Magnolia stood on the platform with her ticket stub damp in her palm and thought, Maybe this is where I belong.
Or maybe it was where she’d finally prove she didn’t.
Silas Thornwood met her without fanfare.
No bouquet.
No practiced smile.
He stood beside a wagon with his hat low, shoulders squared like a man who’d spent his life being responsible for things that didn’t care if he was tired. He was older than she expected. Not broken-old. Not fragile-old.
Sixty-eight, if she had to guess. The kind of age that shows up in the way a man moves: efficient, careful with energy, but still dangerous when it matters. Sun and wind had carved his face into a map. Lean muscle lived under his rough denim like it had nowhere else to go.
His eyes lifted when she stepped down.
Magnolia felt her stomach drop.
Not because he looked at her like an oddity.
