Chapter 23 Beau
Chapter twenty-three
Beau
So,” I say, the second Lincoln swings down from his saddle. “We gonna talk about it?”
The words come out before I can second-guess them, hanging in the air between the four of us. Lincoln’s grip tightens on the reins where he holds Ranger, Jasper freezes mid-stride, and Lawson just sighs like he knew this was coming.
Because of course he did. We all did.
Jasper drags a gloved hand down his face. “I was hoping we were gonna pretend a little longer.”
“Nope,” I reply. “Ship sailed the second I just saw her look at all of us like that. And if we’re being honest, we all know that wasn’t the first time.”
Lawson’s jaw tics. “You talking about the fact that she just smiled at us like we’d come home from war instead of a day out in the fields?”
Lincoln huffs out a heavy breath that fogs the air between us. “Yeah. That.”
We all glance casually toward the guesthouse at the same damn time—because apparently none of us can help ourselves—and there she is.
Still sitting on the top porch step with her knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in that oversized blanket, looking like she’s the last warm thing left in Montana and the only thing the four of us want to cling to.
A few stray snowflakes falling from the sky catch in her auburn hair, which now shines like a beacon around the snow-covered ranch, rather than blending into its surroundings like it did when she got here.
Steam rises from the mug she holds in front of her, turning the tip of her nose pink as she watches us with that small, quiet smile that hits every one of us like a punch to the chest.
I swear to god she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
And damn, she looks so fucking beautiful. Soft. Peaceful. Like she belongs here more than most folks born and raised on this land.
Jasper shifts, scoffing low. “She shouldn’t look at us like that.”
“You usually love it when women look at you like that,” I jab at my best friend.
“I do. Especially her. And that’s the problem.”
“She looks at all of us like that,” Lawson mutters.
I lean against Duke, my chestnut morgan, and smirk. “Speak for yourselves. She looks at me like I hung the damn moon.”
And I fucking love every second of it.
Lincoln elbows me, half amused despite how hard he tries to hide it. “You’re impossible.”
“Incorrect. I’m charming. Hence my previous statement.”
“You’re so obnoxious sometimes,” Jasper mutters.
“Never said I wasn’t,” I shoot back, and he rolls his eyes before letting a chuckle slip free.
But even with the banter, the weight of the conversation settles between us. It’s heavy. I feel it in my ribs, in my throat, in the way none of us move far from our horses or appear to be in any rush to get them inside—it suddenly feels like the ground might shift if we so much as move a foot.
Because for all the jokes, all the innocent flirting, all the easy moments… none of this is simple.
Not with her past.
Not with the way she flinched if anyone moved too fast when she got here.
Not with the way she has slowly relaxed around us like a doe that has finally realized the wolves are no longer circling.
And damn if that doesn’t make me feel something fierce. Something protective. It makes me want to be careful. It makes me want her in ways that make my chest ache.
I’ve watched Jasper around her, the way his casual flirting has faded into the background, because he no longer feels what he’s felt for other women.
Now, it’s different. Deeper. Lawson turns patient, giving her the space and steadiness she so desperately needs.
And Lincoln… hell, he looks at her like she’s something he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
He looks at her like she’s hope personified.
As for me? I’m gone. Absolutely fucking gone. Put a fork in me, I’m cooked.
I like seeing her thrive here. Helping in the barns, bundling up to walk the property, becoming more and more sure of herself every time she gets on Griffin.
She’s learning the rhythms of the ranch life like she was made for it.
Montana looks good on her. She glows out here, and I can’t stop watching it.
Lawson finally breaks the silence. “She’s been here two months.” He crosses his arms, posture stiff, but his voice is soft. “And none of us wants her to leave. It doesn’t pay to deny it.” He shoots a quick look at his brother. “We need to decide how we’re handling this.”
To our surprise, Lincoln speaks first. “We let her lead.” His tone is steady and firm. “We push her too hard, she’ll run. The last thing she needs is four men making advances at her like a bunch of jackasses.”
Jasper grunts in agreement. “Not backing off either.”
“Nobody’s saying we should,” I add. “We do what we’ve been doing. Make her comfortable. Show her support. Make her feel like this is her home, because it is. We don’t hide how we feel, but it’s important she sets the pace.”
There are four slow nods.
We share everything else—this land, this life, this loyalty that’s older than most of our scars.
Jas and I have even shared women before.
Though, that was just sex. Just fun. And even though I’m not sure if it’s something that would come naturally to Lincoln or Lawson, I know it’s something they’d be open too.
Because if they weren’t, we wouldn’t even be standing here having this conversation.
Sharing her doesn’t scare any of us. Losing her does.
Lincoln’s gaze drifts back toward the porch. “She looks really fucking happy.”
“She looks like ours,” I say, because I’m the only one dumb enough to say what we’re all thinking out loud.
No one disagrees.
The wind picks up around us, icy and sharp, but none of us move to go inside. This matters too much.
Lawson pulls at his gloves. “She’s doing better here. Granted, I didn’t know her before, but we all saw her when she got here. She feels stronger. Freer. Whatever this becomes, it has to be something that makes her feel safe.”
“And wanted,” Jas adds.
“She already is,” I say, and dammit if that isn’t the truth.
We stand there for a few more seconds, the four of us side by side, hearts already a little tangled in something none of us planned for.
Clapping my hands together, I say, “Alright. If we’re all in agreement, I’m freezing my ass off, and it’s Friday.”
Lincoln gives me a look. “And?”
“And there’s drinks and dancing at The Busted Barrel, and I think it’s about time we show Miss Adams how to have some fun. You do remember fun, right?”
Lincoln kicks snow up in my direction, but his grin tells me everything I need to know. He’s in.
Cupping my hands, I yell across the driveway, “Hey, Darlin’! How you feel about dancin’?”