Midnight Lessons (Midnight Falls, Texas)

13. Willow

Chapter 13

Willow

I stand there, toes chilling in the October breeze, staring at the patchwork of pumpkins sprawling before me. They’re all shapes and sizes, some as round as beach balls, others long and lopsided like they’ve been stretched out for a laugh. The sky is fading from a bright blue to the soft purple of twilight, and I’m caught somewhere between wanting to dive into this evening with Owen and the nagging worry nibbling at the edges of my mind.

It's been two days since Owen told me about his confrontation with Matthew outside the bakery. There’s been no sign of Matthew since, and the whole betting pool thing seems to have died a death. I can only hope that Matthew realized the error of his ways and has done the right thing at last. Not that it forgives his actions, but at least Owen and I can move on without it hanging over us.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Owen’s voice is like a warm blanket over my shoulders, pulling me from my thoughts. He stands next to me, hands in his pockets, looking every bit the laid-back high school biology teacher who’s swapped city chaos for our quaint Midnight Falls.

I nod, taking in a deep breath of crisp air mixed with the sweet scent of hay and earth. “Yeah, it’s amazing.”

“Come on.” He nudges me gently forward, leading me toward an old tractor hitched to a wagon filled with hay bales. It’s all ours for the night at Twilight Trails Pumpkin Farm at the edge of town. He’s planned this down to the last detail, thinking of everything.

“Surprise,” he says, handing me a bunch of sunflowers, my favorites.

It’s so Owen, so thoughtful. Their bright yellow faces echo his smile, genuine but still with a little of that cockiness that drew me to him all those years ago. Only now, it’s tempered with wisdom and love. He’s proven himself to me in a million different ways since he returned to Midnight Falls, and my heart almost bursts with my love for him. I haven’t given him the words… yet. But I plan to tell him tonight.

“Thank you, O,” I manage, the warmth of the blooms seeping into my palms. “These are beautiful.”

“Nothing but the best for my favorite cookie artist,” he teases, his brown eyes glinting with familiar charm. It disarms me in so many ways, this man of mine.

We climb onto the hayride, and he offers me his hand, strong and steady. I take it, allowing his fingers to wrap around mine, and his touch sends a now-familiar jolt up my arm. Yeah, that never gets old.

As the tractor starts, I lean into the moment, into Owen. The pumpkins blur into streaks of orange and green as we move, and the stars begin their nightly show above, sprinkling the dark canvas of the sky with points of light.

“This is such fun,” I say excitedly. “You did good, Mr. Callahan.”

“Only the best for my girl,” he replies, grinning as my head swivels from side to side, trying to take it all in

As we settle into the rhythm of the ride, the autumn air wraps around us, and I know that starting over is worth the risk, especially with Owen as the prize.

The hay bales are scratchy against my hands, but I barely notice because Owen is right there, his arm slung around my shoulder. He pulls me in closer, and I nestle into the crook of his arm, a warmth seeping into my bones that has nothing to do with the blanket he’s draped over us.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, pointing to a scarecrow standing guard over a field of cornstalks. Its lopsided grin seems almost friendly in the fading light.

I laugh, easier than I have in a long time. “He’s not very scary. ”

“Maybe he’s off duty,” Owen suggests, and we both chuckle, the sound mingling with the soft creak of the wagon and the rustle of leaves.

We talk about everything and nothing, as if we’re trying to cram all the missed conversations from our days apart into one magical evening. There’s a comfort between us, a familiarity like coming home after a long journey.

As the ride slows to a halt, I spot the picnic area Owen has set up. It’s beautiful—a blanket spread out on the ground, candles flickering inside intricately carved pumpkins, and a basket that I’m sure holds more than sandwiches.

“Owen, this is incredible.” My voice is hushed, reverent, as I take in his handiwork.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, helping me down from the hayride.

We sit on the blanket, sipping hot cider that warms me from the inside out. The stars above seem to twinkle their approval, and the moon casts a soft glow over the pumpkin patch, turning it ethereal .

“Thank you for this,” I say, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes hold mine, and something shifts—the air, the night, us.

“Anything for you,” he replies, his voice deeper than before.

It happens naturally, the way our faces move closer, the way his lips meet mine. The kiss starts tender, questioning, but soon ignites into something fiercer, filled with longing and unspoken promises. We break away, breathless, the world reduced to the space between us.

Owen opens the basket, pulling out food for our starlit picnic. I laugh at something he says, the sound mingling with the rustle of cornstalks in the gentle night breeze. We lean into each other, his arm draped around my shoulders, and I know this is where I belong, right here in Owen’s arms.

Before we can say another word, the crunch of gravel under heavy boots turns our heads. Matthew stands at the edge of our picnic setup, his figure looming like a dark cloud over our perfect evening. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes .

“You really thought you could ignore me, Willow?” Matthew’s voice is a low growl, the menace in it sending a shiver down my spine. “We aren’t over until I say we are.”

My entire body goes cold, the warmth of the evening vanishing in an instant. Owen is on his feet in a second, his protective stance unmistakable as he steps in front of me, blocking Matthew from taking even one step closer.

“Back off, Crane,” Owen says, his voice deadly calm. He’s a wall between me and the man who seems to have lost all sense of reason and sanity.

Matthew’s smile twists into something uglier, his eyes locking on mine over Owen’s shoulder. “There was a time when you used to hide behind me, Willow.” His voice is low and dangerous. “We both know how much you leaned on me. I was there for you when no one else was. You needed me.”

I swallow hard, stepping out from behind Owen, even though every instinct screams to stay put. “I don’t need anything from you, Matthew,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was never yours, and you were never mine. And that will never change because I love Owen. I’ve loved him for what feels like my whole life, and I’ll continue to love him until I draw my last breath.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, to the man I knew, the man who helped me when my heart was broken, but you need help, Matthew. Therapy or?—”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” he spits, cutting me off. His gaze flickers with something wild and unhinged. Then, slowly, his smile returns. “You know, I used to think you were so sweet and innocent. But you’re just like everyone else. Using people, then tossing them aside when they’ve outlived their purpose.”

“Stop,” Owen warns, his voice a low growl. His hands clench into fists, his shoulders tense.

I reach out and place a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the raw power vibrating under his skin. “Owen, don’t,” I murmur softly, hoping to keep things from escalating. He trembles with barely contained rage, and I can tell he’s seconds away from exploding.

But Matthew’s eyes are glued to mine. “You think you’ve moved on, think you love Owen, but you don’t. You love the idea of him, but he’ll let you down again. I’ll never let you down or leave you, Willow, because I love you.”

And just like that, it clicks. My heart stutters, and I suddenly see it—the bitterness, the possessiveness, the obsession that’s been festering under his smooth exterior. The online betting pool... the escalating harassment...

“But I don’t love you, Matthew. I never did,” I say firmly. “And if you truly loved me, you’d never want to hurt me. So why did you do it? Why did you set up that betting pool?”

For a split second, his mask slips. He looks genuinely taken aback. Then his expression sharpens, becomes cruel. “Because if I couldn’t have you, I could at least show everyone what you truly were,” he rambles. “A tease. A liar. And not worth the pedestal everyone in this stupid town keeps putting you on.”

The world narrows, the edges of my vision going fuzzy. I feel sick, bile rising in my throat. He didn’t simply want to hurt me—he wanted to humiliate me. To destroy me .

If I can’t have you, no one can.

The phrase pops into my head. Matthew is guilty of the oldest pitfall in the book of controlling behavior: trying to assert dominance over my freedom and choices, framing his love as a form of ownership.

Owen lunges forward, his fury erupting. “You piece of shit! ” he roars, grabbing Matthew by the collar and slamming him against the nearest tree.

Matthew’s laugh is breathless, but there’s no fear in his eyes. Just cold satisfaction. “And what are you going to do, Callahan? Beat me up? Go ahead. But it won’t change anything. I’ll still be in her head. I’ll still be in both of your heads. That was the beauty of it, see? I didn’t even have to lay a hand on her.”

I leap forward, grabbing Owen’s arm desperately. “Owen, stop! Don’t—he’s not worth it. This is what he wants!” My voice is frantic, the fear of what might happen next choking me. If Owen hurts him, if he gives Matthew the satisfaction of reacting, he’ll only feed into Matthew's twisted games .

Owen steps back, chest heaving. “Get out of here,” he says through gritted teeth.

Matthew’s smug expression has every nerve in my body taut like a live wire. The pumpkins, the stars, the beautiful evening Owen planned—all of it fades to nothing. All I can see is him standing in the shadows like a vengeful ghost, throwing out threats as if he’s untouchable. I truly believe he thinks he is.

Owen’s body vibrates with barely controlled rage, muscles straining as if every fiber of his being is screaming to beat the smug smile off Matthew’s face. I can see it in his eyes—the fury, the promise of violence if Matthew steps even an inch closer. My pulse pounds in my ears, a steady rhythm of panic.

Headlights sweep over the field, bathing us in a harsh, blinding light. Tires crunching on gravel draw our attention, and a familiar black SUV pulls up beside Owen’s truck. The sheriff’s emblem catches the moonlight, and my heart soars with a desperate, shaky hope.

Sheriff Midnight steps out, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure in the glow of his headlights. He takes his time, unhurried, his gaze sweeping over the scene with the sharpness of a hawk. Behind him, two deputies exit the vehicle, their hands resting on the holsters at their belts. Relief floods through me, and I squeeze Owen’s arm, willing him to step back, to let the law take over.

“Evening, folks,” Sheriff Midnight drawls, his voice calm but laced with authority. His gaze lands on Matthew, who straightens up, smoothing down his rumpled jacket. “Matthew Crane. Funny running into you out here.”

Matthew’s smile is brittle. “Evening, Sheriff. I was just having a chat with some old friends. No need to make a scene.”

“I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?” the sheriff replies smoothly, glancing briefly at me and then back to Owen as if assessing the level of danger simmering between them. “We have some things to discuss.”

The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Owen takes a step back, his fists still clenched at his sides.

“Discuss?” Matthew scoffs, but his eyes flick nervously to the deputies flanking the sheriff. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Sheriff.”

“Funny because I’ve been getting quite a few calls and complaints about your recent... behavior,” Sheriff Midnight counters, his tone sharp. “Stalking, harassment, and something about an online betting pool targeting Miss Winters here.”

Matthew’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing. “You have no proof of any of that.”

“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,” a new voice cuts in.

I look up to see a man around our age with a disheveled mop of brown hair and glasses. He steps out from behind the sheriff’s SUV, holding a laptop under one arm.

“Mark!” I gasp, the shock of seeing Owen’s friend making my heart skip a beat. What is he doing here?

Matthew’s eyes widen as Mark walks over, the laptop balanced in his hands. “Who the hell are you?” he snarls, his voice unsteady .

“I’m the guy who traced every digital breadcrumb you left behind,” Mark replies with a small, satisfied smile. “It took me a while, but nobody is truly invisible online. You know that. Seems you’re the ringleader of a group of high school assholes who never outgrew the locker-room mentality.”

Matthew’s face contorts in a mix of confusion and panic. He opens his mouth to retort, but Mark cuts him off, holding up a hand, the laptop still firmly in his grasp.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking there’s no way I could trace it back to you,” Mark says casually, tilting the screen slightly as if presenting evidence to a jury. “And yeah, you were smart to use an anonymous site, masked usernames, burner accounts—the whole nine yards. But you know what they say about leaving a digital trail? Even the smallest slip-ups can lead to big consequences.”

Matthew’s eyes dart back and forth, calculating, searching for a way out. “You’re bluffing,” he spits out, but his voice wavers, fear seeping through the cracks of his composure .

“I don’t bluff.” Mark shrugs nonchalantly, tapping the side of his laptop. “See, most people don’t realize how much data they’re giving away, even when they’re ‘careful.’ But when you used your regular internet connection—just once, yesterday—to log in and check the pool, you left a digital fingerprint. From that single instance, I was able to track your IP address and confirm your identity.”

Matthew pales, his jaw tightening. “That’s impossible. I was careful. I?—”

“Not careful enough,” Mark interrupts smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “And you want to know the best part? When you set up that betting pool, you tied it to an anonymous payment account. The thing about ‘anonymous’ is that it’s only as good as your security measures. When you withdrew funds to taunt the people who lost the bet, you didn’t realize the encryption wasn’t as foolproof as you thought. With the right skills and a little patience, I decrypted the transaction history.”

Matthew swallows hard, his eyes widening as Mark continues .

“Everything pointed back to you. From your IP address to the dummy accounts you created to the times and dates you accessed it, right down to that clever little personal note you sent your buddies. You know the one—‘Don’t get any ideas, boys. She’s mine to deal with.’” Mark’s smile turns cold, a predator who’s cornered his prey. “Yeah, not so anonymous after all, is it, Matthew? Or should I call you KnightRider86?”

My mouth drops open. “Knight Rider? My favorite TV show is your username?”

Matthew ignores me, his mouth tightening as the sheriff steps forward.

“Sounded pretty solid to me when Mark brought this to me half an hour ago, Crane. If you’d like, I’m sure Mark can show you the full report, but I’m guessing you’ve seen enough.” He nods to his deputies. “Cuff him.”

Before the deputies can move, I step forward and punch Matthew in the nose. Ignoring the pain in my knuckles, I hiss, “That’s for disrespecting The Hoff!” My knee finds his nuts. “And that’s for everything else!”

Matthew hunches forward with a groan, cupping his junk. “She assaulted me!” he wheezes, his eyes watering as he glares at the sheriff. “Arrest her!”

Sheriff Midnight looks at his deputies. “I didn’t see anything untoward. Did you, deputies?”

They both shake their heads.

“Nothing at all.”

“Not a thing.”

I wince as I flex my hand, pleased to see a trickle of blood oozing from Matthew’s nose. I’ve never hit anyone in my life, but he deserved it for all the harm he’s caused.

The two deputies move in quickly, and Matthew stumbles back, fear flashing across his face. “You can’t do this! You can’t prove anything! I haven’t even touched her!” he shouts, his voice rising to a frantic pitch.

“Maybe not physically,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor running through me. “But you manipulated, stalked, and threatened me. And then you dragged half the town into your sick games, trying to humiliate me.” My voice hardens, the words tumbling out with a strength I didn’t know I had. “You’re not going to get away with it.”

Matthew glares at me, venom in his eyes. “You think you can walk away from me, Willow? You think this is over?”

The deputies roughly pull his arms behind his back, snapping the cuffs into place with a decisive click. But Matthew’s gaze never leaves mine, burning with rage and something darker.

“It is over,” Owen says, his voice low but carrying enough weight to silence Matthew’s tirade. “You’ve been using your power and money to torment Willow long enough. And now? You’ll finally face the consequences.”

Sheriff Midnight steps closer, his expression stern. “You’re looking at multiple charges, Crane—stalking, harassment, invasion of privacy, and probably a few others once we dig through your mess. And with your reputation?” He shakes his head slowly. “This isn’t going to go away quietly.”

Matthew’s bravado crumbles as the reality of his situation sets in. He thrashes against the deputies’ hold, his eyes wide and wild. “No! You can’t—this will ruin me! I’ll lose everything!” he shouts desperately.

“That’s not our problem,” Sheriff Midnight replies calmly, nodding to his men. “Take him in.”

The deputies haul Matthew toward the waiting squad car, his struggles growing weaker as the fight drains out of him. The sight of him, defeated and humiliated, should give me a sense of satisfaction, but I’m strangely empty. It’s finally over. The nightmare is ending, but the scars he’s left—those will take time to heal.

Owen’s hand finds mine, his fingers strong and warm around mine, grounding me. He raises my hand to his mouth, kissing my swollen knuckles. You okay, slugger?”

I turn to look at him, his expression a mix of relief and fierce protectiveness. “Yeah, I am now.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t worth it?” he teases.

I shrug. “Probably not, but damn, it felt good.”

Mark steps up beside us, his grin a little sheepish. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Tracing everything took longer than I thought. But we got him.”

“You did great, Mark,” I say, reaching out to hug him. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

He stiffens for a moment, clearly not used to this kind of gratitude, but then he pats my back awkwardly. “Just helping friends in need,” he mutters, stepping back quickly. “That’s one mean right hook you’ve got there, Willow,” he says with a grin. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Not sure what came over me.” I laugh.

Owen grins at me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “My woman is a fighter.”

“Glad you two finally worked things out.” Mark smiles as he looks at us. “Guess those books I sent you did the trick.”

I give Owen a questioning look. “Books? You mean…”

“ The Cowboy and his Purple Anaconda ? Yeah, that was me, and you’re welcome.” Mark smirks. “Page sixty-nine, am I right? ”

“Oh, my god,” I groan, covering my hot cheeks with my hands.

Owen shifts uncomfortably, glaring at his friend. “Mark?—”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Mark chuckles, holding up his hands. “Got a hot date.” He winks and lifts his hand in farewell before returning to the SUV.

My gaze snaps to Owen. “I can’t believe you?—”

The sheriff steps forward before I can say more, his gaze softening as he looks at me. “Willow, let me know if there’s anything else we can do. And don’t worry—he’s not getting out of this easily.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” I say quietly, offering him a grateful smile. “For everything.”

With a final nod, Sheriff Midnight heads back to his car, leaving us standing in the cool night air. For the first time in weeks, I can breathe again.

Owen pulls me into his arms, his bright blue eyes locked on mine. “Did you mean what you said?”

I frown. “About what? ”

“The whole ‘I love Owen. I’ve loved him for what feels like my whole life, and I’ll continue to love him until I draw my last breath,’” he says in a squeaky voice.

“Was that supposed to sound like me? It was terrible!” I burst out laughing. “But yes, I meant every word. I never stopped loving you, O, even when I thought I hated you. You’re my lobster.”

Owen looks confused. “Your lobster?”

I wave a hand dismissively, chuckling. “Never mind. Just something I saw in a re-run of Friends.” I look into his blue eyes shining under the moonlight, knowing I’ve found my mate for life. “Let’s go home,” I whisper, leaning into his warmth.

“Home sounds perfect,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead.

We turn and walk away from the now-empty pumpkin patch, hand in hand, leaving the shadows of Matthew Crane—and the past—behind us for good.