Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
They ate a quick lunch—jerky, trail mix, dried fruit—before starting the careful descent back to the horses.
Her legs trembled with every step, but she forced herself to move steadily, determined not to slip again.
Ty stayed close, silent and watchful, his presence a constant weight nearby.
She could almost feel his body heat near her, steady and protective, as if he’d catch her before she even knew she was falling.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of motion and light.
They rode through a wide valley where the air smelled of damp pine and sage, sharp after the morning rain.
A herd of elk grazed near the tree line, antlers catching the sun like burnished gold, and she managed to capture them framed against the jagged horizon.
Each time she stopped to take a photo, Ty waited just ahead, patient, one hand resting lightly on the reins, his other adjusting the brim of his hat as he scanned the hills. Always alert. Always grounding her.
But no predators.
Part of her wanted to find one—safe behind her camera, her pulse pounding with adrenaline—but another part of her remembered the mountain lion tracks that morning and shivered.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the peaks in shades of rose and amber, she was grateful when Ty finally turned the horses toward camp.
Every muscle screamed in protest. Her thighs burned, her backside was numb, and her shoulders ached from holding the camera steady all day.
But she’d be damned if she let him see her wince.
If she showed weakness, he’d take it as proof she didn’t belong out here.
And yet… something between them had changed.
After the bighorn sheep disappeared into the mist, she’d shown him some of her shots, expecting polite disinterest. Instead, he’d looked at her—not the screen, not at the animals.
Her. The intensity in his gaze had been startling, heat simmering beneath his calm exterior.
For a second, she’d forgotten how to breathe.
The memory made her flush now. The way his eyes had darkened, how his jaw had clenched as if he was fighting something he wanted. Then, just as quickly, he’d stood and busied himself with their packs. But the air between them had changed. It still buzzed with the unspoken.
By the time the campsite came into view, she was ready to collapse.
Her body ached, her muscles throbbing from exhaustion and tension.
She’d forgotten about the mountain lion tracks until Ty raised his hand for her to halt.
He scanned the clearing with a hunter’s focus, his eyes narrowing, every movement deliberate.
Even Caesar seemed to sense the shift, his body low and alert, tail rigid.
Ty gave the dog a signal, and Caesar darted off, circling the perimeter in a wide loop, nose to the ground.
Lark held her breath until the dog returned, tail wagging, ears relaxed. Only then did Ty lower his hand and dismount. Relief flooded through her, her pulse beginning to slow.
They worked side by side in silence, unsaddling the horses. The soft snorts, the creak of leather, the slide of metal buckles—all of it mingled into a rhythm that felt strangely intimate. When she brushed against Ty’s arm, the heat of him lingered on her skin longer than it should have.
When the tack was stowed, Ty motioned to Caesar again. The dog froze, alert, scanning the tree line. Ty moved toward the edge of the clearing, scanning for fresh tracks.
“Can I help?” Lark called, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The light was already fading from the sky, shadows deepening around him. “Stay close to camp,” he said, his voice low, steady, brooking no argument. “Get a fire going. I’ll check the perimeter.”
Her stomach flipped. She eyed the pile of wood and the half-burned fire ring and felt a flicker of panic. She’d only ever seen fires built on YouTube, and Columbia University didn’t exactly teach wilderness survival in its electives.
Still, she lifted her chin. “We’ve got this,” she murmured to Caesar, who gave her a doubtful wag of his tail.
It took longer than she wanted to admit, but by the time Ty returned, she had coaxed a flame to life. Her cheeks glowed with satisfaction—and maybe a little pride—when he crouched beside her.
He didn’t say anything, just made a few quick adjustments, his hands sure and efficient. The fire caught quickly, roaring higher until the warmth licked over her skin.
Lark leaned back on her heels, watching the sparks rise into the gathering dusk. The last light of sunset bled away behind the mountains, and the cold settled in, crisp and clean. She shivered, pulling her jacket tighter.
Ty joined her on the fallen log, his long legs stretched toward the fire.
The glow gilded his face; the hard lines softened by flickering light.
His expression was unreadable, but the silence between them wasn’t empty—it pulsed.
She could feel him beside her, the heat of him more potent than the flames.
“Why photography?” he asked suddenly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in her chest.
She blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve done anything,” he said, still looking into the fire. “Why this?”
She hesitated, then stared into the flames.
“Because it’s mine,” she said finally, her voice softer.
“It started as a hobby, something to fill time in college. Then one professor told me I had an eye for it. Said I was good.” She gave a small, self-conscious laugh.
“No one had ever told me that before. My father… he never believed I was capable of anything beyond marriage and motherhood. Not in business. Not in anything.”
Ty’s gaze flicked to her, the light reflecting in his eyes. She could feel his attention, heavy and focused, like a physical touch.
“He already had my life planned,” she continued quietly.
“Work for the family company temporarily, marry someone he approved of, raise perfect kids in a perfect house. Host fundraisers. Smile on command.” She gave a small, brittle laugh.
“The only thing that was supposed to be mine was the charity calendar.”
Ty arched a brow. “Sounds like hell.”
She smiled grimly. “You’d be right.”
He shifted closer, his voice dipping lower. “Your old man does realize it’s the twenty-first century, right?”
“Funny. I think you and he would get along.”
His mouth curved. “Doubt it.”
“You’d probably both send me home and lock up my camera.”
That earned a real laugh—low, warm, rough. It rolled through her like thunder. “Not a chance. I’d just make sure you knew what you were walking into first.”
Their eyes met, and for a long, suspended moment, neither looked away. Her breath hitched. The air seemed to thicken, full of things they weren’t saying.
He broke the moment first. “What’s your plan now?”
She tore her gaze away, looking down at her hands. “I quit my job at my father’s company. He thinks I’m focused on the engagement he arranged, but… I don’t want any of it. I have a gallery willing to show my work and a magazine that’s interested in some of my wildlife photos.”
He studied her for a beat, and something softened in his eyes. “That’s gutsy. Not many people walk away from comfort for something uncertain.”
She shrugged, heat rising in her cheeks. “It’s not bravery. Maybe it’s just… needing to prove something.”
“Still takes guts,” he said quietly.
Silence fell again, the fire crackling between them. She felt his gaze linger, heavy and warm. Her pulse skipped, traitorous.
Then his voice dropped, rougher now. “I know something about losing faith in yourself.”
She glanced up, startled by the note in his tone. His jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh. “Lost a man in my unit once,” he said, voice clipped, barely above a murmur. “Hard to forget. Harder to forgive yourself for it.”
Lark’s heart squeezed. The pain in his words felt raw, unvarnished. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to say something—but she knew better. So she just sat there, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, letting the silence cradle what he’d given her.
Caesar sighed, curling beside Ty’s boots, and the fire popped, sending a spray of sparks up into the dark.
Lark leaned forward slightly, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t pull away.
The night pressed in around them—cold air, crackling fire, the deep hum of the wilderness—and the distance between them felt impossibly thin.
Ty lay on his back, staring at the sliver of moonlight cutting across the tent wall.
The night outside was still—too still. No wind, no rustle of branches, not even the usual distant yip of coyotes.
Just the faint rhythm of Lark’s breathing beside him and the occasional jerk of Caesar’s paws as he chased a rabbit in his sleep.
He should have been asleep. He’d spent the entire day riding, climbing, watching her move through the wild like she belonged to it. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—hair tumbling loose, cheeks flushed, eyes lit with fire. The image burned brighter than the memory of any battlefield.
And that kiss. Christ, that kiss.
He could still taste her, soft and wild and too damn sweet. The memory had a way of sneaking up on him, making his pulse pound like he’d just been ambushed.
Across the narrow space of the tent, she stirred, rolling over.
The faint rustle of nylon and the brush of her sleeping bag whispered through the dark.
Then a soft sigh. Restless. He turned his head, squinting at her silhouette outlined by the low glow of moonlight filtering through the thin fabric.
She was curled on her side, facing him. Her hair spilled across her cheek, one hand tucked beneath her chin. For a moment, he just watched her breathe.
She looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Trusting.
Something in his chest tightened until it almost hurt.
He understood it now—what Case had meant when he’d said he knew the moment he met Gemma. That fierce, protective instinct that dug in like roots. The way it rearranged your priorities without permission.
Ty had fought it hard since that realization had settled on him. Told himself that it was too fast, that it was lust or proximity or boredom. But none of those explained the way his heart kicked when she smiled. Or the fact that he’d started thinking about her future—and where he might fit in it.
The problem was she didn’t know the truth.
She didn’t know that her father had hired him to make this trip difficult. To make her want to quit. To make her run right back to the leash her father wanted to place around her neck.
Ty had agreed because her father hadn’t given him much of a choice, not if he wanted to help the Monroe family, and because her father had made it sound like she wasn’t really ready for this, not that she’d end up out here risking her damn neck.
He thought she would bail quickly, but watching her now, fierce and proud and more capable than she gave herself credit for, he felt like a bastard.
What could he offer her when she found out? When she realized the man she was starting to trust was the one who’d been conspiring with her father all along?
A soft sound broke his thoughts. She shifted again, murmuring something unintelligible, then rolled toward him.
Before he could react, she snuggled against his side, her head tucking against his shoulder, one hand splayed over his chest.
Ty froze. Every muscle locked tight, breath caught halfway between shock and raw desire.
Her scent—soap and wood smoke—wrapped around him, burrowing deep. The warmth of her body seeped into him, branding itself onto his skin.
He stared at the tent ceiling, willing his pulse to slow. His arm twitched, instinct screaming to pull her closer, to keep her there. To make it clear that she was his, whether she knew it yet or not.
At his feet, Caesar lifted his head, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark. The dog huffed, then gave him a look that could only be described as judgmental.
“I know,” Ty muttered under his breath, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I’m a bastard.”
Caesar sighed—actually sighed—then flopped back down, turning his back like he couldn’t watch whatever disaster Ty was planning.
Ty closed his eyes and tried to force sleep, but it was hopeless. Every breath Lark took pressed her closer. Every exhale brushed against his neck.
She fit perfectly there, like she was meant to.
And for the first time in years, Ty didn’t just want to protect someone. He wanted to keep her.