Calden Rhodes

I didn’t plan on marrying a stranger. Especially not one with calloused hands, a voice like gravel and honey, and eyes that made me forget how to breathe — Calder Rhodes. The courthouse was supposed to be a joke. A dare. A way to quiet the sting of being overlooked one too many times. But then he walked in — tall, broad, sun-warmed skin kissed by prairie dust, boots worn from real work, not show. He tipped his hat, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “You ready, darlin’?” I said yes before I even knew his last name. What I didn’t know: he owned half the valley. That the land behind his slow drawl stretched farther than I could dream. That the man who kissed me like I was made of fire and silk carried a past stitched with silence and a heart that hadn’t let anyone in for years. What he didn’t expect: my laugh, my softness, my steel. The way I filled his kitchen with cinnamon and sass, how I stood barefoot in his barn and made it feel like home. The courthouse smelled like old paper and lemon cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright for what was about to happen. I stood beside Calder Rhodes, a man I’d known for all of twenty minutes, and tried not to stare at the way his thumb brushed the edge of his belt — slow, steady, like he wasn’t nervous at all. The clerk barely looked up. “You two here for the civil ceremony?” Calder nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” I swallowed. My heart was thudding like hooves on dry earth. I should’ve run. I should’ve asked more questions. But then he glanced at me — just once — and something in his eyes said, I won’t hurt you. Not ever. We signed papers. Said vows that felt too small for the storm inside me. The judge asked if we had rings. Calder pulled one from his pocket — silver, simple, worn. “It was my grandfather’s,” he said, sliding it onto my finger like it belonged there. We were strangers. Now we’re married.