Chapter 4
Mallory
Our first night here wasn’t so bad. I was able to FaceTime Mason and Kasen right before their bath. Yesterday, my mom sent pictures as proof that they weren’t sad throughout the day. They kicked the soccer ball with their awkward stance, colored, ate contraband snacks, and watched Bluey.
Yes, I named them after my sister and me.
Kasen for Kate, and Mason for Mallory. It’s funny that their little personalities are opposite, just like Kate and me.
Later today they’ll be going to my grandparents’ house, a ranch-style home in Indigo Hills with lots of room to run around.
The boys’ energy is boundless, so keeping them busy is my motto.
It keeps them out of trouble, and the more tired they are, the better they sleep.
At eighteen months, their tiny bodies need rest. They would love it here.
The open spaces to run, the horses, the campfire.
When they’re old enough, I want to bring them with my mom and sister.
I wonder if Cam will still be working here?
Oh, absolutely not. We are not doing this.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling as if it personally offended me.
Giving in, I fling off the comforter and sweep my hair into a messy bun before throwing on my joggers and zip hoodie.
I slide on Kate’s animal-print sneakers because they’re closest and scrawl a note for my sister.
I leave it on the dresser and another one on the door clip so the girls don’t worry, then head outside into the Texas darkness with my iPad.
The hike to the small pond near the stables is a long but peaceful walk.
The cicadas are loud, the wind cool and breezy.
String lights hang everywhere to make things visible without floodlights.
I think back to how much I enjoyed yesterday despite my resistance to leaving the cabin.
My sister signed us up for a mid-morning trail ride, which turned out to be exactly what I needed.
First, our riding instructor, Carson, matched riders with horses at our level of riding experience.
My partner was a gentle paint named Cinnamon.
Then, Carson encouraged us to get to know our horses before getting in the saddle, so we each fed our horses snacks.
Cinnamon took the apples right away, and even nuzzled my hand for more.
The calming effect on me was instantaneous.
An hour and a half wasn’t nearly enough.
The first part of the trail left the stables to cut through open fields drowning in bluebonnets.
Stalks of blue lined the fields as far as the eye could see.
The breeze carried the faint sweetness of something else blooming I can’t name, but the effect was like breathing for the first time in months.
As much as I resisted coming on this trip, it’s what I needed.
The natural quiet is hard to avoid out here, which is inconvenient because I had a whole attitude prepared.
I don’t have a lot of time to be alone in my head between teaching and the boys.
I hadn’t really thought about what that was doing to me.
It turns out silence is cheaper than therapy. Kate wins this round.
Throughout the ride, Cinnamon would nicker contentedly, the horse’s body swaying gently beneath mine.
Knowing my boys were having fun with my mom, I let my mind drift.
Why did Cam’s muscled physique and soft brown eyes keep filling my thoughts?
And the way my body responded to him? It’s like my pheromones had already partied with his and were just waiting for me to catch up.
During the rest of the ride, I tried to shove all images of Cam out of my mind. He’s nobody to me. Just someone I spoke twelve words to, eleven of which were about a light bulb.
This is not a thing.
But every time we passed a fence or saw other parts of the ranch, I found myself scanning the landscape in search of him. Not once did he pop into view. Not even when we returned to the stables.
I also didn’t see him at dinner or last night’s campfire.
Logically, I know it’s for the best. I just need my libido to get on board with that.
And truthfully? Being disappointed catches me off guard.
I mean, I haven’t dated in a while. There aren’t too many men in their mid-twenties who want to date someone with twins under the age of two, and I understand that.
But my boys deserve a man who’s at least interested in the idea of them.
That’s why I have to shut down my lust-filled thoughts.
I’m not interested in a fling or dating for the sake of dating.
Kate and my mom both tell me that’s the wrong attitude.
Dating for the sake of dating is the point.
“That’s how you get to know people,” they say.
And while they may have a point, I don’t have to agree with it.
Besides, Cam wouldn’t be interested in anything more than a one-and-done or a week-long fling at the most. We don’t even live in the same place. But is a fling completely out of the question? Kate says I deserve some fun, but taking a good nap is my idea of fun.
The pond finally comes into view under the dark sky. As I approach the picnic tables, guitar notes drift toward me. A musician sits at the water’s edge, lost in his music. Someone else can’t sleep, either.
The gravel on the path to the tables is uneven in places, and I pick my footing carefully out of old habit, my hip already registering the change in terrain the way it always does somewhere new. I find a picnic table and sit on its tabletop.
Tapping on my drawing app, I fully intend on continuing my sketch of Cinnamon.
My fingers have a mind of their own, though, swiping to a clean page.
The distant music enthralls me, the chords hauntingly beautiful.
I am not a country music fan. I prefer Lana Del Rey or even Vahvuus, but even I can appreciate the complexity of the music this man is playing.
What’s interesting is that he arranges notes in real time, starting and stopping, then remixing, almost as if he’s writing the song out here.
Impressed, I begin sketching his silhouette, which is illuminated only by the moonlight.
My fingers move with precision, capturing the outline of his head and the curve of his shoulders.
I’m so lost in my art that I don’t notice the music has stopped.
“Mallory?“ My pulse quickens at the familiar voice.
“Hi, Cam.“ I had no idea I’ve been sketching him, and my tummy flutters with a mix of excitement and unease. Of course I drew the ranch hand. Of course I did. I came out here for peace and quiet, and my hand decided to rebel and do its own thing.
He ambles over to my table with a distinct, carefree swagger that all hot guys have. Stopping several feet away, he asks, “May I join you?“
He’s close enough now that I catch something warm and cedar-y, like he showered before coming out here at 3 a.m., his vibe is gentle and eager. If I could see his aura, I bet it’d be golden. The glasses should make him less attractive. They do not.
“Sure.”
He heads to the nearby circle of the Adirondacks and drags it over, hanging his guitar on the back of his chair. He must have a good mother because he respected my personal space. That’s how I’m raising my boys, to be aware of women. Impressive.
“Nice sneakers.” He nods at Kate’s shoes. “Different vibe than what you had at dinner.”
I look down at the sneakers. “I grabbed the closest ones. They’re my sister’s.” I glance back up, my skin tingling. “You noticed my shoes at dinner?”
He lifts a shoulder, the corner of his mouth turning up. “You’re hard to miss.”
I’ve heard that before. Kate and I both have heart-shaped faces and a subtle widow’s peak, with full lips and blue eyes.
Men have often pointed out that we resemble Marilyn Monroe pre-glam.
I don’t like the attention, but for some reason, Cam’s compliment seeps through the cracks of my thick armor and settles in a way that is, frankly, inconvenient.
Ignoring the subtle shift in our dynamic, he settles into the Adirondack and stretches his legs out, his jeans hugging his thighs in dangerous ways. “What are you reading?“
I very deliberately look back at my iPad. “I was sketching, actually.”
The cicadas chirp all around us, the earthy smell grassy and fresh as it mixes with his clean scent.
“Anything interesting?“
I don’t know why I don’t tell him the truth immediately. I’m not embarrassed that I was drawing him, and it’s not like me to lie.
I must wait a bit longer than reasonable because he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.
I point my toes inward on the bench, raising my heels as I look at his angled features. “It’s not that.” I take a deep breath, knowing how this will come across. “I was sketching you.”
Cam’s mouth drops open, and he blinks a couple of times before laughing. “That’s not at all what I expected you to say.”
I send a a slow, unimpressed blink.
He adjusts his glasses, crossing one leg over his knee. “You didn’t know it was me, did you?”
“Nope.” Now I smile. “I came out here to work on the horse I rode this morning, but I saw your profile and couldn’t resist. I always tell my students to sketch the things that won’t leave them alone whenever it’s possible.”
“You teach art?”
“Mhmm. Middle school.”
The look of pure pity that crosses his face is one I see often. “You must have a will of steel to walk into all that preteen angst every day.”
Shrugging, I say, “I love it.”
“That’s so great, Mallory. They need their teachers to love it. It’s not an easy time for anyone.” He smiles. “You’ve got some dark and prickly in you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I step off the table and hand him my iPad. “This is your sketch. If you swipe left, you’ll see the sketches of Cinnamon.”
He studies the drawing of himself before viewing the horse drawings. He takes his time, zooming in here and there.
“Your eye detailing is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
He hands the iPad back to me, our fingertips brushing.
His fingers are warm and slightly rough from his work.
Before I can do anything about it, my brain wonders what that roughness would feel like along my jaw.
Or other places. I set the iPad on my knee, pulling my hand back before it gets any ideas.
I already drew the man once tonight. I’m not giving it more opportunities for mayhem.
Cam settles back into the chair like he owns it, picks up his guitar, and strums a tune that is vaguely familiar. It brings to mind a horse ambling along.
After a minute, I smile. “Happy Trails?”
He gives a half-grin. “Seemed fitting.”
He changes tunes to the one he was playing near the water, its notes a little edgy for a country ballad. I swipe to Cinnamon’s face sketch, adding to the detailing around her snout. Cam and I work in companionable silence, neither interrupting the other, our energies working together somehow.
At some point the pond goes quiet except for the cicadas and the soft notes between us, and I realize I’ve been sitting here for an hour without once thinking about my to-do list, my boys’ schedule, or whether I remembered to order more paintbrushes before I left Indigo Hills.
That’s either very good or very dangerous.
“I should get back,” I finally say.
He stops playing, setting his guitar across his lap. “Yeah.” He doesn’t tell me to stay, but he also doesn’t look away.
I retie one of Kate’s sneakers, buying myself three seconds I don’t need. “Goodnight, Cam.”
“Night, Prickly Pear.” The way he says my name is unhurried, like he’s in no rush to stop saying it.
I walk back toward the cabins and almost make it to the tree line before I realize I’ve been smiling the whole way. I press my lips together.
Turns out 3 a.m. is cheaper than therapy, too. I’m not telling Kate that.