week. Gone with the Wind the next.
The buildings were smaller than she remembered, the streets narrower. It was the same town, but the edges of her memory had exaggerated it over the years.
She’d left this place with a plan. That plan? Never come back unless she had to.
And today was one of those have to moments. A high profile wedding. A millionaire client expecting perfection. And the venue? Booked sight unseen, with little more than a handful of curated photos and the Bride’s reassurance that it could handle a $250,000 event.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel.
This was not a homecoming. She wasn’t here to wander into the Maple Leaf for brunch or to linger on the sidewalk catching up with people who still remembered her as Tyler Owens’ girl.
She was here to work. Get in for the week. Do the job she had been hired to do. And then get out.
At least, that was the plan.
* * * * * * * * * *
The GPS crackled one last instruction Turn right in two hundred feet before her Range Rover’s tires crunched onto a long gravel drive. Towering oaks and maples arched overhead. She rolled the window down, letting in the warm air.
Beyond the trees, the land opened wide into sunlit pasture. A few American Quarter horses grazing lazily near the fence. Down the hill, a massive barn rose into view. Sturdy wood siding the color of dark honey, a metal roof catching the light, and its wrap around porch stretching over a glimmering pond.
Even from the distance, she could see the weathering along the posts, the edges softened by years of wind and rain.
The driveway curved again, and the main house came into view. Two stories of stone and green siding, with a good sized front porch.
Overall the property was beautiful, and she could see why the bride and groom chose it. But she also noticed the little things. The slightly crooked gate she’d passed through, the railing ont he barn that needed a new coat of stain. The fence was freshly painted, but the gravel drive had bare patches.
She parked near the front steps, as instructed per the email she received from the owner Martha. No last name had been attached but Claire decided it didn’t really matter. As long as she had a contact person she didn’t care.
She took a moment and took it all in. All in all the ranch had good bones. Great bones even. But it was tired and worn. And tired and worn would never pass for perfect in the Dallas wedding market.
She reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the thick wedding binder she’d put together. Every page tabbed, color coded and neatly labeled. The kind of over preparedness her clients paid for.
Stepping out, her heels sank slightly into the soft gravel before she made her way up the front walk. She hadn’t even lifted her hand to knock when the front door swung open.
“Claire Bennett,” the woman said, her voice warm and welcoming, like she’d just spotted an old friend on the street.
She was probably in her mid sixties. Her silver streaked hair was swept back into a loose bun. She wore a faded chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
She stepped forward, resting a hand gently on Claire’s arm, “Lord, I’d know you anywhere.”
“Martha?” Claire blinked, the reality clicking into place. Martha Owens owns Cedar Sky Ranch. Her stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.
She had no idea. No idea that the woman she’d been emailing for weeks, trading contracts and confirmations with, was Martha Owens. The mother of her ex boyfriend.
Martha’s hand lingered warmly on Claire’s arm. “Well, you look good, honey. It’s real good to see you.”
Claire opened her mouth to respond, but the scuff of boots on pavement behind her made her glance over her shoulder.
There he was.
Tyler Owens.
Late thirties now, broader through the shoulders and chest, a little more weathered in the face. Faded jeans hung comfortably on his hips, paired with a well-worn Cedar Sky Ranch T-shirt. A ballcap shaded his eyes, but nothing could disguise the way he was looking at her.
He was definitely not the tall, lanky sixteen-year-old she’d once loved with her whole heart.
Martha’s eyes lit with a knowing smile as she glanced between them. “Well, look what the wind blew in, Tyler.”
He stopped a step from the porch, staring at her for a beat too long. “Claire.”
Her name in his voice was both familiar and strange, carrying a weight that tugged somewhere deep in her chest.
Martha, oblivious to the tight undercurrent between them, chuckled. “Lord, the two of you were thick as thieves back in the day. Couldn’t keep you from chasin’ each other around town.”
Tyler shifted, leaning a shoulder against one of the porch columns, his gaze never quite leaving her.
“I hear you’re here for the big Caldwell wedding,” he said, voice easy but eyes sharp.
“That’s right,” she replied, gripping her binder a little tighter. “I’m the planner.”
“Well.” His mouth tipped in something between a smirk and a smile. “Guess we’ll be seein’ a lot of each other this week.”
Martha, still didn’t seem to notice that static in the air between Claire and Tyler. She patted Claire’s arm again, ushering her toward the porch.
“I swear, I still remember that summer you two were inseparable. Couldn’t so much as turn around without seein’ you sittin’ on the back of his dirt bike or walkin’ down Main Street, hand in hand. Everyone thought you’d end up–” She stopped herself, lips pursing in a way that told Claire she’d edited mid sentence.
Claire smiled politely, but her stomach tightened. “It’s been a long time,” she said.
Tyler didn’t move from his post against the column, his arms folded across his chest now. “Guess so.”
“Oh, don’t you get all quiet on me,” Martha scolded, flicking her eyes toward her son. “You used to talk her ear off, remember?”
Tyler’s mouth quirked. “I remember you tellin’ me I talked too much.”
“That was before I got used to the peace and quiet.” Martha laughed, then looked back at Claire. “So, Dallas now, right? Heard you moved there after…” Another tiny pause. “After you left Siloam Springs.”
Claire nodded. “I’ve been there for a while.” She adjusted the binder in her hands, the leather warm from sun beating down on it in the passenger seat during the drive. “Most of my work’s in the city, but I take the occasional out of town wedding.”
“Well, we’re sure grateful you took this one. The Caldwells are…well, they’re somethin’.” Martha’s tone was fond but knowing. “They wanted this place, though, and we’re happy to have ’em. Could use the boost.”
It was quick, but Claire caught it. The quick glance Martha gave towards the barn in the distance. The way her voice faltered for a moment. Money trouble, maybe? It made sense. A place like this would cost a fortune to maintain. They’d need to do at least 3-4 weddings a month between April and October to keep it afloat. And based on the ease and flexibility they had with finding a date for the Caldwell wedding, she had a feeling their calendar wasn’t too full.
Martha clapped her hands lightly, like an idea had just landed. “You know, Ty, why don’t you take Claire on a little tour? Show her the lay of the land.”
Tyler’s gaze finally broke from hers to look at his mother. “I’m sure she can figure it out.”
“Don’t be ugly,” Martha chided, but her smile never faltered. “It’ll save her some time later, and Lord knows you’re not doin’ anything this afternoon that can’t wait an hour.”
“I’ve got fence line to check.”
“And you can check it after you show her around,” Martha said, as if it were already decided.
Claire cleared her throat. “Really, I don’t want to impose. I have the floorplan you sent–”
“You’re not imposin’,” Martha cut in warmly. “Ty’ll be glad to help.”
Tyler pushed off the column slowly, like the request was a chore he’d already resigned himself to doing. “Guess I’m doing tours today.”
Martha shooed them both with a laugh. “Don’t let him fool you, Claire. He’s happy you’re here. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Tyler didn’t deny it. He just tipped his head toward the gravel path, waiting for her to follow.
