Lucas is a Cowboy Dream
Nothing compared to the Barclay homestead at Christmastime.
The End is Neigh was all decked out with wreaths and twinkle lights everywhere the horses couldn’t try to eat them.
We were closed today and tomorrow, but the tour of kids who’d swung by for a holiday field trip yesterday had been delighted by the fact that we’d managed to wrangle most of the horses into wearing Santa hats. Except Major Bananas, the spoilsport.
My horse Dakota was in the holiday spirit, and she and my mom and her own horse Jupiter joined us in a ride around the property. The early morning air was only a bit chilly, nothing a corduroy jacket couldn’t counter. A far cry from the dreary weather of England.
It was good to be back home, but I missed Armand like an amputated limb. He’d kept his promise to communicate more regularly, especially as I kept him abreast. Ever since returning to the States, I’d received several invites to pretty prestigious West Coast photography festivals.
Apparently, Jean had tried to get the exhibition pulled after I left, but Ichika had vouched for me.
He’d told people I was flaky and derivative, starting a few rumors slandering my character, but no one bought it.
Enough of them had met me in person and I’m delightful.
And, in all honesty, they either knew or had heard of my mother.
Even though I hadn’t stayed for the whole run, my Dead of Summer exhibition had been—in Ichika’s words—an unprecedented success, and now local galleries in California wanted to showcase my photos.
Nepotism for the win.
Armand, though still a man of few words over text and voice memo, took care to tell me how proud he was of me. And not only because of my job opportunities.
I’d been seeing Dr. Singh once a week, and while I had a long road of therapeutic work ahead of me, she’d been patient and knowledgeable, and it’d been nice to have a safe space to talk and vent.
But right now, the talking was reserved for my mother, who chattered away beside me as we rode.
I was definitely listening, but I also checked my phone for messages.
Nothing yet from Armand. Granted, it was mid-afternoon his time, which meant my boyfriend was likely barely awake.
Like a weirdo. I snapped a photo of the top of Dakota’s head, making sure to get the sunrise hitting the tree line in the background.
Lucas: wish you were here <3
I sent the text, making my peace with not hearing back for a while. My mom was suspiciously quiet, so I peeked over my shoulder to see that she had guided Jupiter to a stop, her birdwatching binoculars pressed to her eyes.
“Still looking for that bald eagle that you definitely didn’t imagine?”
“Hush, you, I know what I saw.” She scanned the horizon, then aimed down the hill back toward the ranch. “Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“Just huh.” She handed me the binoculars, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Take a look.”
She was being weird. I adjusted the focus and pointed my gaze where Mom directed.
No way.
There was absolutely. No. Way.
Armand was standing on the back porch. A backpack slung over one shoulder. Staring up at us.
I turned to see Mom giving me a cheeky grin. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”
I shoved the binoculars into her hands, barely hearing her laugh—“Go unwrap your present!”—as I picked up Dakota’s reins and raced down the hill, heart slamming in my throat.
I’d barely coasted Dakota to a stop when I hopped off; Armand dropped his bag and barely caught me as I leaped into his arms.
“Oh my god, what are you doing here?” I asked into his neck, warm and fluttery at how easily we slotted together. “You should’ve told me you were flying in!” I pulled back enough to take in his gorgeous yet clearly sleep-deprived face. “When did you land?”
He squeezed me tight, breath tickling my ear. “Not an hour ago. Sorry for the surprise, but I, er, wanted it to be a surprise. A good one, hopefully.”
“Of course it’s a good one! What the hell—” I let out a disbelieving laugh.
“I literally just sent you a text that said ‘wish you were here.’ I’m magic.
” I pressed a hand to his chest to check he was real.
His heartbeat pounded against my palm. “I can’t believe you’re really here.
” Then something crept into my bubble of excitement. “Wait, is everything okay?”
Armand cast a wary glance to Dakota waiting patiently behind me.
“This isn’t working,” he said, then instantly paled, horrified.
“No! No, er, not this relationship—the long-distance bit. I was happy to do it because you asked and you needed it, but I need us to be on the same continent. The same time zone, the same bloody postcode. And we don’t have to live together if you’re happier here”—his nose wrinkled cutely, as if he, respectfully, couldn’t picture a world in which someone would feel at home with horses—“and I know I’m doing it again, the moving too fast, but I’m at my limit, love. ”
There was buzzing in my ears. “What . . . what are you saying?”
Armand’s wide shoulders rose and fell in a giant breath. “I got a job—visiting artist position at Norsemen.” He shook his head and chuckled softly. “They’re gonna let me teach art again, for some reason.”
“Visiting—” I struggled to put the pieces together, hoping against hope that I wasn’t wrong. “You want to live here? In California?”
“I want to live,” Armand stated, clearly, taking hold of both my hands, “wherever you are, love.”
My head threatened to float away. “What about Lakshmi? The comic?”
“I can work on the comic anywhere. And Lakshmi all but shoved me out the door.”
I was going so tingly I was in danger of exploding. “But you hate California.”
Armand pulled me in closer. “But I love you.”
He was prepared to leave his country, his friends, his community—for me. A rush of something unexpected came over me, a sense of rightness. Of home. He was choosing me, in an undeniably long-term way. And I wanted nothing more than to choose him right back.
I was filled with fluttery energy, yet was suddenly calmer than ever. “We should get married.”
Armand appeared to choke on his own saliva. “What?”
“Shit, sorry, I did that all wrong. How about this—” I kept a tight hold on Armand’s hands even as I took a small step backward and lowered myself onto one knee.
Armand stopped breathing.
“Armand Demetrio, you are the kindest, gentlest, most accidentally hilarious, beautiful, hot-as-fuck man I’ve ever met, and I can’t imagine going the rest of my life without you. I want us to be in the same postcode forever. Will you do me the extraordinary honor of marrying me?”
Armand’s mouth had dropped open, his eyes gone wide and luminous. “Is this really happening?” he blurted. “This isn’t a hallucination?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure? Because this has been my exact fantasy since I was eleven.”
It took me a second to realize what he meant. I glanced pointedly down at my jeans and boots, then smirked up at him. “Is this because of the cowboy thing—”
“Yes, of course, it’s because of the cowboy thing.”
He was absolutely glowing under the porch light and the holiday bulbs surrounding us. “So”—I put on a thick Southern drawl to see Armand flush red—“what d’ya say, partner?”
“Yes—” Armand broke, his whole face brightening with an enormous, watery smile. “Bloody hell, yes.”
I rose to my feet to kiss him, but he beat me to it. He fastened his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground in a gentle twirl, grass pollen falling like fairytale snow around us and Dakota softly neighing her support in the background.