Chapter 8 - The Miles Between
The drive from the Reed farmhouse back to North Platte felt entirely different than the white-knuckled journey two days prior. The county road had been cleared down to black asphalt, the pale winter sun cast long, amber shadows across the rolling brown hills of Nebraska, and the small hatchback hummed steadily beneath her.
Yet, despite the ease of the road, Cassidy’s mind was entirely back at the farmhouse.
She replayed every moment: Evelyn’s fierce, uncompromising hospitality; Luke and Hannah’s boisterous bickering over the holiday table; Sophie’s sharp, inquisitive eyes; and Ronan—his guarded stance, the slow thawing of his expression, the way his voice had softened when he spoke of his late brother, Daniel.
When she reached the rental car counter at the North Platte airport to process her late return, the agent looked at her paperwork and raised an eyebrow.
“You drove out toward Alliance during the ground blizzard on Wednesday?”
“I did,” Cassidy said, signing the digital pad.
“You must have guardian angels. The sheriff closed those roads by nightfall.”
“Something like that,” Cassidy murmured, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Her flight back to Denver on Sunday morning was uneventful, a stark contrast to the meteorological chaos that had trapped her in Nebraska. By Sunday evening, she was back in her apartment, unpacking her suitcase, setting her keys on the counter, and looking at the small, empty bakery box from the local shop.
Her apartment felt too quiet. The pristine silence of her living room, usually a comforting sanctuary after a busy work week, now felt hollow. She found herself glancing toward her kitchen table, instinctively half-expecting someone to walk in, critique her cooking, or demand to know why she hadn't bought real potatoes.
Get a grip, Cassidy, she told herself firmly, shaking her head as she tossed the empty box into the recycling bin. You were stranded for forty-eight hours. It was an adventure, a holiday anomaly. Life goes back to normal tomorrow.
Normal, however, had a funny way of shifting its definition.
On Tuesday afternoon, exactly four days after she had left the farmhouse, her phone buzzed on her desk while she was in the middle of vectoring a corporate logo for a client.
An unknown number with a Nebraska area code flashed on the screen.
She stared at it for three seconds—three long, suspended seconds—before swiping the answer button.
“Hello?”
“Did you ever figure out how to make real mashed potatoes without turning them into wallpaper paste?” a deep, familiar baritone asked through the speaker.
Cassidy’s breath caught, a sudden, bright warmth blooming in her chest.
“Ronan,” she said, leaning back in her ergonomic desk chair. “If I remember correctly, your aunt Maggie was the one doing the heavy lifting in the kitchen. I was strictly relegated to peeling carrots and surviving interrogation.”
“Maggie says hi,” Ronan replied, his voice carrying the faint, low rumble of an outdoor tractor engine in the background. “And my grandmother wants to know if you survived your flight back to reality.”
“I did. My apartment is alarmingly quiet, my refrigerator is stocked with actual groceries instead of a single frozen turkey meal, and my boss hasn't threatened to make me shovel snow once.”
A low chuckle came through the line. “Sounds boring.”
“It has its moments,” Cassidy admitted, smiling. “Is everything alright out at the farm? Did the generator hold up?”
“The generator is fine. The weather cleared up, the cattle are fed, and the place is back to its regular routine.” A brief pause stretched across the line, heavier this time, before Ronan spoke again. “I’m heading into Denver on business next week. Thursday and Friday. I was wondering... if you weren’t too busy surviving your normal routine... if I could buy you dinner. Real dinner. Not grocery-store pie.”
Cassidy’s heart did a sudden, traitorous flip against her ribs.
“Are you asking me out, Ronan Reed?”
“I’m asking you to dinner, Cassidy Lane,” he corrected smoothly, though there was a distinct note of hesitation in his voice. “Unless my reputation as a grim, snow-shoveling farmer preceded me.”
May you like
“Your reputation involves a criminal face and a lot of suspicion,” Cassidy teased gently. “But... I think I can make room for dinner. Thursday night works.”
“Thursday night,” Ronan confirmed. “I’ll call you when I hit the city limits.”
