Chapter 30 Thirty

Chapter 30 Thirty
ORION’S POV

Morning broke over the farm with a chorus of roosters and the low, steady hum of life waking up. I barely slept all night, the guest room mattress too short, and my mind too full of Reina’s face when she walked away but dawn didn’t wait for rest.

The house stirred early. I heard boots on the stairs, the clatter of coffee mugs, the soft murmur of voices. I dressed quickly in yesterday’s clothes, borrowed a pair of work boots from the mud room that were half a size too small, and stepped outside.

Reina’s father was already at the barn, unloading feed sacks from the back of a pickup. He glanced at me once, nodded toward the stack.

“Help if you’re willing.”

I was.

We worked in near silence for the first hour lifting, stacking, checking water troughs and moving hay bales. My suit jacket stayed on the porch railing. Sleeves rolled higher. Sweat soaked through my shirt. Every lift reminded me how soft city life had made me, but I kept pace. I wanted him to see I wasn’t afraid of dirt or effort.

Reina appeared around eight, hair tied back in a messy knot, wearing faded overalls and rubber boots, a flannel shirt knotted at the waist. She carried two buckets of grain and moved with the easy confidence of someone who had done this every morning since she could walk. Bessie trotted at her heels like a loyal shadow.

She didn’t look at me at first.

She went straight to the chicken coop, scattering feed with practiced flicks of her wrist. The hens swarmed her boots. She laughed softly and bent to scoop up a wayward chick, cradling it against her chest while she checked nesting boxes. When one hen pecked at her hand she didn’t flinch; she simply nudged the bird aside with a gentle finger and kept working.

I watched her longer than I should have.

She climbed the fence into the goat pen without hesitation, balancing on the top rail for a second before dropping down. The goats mobbed her immediately. She scratched ears, checked hooves, laughed when one tried to nibble her shirt tail. She moved among them like she belonged there calmly and utterly at ease. When a kid tangled itself in a loose wire she knelt, spoke softly to it, and untangled the mess with quick, sure fingers.

I had never seen her like this.

In the city she had been bright chaos: goat in the lobby, peanut butter on her finger, wrestling me to the rug. Here she was rooted. The farm wasn’t just her past; it was part of her bones.

Her father caught me staring.

“She’s always been good with them,” he said quietly. “Even when she was small. Never afraid of getting dirty or getting kicked.”

I nodded. “She’s remarkable.”

He studied me for a long moment.

“She is.”

We worked through the morning mending fence, hauling water and checking irrigation lines. Reina joined us for the last part, directing the older brothers on where to reinforce a sagging gate. She climbed the ladder herself to hammer in a new brace, muscles flexing under her rolled sleeves, hair slipping from its knot. When she jumped down she landed light and sure, brushing dirt from her hands like it was nothing.

Lunch was simple: thick sandwiches, cold tea, eaten on the porch. Reina sat on the steps with Bessie’s head in her lap. She didn’t speak to me directly, but she didn’t avoid my eyes either. Progress, maybe.

After the day’s work, her older brothers found me near the barn.

Caleb grinned first. “You ever wrestle farm-style?”

Jonah cracked his knuckles. “We usually settle things the old way. Just us and the dirt.”

I looked at them, both were taller than me, broader, built from years of lifting bales and wrangling livestock and I instantly knew this was a test.

I rolled my shoulders. “I’m game.”

They led me to a flat patch behind the barn, grass worn thin from years of use. Reina appeared at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her father leaned against the fence, watching.

Caleb went first.

He was fast for his size. He lunged low, caught me around the waist, and took me down hard. I hit the ground with a grunt, air knocked out of me. He tried to pin my shoulders. I bridged, twisted, used his momentum to roll him off. We scrambled up. He came again stronger this time. I ducked under his arm, hooked his ankle, and sent him sprawling.

Jonah stepped in next.

He was meaner. He just charged, wrapped me in a bear hug, and lifted me off the ground. My ribs creaked. I drove an elbow into his side, twisted free, and swept his legs. He went down laughing.

They took turns after that.

I lost count of how many times I hit the dirt. My shoulders burned. My ribs ached. My knuckles were raw. But I gave as good as I got: used leverage when I could, speed when I couldn’t, and sheer stubbornness when nothing else worked. They were good. Better than good. But I was desperate. Every takedown, every pin I escaped felt like proof I could fight for her.

When they finally called it, we were all panting, covered in dust and grass stains. Caleb clapped me on the back hard enough to make me wince.

“Not bad, city boy.”

Jonah handed me a bottle of water. “You didn’t run.”

I looked toward Reina.

She hadn’t moved. Her expression was still guarded, but something in her eyes had softened.

Her father spoke next.

“Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

We walked to the porch. Beers appeared from a cooler. We sat on the steps: me, the brothers, her father. Reina stayed near the barn for a while, brushing the mare again, but eventually she joined us. She sat on the railing, legs dangling, bottle of water in her hand.

Her father looked at me over the rim of his bottle.

“You hurt my girl.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” I said. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if she’ll let me.”

He studied me.

“You planning on sticking around?”

“If she’ll have me.”

Caleb snorted. “She’s stubborn.”

Jonah grinned. “And mean when she’s mad.”

Micah piped up from the steps. “She once tackled me into the creek for stealing her last cookie.”

Reina rolled her eyes. “You deserved it.”

The tension eased, just a little.

We talked late about the farm, about the city, about mistakes and second chances. Her father asked hard questions. I answered honestly. No excuses. No half-truths. When the sky turned navy and the fireflies came out, the brothers wandered off to bed. Her father stood last.

“Guest room’s yours again tonight,” he said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

He left us alone on the porch.

Reina stayed on the railing. I stayed on the steps.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

Finally she looked at me.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I did.”

She nodded slowly.

“I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you’re here.”

My chest loosened for the first time in days.

She slid off the railing and walked past me toward the house.

“Sleep well, Orion.”

I watched her go inside.

I stayed on the porch a while longer, looking at the stars, feeling the ache in every muscle, tasting dust and hope on my tongue.

Tomorrow would be another day of chores.

Another day of proving myself.

Another day of waiting for her to decide whether she could trust me again.

I didn’t know what she would choose.

But I knew one thing for certain:

I wasn’t leaving until she told me to.

And even then, I would fight to stay.