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"𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐒, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍." Montana said softly, her touch steady as she guided Mrs. Stafford-Smythe through her therapy. Her voice carried calm encouragement, warm as sunlight filtering through lace. "It means your nerves are kicking back in."

"I'm trying!" the older woman snapped, her frustration flaring. "But I don't want to do it anymore. I would rather be paralyzed for the rest of my life than try again! Just get out of my sight."

Montana's violet eyes stung with unshed tears. Her tender heart ached at the cruelty, yet she bowed her head gracefully, refusing to let pride answer pain. Rising quietly, she collected her pink purse and slipped from the room.

Windsor entered a moment later with a tray of tea from the mercantile. His eyes followed the blonde as she brushed at her tears. Setting the tray gently on the night table, he hurried after her.

Montana stepped out into the fading light, her satin handkerchief pressed delicately to her eyes. Windsor's voice called from behind, urgent yet kind. "Miss Montana! Miss Montana, please wait up!"

Montana paused, lowering her baby pink satin handkerchief with composure, though her cheeks were flushed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Windsor," she said softly. "I know you're used to taking her abuse, but I'm not about to. Still—I won't be disrespectful to her either."

With courtly care, Windsor laid a consoling hand upon her shoulder. "Mrs. Stafford-Smythe would never mean to be abusive to you, miss."

Montana sighed, slipping the handkerchief back into her purse, her voice firm yet sorrowful. "I don't know what y'all call it back East, but out here we call it rude and unacceptable behavior."

Windsor hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket. Drawing out two worn photographs, he held them with reverence. "May I share something of a personal matter with you, Ms. Lawrence? There's something I would like you to see. This is Benjamin... and Lucy. Mrs. Stafford-Smythe's children."

Montana tilted her head, brushing her blonde hair back with a graceful hand, her voice hushed. "I thought she didn't have any children."

"She doesn't now, miss," Windsor said.

Montana's lips parted in understanding, her violet eyes softening. "Oh. I see."

"Mrs. Stafford-Smythe became a widow shortly after Lucy was born. Her children became everything in her life," Windsor explained, his tone heavy with memory.

"What happened to them?" Montana asked gently.

"Lucy passed away when she was five, of chronic pneumonia. And Benjamin..." Windsor's voice faltered. "Benjamin was killed in a horrific car crash, just before he was to graduate from Harvard."

Montana's hand trembled against her purse. Compassion welled inside her, almost unbearable. "Oh my God—that's terrible."

"When Mrs. Stafford-Smythe lost Lucy, the only thing that kept her going was Benjamin," Windsor said, his voice breaking. "And when she lost him, I was afraid she..." He couldn't finish.

Montana's lashes lowered, her voice low and kind. "Mr. Windsor, I'm so sorry. It certainly explains her anger."

"Ms. Lawrence," Windsor said, steadying himself, "I only wanted you to understand. Mrs. Stafford-Smythe was not always the way she is now. She was once a kind and generous woman. Try to think of her as she was, before unbearable loss changed her. Try to see her with a forgiving heart, and not a judgmental mind."

Montana gave him a soft smile, graceful in her acceptance. Nodding, she turned and walked back into the boarding house.

Up the narrow stairs, she paused outside the door before hearing the older woman's sharp, "Come in."

Montana entered, her hands folded gently at her waist, her posture regal yet humble.

"What are you doing back here?" Mrs. Stafford-Smythe asked, suspicion in her voice.

Montana's tone was soft, steady. "I wanted to apologize to you, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe. I'm sorry I pushed you so hard in therapy. I just... I believe you can get better."

The older woman studied her. "This submissive demeanor is out of character for you. Does it have anything to do with Windsor rushing out after you?"

"He told me a little bit about your background," Montana admitted, her voice tender. "But please—don't be angry with him."

"He knows better than to discuss my private life," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe spat.

Montana's reply was gentle, not defensive. "He's devoted to you. The only reason he told me is because he believes you need me."

"I don't need anyone to help me," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe muttered.

Montana's smile was faint but resolute. "We all need someone." She lowered herself gracefully onto the bed beside her. "My mom used to tell me about my grandma Ava. She died when my mom was in college, and my uncle August was just a sophomore in high school. She was killed in a rodeo accident. My grandpa moved them to the San Fernando Valley for a new beginning. That's how my parents met. And my dad used to tell me about my grandma Laura. He loved her more than anyone, since she was the only one he truly had. He never knew his father. She died just before my half-brother Robby was born."

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe blinked at her. "How on earth did your family end up back here?"

"There was an ongoing karate war that had been going on since my dad and uncle Daniel were in high school. My mom and uncle's friends were getting hurt, uncle August and my mom were getting hurt as well, so they decided to come back home. My dad and my brother came to find them, and they've been here ever since." Montana said

"I'm sorry for your family Montana, especially your mom and brother losing their mother at a young age, and even your father losing his mother." Mrs. Stafford-Smythe. "I apologize for my behavior as well."

"It's alright, I understand." Montana said. "Why don't you get some rest? I'll see you in the morning."

  ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

The afternoon sun streamed across the Lockhart ranch, warming the worn wooden floors of the living room. Jack knelt, repairing the baseboards, his hands smeared with paint and dust, the smell of sawdust clinging to him.

Montana walked inside, a basket of sandwiches balanced in her arms, her blonde hair catching the light like spun gold. Her violet eyes sparkled, and faintly, the subtle, intoxicating scent of Kay Ali's Fleur Majesty Rose Royale floated around her, delicate and regal. "Hi," she said, her smile soft and luminous.

Jack set his hammer down, trying not to look too disheveled in front of her. She looked effortlessly beautiful, and he—covered in grime, smelling of sweat and sawdust—felt entirely unworthy. Still, he smiled. "Montana, hi."

"I was visiting my aunt Kellie for lunch, and she wanted me to bring lunch to y'all," Montana said, her voice like sunlight, calm and bright, yet carrying that quiet elegance that made hearts ache.

Jack glanced around the room. "Well, your grandpa and brother went into town to pick up some lumber, and your uncles are out back. I can go get them if you want?"

"Oh, that's all right. Just please tell them I said hello—and I love them," Montana said, her smile softening the edges of the day. She began to move toward the front door, but Jack's hand reached out, gently stopping her.

"Wait... why don't you stay and visit a while?" His voice held a quiet hope, tinged with something more, something deeper than casual invitation.

Montana's fingers nervously twined around the pink pompom on her purse. "Oh... I would love to, but I can't. Doc is out seeing patients, and Mom is at the clinic. I should be getting back to help her."

Jack's eyes followed her, tracing the gentle curve of her shoulders, inhaling just a hint of the Fleur Majesty Rose Royale that clung to her, and his chest tightened with a familiar ache. He had tried to deny it, but it was impossible. He loved her—deeply, irrevocably, in a way that no force could alter. Every gesture, every smile, every quiet breath she took anchored his heart to hers.

"Well... I was thinking that maybe, if you're not busy on Saturday, we could have lunch at the Mercantile?" His tone was casual, but the longing beneath it trembled in his chest.

"Of course." Montana's smile lit up the room, gentle and poised, like sunlight breaking through the afternoon haze. "I'd love that. I'll see you on Saturday."

Jack watched her leave, his hands aching to reach for hers, but knowing he must wait. As the faint scent of her perfume lingered in the room, he exhaled slowly, heart tethered irrevocably to the beautiful, gentle woman who had already captured it.

  ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

The kitchen of the clinic was warm with chatter and the comforting scent of chicken pot pie casserole from the Mercantile. Lori, April, Lydia, Stella, Kara, and Amy sat crowded around the table, plates in front of them, Coke cans and iced teas clinking against the wood.

"So," Lori said, twirling her fork like it was a prop, her tone light and teasing, "how's Montana liking her job taking care of Mrs. Stafford-Smythe?"

"She loves it," Stella answered, smoothing her napkin over her lap. Her voice was calm, protective, touched with pride. "Helping Mrs. Stafford-Smythe comes natural to her. Doc's just a little too hard on her sometimes."

"Oh, please," Kara said with a little roll of her eyes. "Isn't it about time for him to retire already? He's like... ancient."

"Two more years," Stella sighed, lifting her Coke. "Believe me, I'm counting the days."

"Two more years?" Lori repeated dramatically. "Ugh. Someone needs to send him on a cruise or something. He'd never come back."

That got a laugh around the table.

Amy smiled softly, shaking her head. "Well, you know Montana. She was born to take care of people. Like you, Stell. She'll prove him wrong—she always does."

Stella's eyes warmed. "I know she will. I can't tell you how many times I've nearly told him off, but Montana just takes my hand and says, 'Leave it, Mama. He's not worth it.'"

April took a sip of her tea, narrowing her eyes. "What is this man's deal, anyway? He doesn't get to tell you how to run your clinic."

"He thinks he does," Stella muttered with a small laugh. "When I first came on, he gave me this whole lecture about how he ran the place, and how I was supposed to do it the same way."

"Something tells me you didn't exactly salute and follow orders," Lydia said dryly.

"Hell no, I didn't." Stella smirked, and the table laughed again.

It was in the middle of that laughter that Montana appeared in the doorway, soft and radiant, her presence instantly drawing every eye. She stepped into the kitchen like a sunbeam slipping into the room.

"Hi, sweetheart," Stella said immediately, her whole face lighting as she looked at her daughter. "How was your day?"

"Oh, it was good," Montana said, her voice gentle but bright. "After tending to Mrs. Stafford-Smythe, I went to see Auntie Kellie. We had lunch, and she sent food over for the guys."

April arched a brow, leaning back in her chair. "Mmm-hmm. Something happened. I can see it written all over your face."

"Nothing happened, Aunt April," Montana said with a little laugh, opening her cherry Coke.

"Sweetheart," Kara chimed in, tilting her head knowingly, "we may be older, but don't think for a second we're blind. We were your age once too. And I'm guessing this has to do with muscles. Abs. Maybe a jawline that could cut glass. Am I close?"

Montana flushed and laughed, sliding into the chair next to them. "Okay, Auntie Kara. Jack asked me out. Saturday. Lunch at the Mercantile."

The table erupted into squeals and gasps. Lori nearly clapped her hands. "Oh my God, I knew it! I've seen the way he looks at you—like, total heart-eyes."

"What did you say?" Lydia asked sharply, though her smirk gave her away.

"Of course I said yes," Montana admitted softly. "But... there's one problem."

Amy leaned in, eyes gentle. "What's wrong, honey?"

Montana sighed. "Dad. You guys practically missed it at Aunt Kellie and Uncle Clay's dinner, but he gave Jack the death glare."

"Oh, classic Dean," April muttered, shaking her head.

"He's impossible," Kara said, flipping her hair back. "He probably still thinks you're twelve."

"That's because he wants her to be twelve forever," Lori teased. "If he could, he'd probably lock her in a tower like Rapunzel."

Montana giggled. "He just... he doesn't trust Jack. I can see it."

"Well, don't you worry, sweetheart," Stella said firmly, setting down her Coke with quiet authority. "I'll handle your father."

"Handle him?" Lydia asked with a smirk. "Good luck with that."

"Oh, I can handle him," Stella said, her voice calm but certain, like velvet steel. "Dean Winchester's stubborn, but he knows better than to cross me when it comes to our daughter's happiness."

The table went quiet for just a second, all eyes flicking to Montana, who sat glowing under the attention, her cheeks pink, her smile dreamy. Amy reached over and squeezed her hand. "You deserve this, Montana. Don't let anyone, not even your daddy, make you feel otherwise."

Montana's eyes shone, soft as a summer dawn. "Thanks, Auntie Amy."

  ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

The following morning, Montana guided Mrs. Stafford-Smythe slowly down to the Mercantile's restaurant, her hand steady against the older woman's arm. They moved at an unhurried pace, Montana's presence soft and reassuring, as though she carried patience in her very being.

When they reached a table by the window, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe lowered herself carefully into the chair with a sigh. Her sharp eyes softened just a little as she glanced at Montana.

"You know, Montana," she began, her voice edged with wryness, "the only reason I didn't let that stroke kill me, is because of my because of my distant relatives. They're waiting like vultures for me to pass, so they can get their greedy hands on my fortune."

Montana folded gracefully into the seat across from her, her expression gentle but steady. "I think the reason your stroke didn't kill you," she said softly, "is because God still has work for you here. Maybe that work is finding purpose by loving other people."

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe arched a brow. "And losing them."

"The fact that you grieve deeply," Montana said as she reached for the teapot, her movements serene, "means you love deeply. And there are so many people in the world who still need what you have to give." She poured the tea with a delicate hand, the scent of bergamot rising warmly between them.

"And who would that be, hmm?" the older woman asked, almost testing her.

Montana's smile was tender, almost luminous. "My Aunt Yasmine and Uncle Demetri told me about an orphanage in Boston. Children without parents—or with parents who've simply given them away."

"Ah," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe sniffed, leaning back. "So you're suggesting I give money."

Montana shook her head, her blonde hair catching the light like silk. "Not money. Yourself. They need love more than anything, and you still have so much of it inside you. More than you know." She set the teacup in front of her gently. "Now—aren't we supposed to be practicing?"

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe looked at the porcelain cup, then turned her head aside in hesitation.

"Mrs. Stafford-Smythe," Montana encouraged, her voice kind but firm, "reach for the tea cup."

The older woman sighed, then slowly lifted her hands. Both reached forward, but Montana spoke softly again. "One hand, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe. Your stronger arm is there to steady, but your healing arm needs to try."

With trembling effort, her weaker hand extended. The china rattled faintly as she grasped the handle. Her breath caught, but inch by inch, she raised the cup and brought it to her lips. She took a sip—delicate, defiant—and set it back down.

"Best cup of tea I've ever had," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe murmured, a faint smile tugging at her face.

Montana's own smile bloomed, bright and radiant. She lifted her own cup with quiet grace. "I'll drink to that."

For a long moment, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe didn't move. She simply studied the young woman across from her—the softness in her eyes, the kindness in her tone, the quiet strength hidden beneath all that gentleness. It startled her, how much light seemed to radiate from someone so young.

"My dear," she said finally, her voice low, almost reverent, "you're like something out of another world. You walk into a room, and it feels... brighter. No wonder people can't look away."

Montana's cheeks warmed, but she lowered her gaze with humility, her smile small and sweet. "That light doesn't belong to me," she said softly. "I just try to reflect it."

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. For the first time in a long while, she felt a stirring of something she thought she'd lost—hope.

And as the two women sipped their tea together in the quiet morning light, the world outside seemed a little less sharp, and a little more kind.