Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Lawson
first week of march
Ihate fundraisers.
I hate the suits.
And I really hate going to Billings in March.
The snow’s half-melted into gray slush along the roads; everyone is rude and cranky—desperate for it to warm up—and the air carries that damp bite that clings to everything.
And yet…
Here we are.
Again.
“Still think one of us could fake a stomach bug,” Jasper says from the kitchen as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket.
“It’s too late now, Jas,” Lincoln replies dryly, swirling the whiskey glass in his hands. “Plus, she’s already upstairs getting ready.”
“But—”
“You are contractually obligated to attend this,” Lincoln adds. “Which means you are going. End of.”
Jasper mutters something under his breath about Lincoln suddenly being the bossy one while Beau, who looks entirely too happy about tonight, knocks back the rest of his whiskey. “Relax. It’s one night. We shake some hands, kiss some babies, throw money at wildlife conservation, and go home.”
“We’re not kissing any babies,” I mutter.
“Did you know what I meant? Then don’t be an asshole.” He looks back at Jasper. “Just be lucky we’re all going with you.”
I lean back against the wall and study the three of them.
Lincoln looks like he was born in a suit.
Fitting since he’s a lawyer and everything.
It’s a dark charcoal today. Tailored within an inch of its life.
Crisp white shirt underneath. No tie, though—just the top button undone like he’s reminding the world he’s still a rancher, not just a lawyer.
Be that as it may, the lines of his suit are crisp and clean… Just like the rest of him.
Jasper went all black. Because, of course, he did. Black suit. Black shirt—also sans tie. And a black Stetson. The only thing that’s not black is the silver chains around his throat.
Beau’s dressed in navy. There’s a slight pattern to the fabric if you look close enough, and his brown boots are polished within an inch of their life. He’s also smiling like it’s Christmas morning.
“What the hell is with the smile?” I ask him.
“Because,” he says simply, “Abigail’s goin’.”
Normally, Lincoln and I would be equally irritated about this whole ordeal.
We’d go because it’s smart business to mingle with people who could help the ranch should we need it.
We go because wildlife conservation funding helps when people who shouldn’t—people like Miles Keller—get grabby with land rights.
But this year?
This year, I think we were all more than eager to go.
And that’s because of the woman upstairs.
“She almost didn’t go,” I say, taking a slow sip of whiskey.
Lincoln’s eyes flick toward me.
“Wasn’t sure if she was going to feel better today,” I clarify. She’d been feeling sick the last couple of days. When I offered to drive her into town to go to the clinic, she assured me she was fine and that it was probably just a little stomach bug.
“Weird that none of us got it,” Beau adds.
I nod in agreement. But thankfully this morning, she’d looked loads better, and—despite my telling her she should stay home and get rest—she assured me she wanted to go. She probably knew I was going to use it as an excuse to stay home with her.
Beau sets his glass down. “You think she’s gonna be ready soon?”
Jas laughs. “Maybe if half of Montana’s dress inventory wasn’t upstairs, it wouldn’t have taken her so long.”
“That was your fault,” I remind Beau.
“It was a team effort. We wanted options.” He beams with pride as he nods toward Jasper.
“Fifteen options?” I ask.
“Twenty,” Jasper corrects.
Lincoln pinches the bridge of his nose. “The two of you are ridiculous.”
“Not gonna see you complainin’ when she comes down here,” Beau says, smirking.
Linc says nothing. Which means he knows Beau’s right.
“She’s gonna look so fuckin’ good,” Jasper says.
We all smile in agreement.
There’s something about tonight that feels… different. It’s not just that she’s going with us. It’s that she’s going as ours.
Not a guest or as someone passing through.
Ours.
Beau glances toward the staircase. “I think I’m gonna go see if she needs help.”
He takes a step forward, and Lincoln sticks his arm out, landing his hand on the center of Beau’s chest. “Don’t even think about it. You go upstairs, and we won’t leave for another hour.”
A sly smile spreads across Beau’s face. “I can be quick if I—”
The sound of heels walking cuts him off.
Jasper downs the rest of his whiskey in one swallow, and Beau follows.
Lincoln straightens his jacket before finishing his glass. I almost don’t realize I’ve done the same until the burn hits the back of my throat.
We move without speaking, each of us slowly drifting a step or two closer toward the stairs.
Abigail steps into view at the stop of the staircase, and the world goes dead quiet.
I’ve seen storms roll over these mountains that made less of an impact.
The first thing I register is the color.
Deep emerald. Not the bright, flashy green of the summer pasture. No. This is darker. Richer. Like pine trees just before dusk or moss after rain.
The fabric catches the light and throws it back in soft, liquid ripples. It’s almost mesmerizing.
It fits her like it was sewn right onto her body.
The bodice is structured, shaping her waist and lifting her chest in a way that makes my pulse stutter hard enough I have to plant my boots more firmly into the hardwood. Thin straps curve over her shoulders, and the neckline dips low enough to make it almost impossible to look away.
And then the slit.
Sweet. Fucking. Hell.
The skirt flows from her hips in heavy satin folds, but that single, daring slit opens as she shifts her weight, revealing one long, smooth line of thigh. The gold of her heels glints when she moves, straps wrapping around her ankle.
I think my lungs have stopped working.
Her hair is swept up, soft curls escaping intentionally—framing her face and brushing along her jaw. It makes her neck look longer. Exposed. Elegant.
She doesn’t look like she belongs on a ranch.
She looks like she belongs on someone’s arm in a ballroom full of chandeliers and crystal and people who’ve never known what real work feels like.
And yet—
There’s still that same fire in her eyes.
Still that same stubborn lift of her chin.
She meets our gaze from the top of the stairs, and just for a second I see it.
The hesitation.
Like she’s wondering if we’ll think it’s too much.
Too fancy.
Too different.
God.
She has no idea.
Abigail takes the first step down, the satin shifting with her movement, causing the slit to open just enough to make my stomach clench and my dick hard.
I remember the first night she showed up at the ranch. Mud on her shoes. Determination in her eyes. Hair wild from chasing after a new life.
I’d been hooked before she’d even finished her first sentence.
And now?
Now, she looks at me like this.
Like I’m hers.
And she’s ours.
My throat tightens so hard it actually hurts.
“Holy shit,” Jasper finally mutters.
Beau just exhales. “Darlin’…”
Lincoln doesn’t say a word.
I don’t either.
Because I physically cannot.
Once she reaches the bottom step, she pauses. The light in the room catches the gold detailing in the dress—a subtle floral pattern woven through the emerald fabric. Something you might only notice the longer you look.
And fuck. I cannot stop looking.
Her waist looks impossibly small where the bodice cinches her in. The skirt flares just enough to hint at her hips before falling in smooth, expensive lines to the floor.
She smooths her hands over the fabric—nervous.
That tiny gesture rocks me a little.
Because she has no idea what she’s doing to us.
To me.
She’s fucking glowing.
There’s a softness to her face tonight. Maybe because she’s felt off the last few days. Maybe because she’s been tired. Maybe because she finally feels steady again. But her skin looks warm against that deep green. Her freckles dusting her shoulders and collarbone.
I drag in a ragged breath.
It doesn’t go deep enough.
I’ve seen her sweaty and laughing as she works in the barn. I’ve seen her half-asleep in one of our shirts. I’ve seen her barefoot in the kitchen in the morning before the sun comes up.
But this?
This is different.
This is the woman who could walk into a room full of money and power and not shrink.
The woman who could—and will—stand next to us because she knows she belongs there.
My chest tightens with something that I can only describe as pride.
She laughs softly, looking between the four of us. “Well? Is it too much?”
I almost bark out a laugh. Too much? She could walk in wearing a fucking feed sack and still ruin me.
But this?
This is—
“Red,” Jasper says, voice rougher than usual. “You look…” His voice trails off as he shakes his head slowly, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I quite literally don’t have enough words to explain how fucking stunning you look.”
Abigail’s smile beams.
Lincoln steps forward first. His eyes sweep over her in one slow, assessing pass. “You feel okay?” he asks her quietly.
She smiles up at him. “Much better.”
Good. Because if she’d so much as wobbled in those heels, I would’ve carried her back upstairs and told Billings to go to hell.
His smile spreads slow and steady across his face. “You look beautiful, Sweetheart.”
After my brother kisses her softly, she looks at me. “Law? What do you think?” she asks gently.
“You’re…” My voice comes out ragged. I clear my throat and try again. “You look incredible, Honey.”
It’s not enough.
It’s nowhere near enough.
But it’s the only words I can get myself to say.
She reaches for my hand, and I swipe my thumb along her soft skin.
“Looks like Beau and Jas knew what they were doing after all,” she says with a smile.
“Hell yeah, we fuckin’ do,” Beau answers, puffing his chest out with pride before he reaches around Lincoln and pulls Abbie toward him, forcing me to let go of her hand. “Ready to party, Miss Adams?”
Tilting her head back, she lets out a laugh. “Sure am, Mr. Saint John.”