Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
I’m blasting Thievery Corporation’s Mirror Conspiracy while sketching an outline of the Bitterroots in pencil over my solid ochre background when a soft chime shatters my focus.
Lily has taught me how to set up limits on incoming calls and texts, but I often forgot to turn it off, and one time I missed a call from Micah. He’d been hurt in a crash and though he was fine, I don’t ever want that to happen again.
I tap the phone’s screen, and frown. It’s a text message from the same person who called last Thursday and didn’t leave a message. The area code was local, which threw me. I only know a handful of people in Finn River.
UNKNOWN:
I have an update on Colton
ME:
Who is this?
The dots dance, then stop. Dance, then stop.
I take a sip from my water bottle as I wait, but my impatience can’t be tamed. Finally, a new message appears.
UNKNOWN:
Rowdy Whittaker
I run a hand down my ponytail.
It’s been over a week since I sent him off with the bags of Micah’s clothes and resolved to put him out of my mind.
Not that it’s worked.
Because how many men could show up the way Rowdy did that night? He was calm and confident, an excellent listener, and curious, yet still a man of action. Capable. Not to mention handsome and charming in that quiet, attentive way.
But I’m done fretting over him, crackling chemistry or not.
ME:
Hi. What’s the update?
My phone lights up with his incoming call, and I exhale hard, puffing my cheeks. I don’t have to answer it. I can reply that I’m working. That I’m busy having a big, full, and amazing life, one I am completely in love with, thank you very much.
Get over yourself already. This call is about Colton.
“Hi, Rowdy.”
“Hey, Keo.” The way he says my name in that unhurried, low tone makes my spine tingle. Damn him. “Any chance I could stop by sometime today? Colton wrote us a letter. I…thought you’d like to see it. We could talk about ways to support him.”
I pick at a paint blob stuck to my knuckle, thinking this through. “How about around lunchtime?”
“Can I bring us something to share?”
My mouth opens, but the words skitter to a halt on my tongue.
Do I have this right? He’s offering to…what…
collaborate? Or is this something more? “Don’t bother—” I wince at my snooty tone.
That’s the last thing I want. “I mean, I have something already made, but you could bring bread to go with it?”
“Sounds great.” Warmth fills his tone. “Noon okay?”
My tummy gives an unhelpful flutter. “Yeah, see you then.” We say goodbye and I check the time. It’s just after ten. I had a lazy morning and haven’t showered yet. I’m also not wearing a bra.
I tell myself that washing my hair and shaving my legs for a lunch meetup with Rowdy Whittaker doesn’t count as fretting. Even the lunch I’m expanding to include a guest couldn’t be called that. The soup’s already made, thanks to Lily coaching me through it yesterday.
I tell myself that also putting on lacy skivvies doesn’t count because I love how they make me feel.
When Rowdy comes to the door at two minutes to noon, dressed in a black wool sweater and dark green uniform pants with that cowboy hat that seems to have a direct line of communication to my ovaries, I remind myself that this is most likely just a friendly and very casual lunch date and nothing more.
And maybe that’s exactly where it needs to stay, because if he’s hung up on the idea that I’m going to be some kind of clingy time suck on his busy life, that’s a hard pass.
His expression softens when he takes me in. “Hi.”
I chose my favorite cowgirl snap shirt and pulled some of my curly hair off my face. Minimal fretting.
“Come in.” I pull the door open so he can step across the threshold.
“Hope you like peasant bread.” He hands me the loaf tucked under his arm. Our fingertips brush, and for an instant, our eyes meet.
Am I imagining the energy firing between us?
“Perfect,” I manage.
He slips off his boots and hangs his hat on my coat rack, giving me a moment to both check out his fine backside in those uniform pants and reclaim my sanity with a slow inhale.
“Smells great in here,” he says as we walk toward the kitchen.
“We’re having French onion soup. It’s Lily’s recipe.”
“Wow, I’m honored.”
I shoot him a glance, but his eyes shine with sincerity.
The read I’m getting from him today feels different. But I was wrong last time, so…
“Can I help with anything?” he asks.
“Would you be willing to build a fire?” I’m veering off script, but I need a minute to get settle the sudden flutters tickling my belly.
“Sure thing.” He heads for the hearth, dropping to one knee and sorting through my wood supply.
Not that I’d expect any less from this mountain cowboy, but I’m beginning to think there’s no challenge he can’t tackle. And damn if a capable man isn’t a temptation all on its own.
I spent twenty years married to a man who couldn’t change a car battery, refused to help with house projects that required the use of a ladder, and couldn’t figure out even basic furniture assembly.
I learned to replace my own car headlight bulbs and clean gutters and install appliances.
And fix things. Especially because after Drew lost his job, every penny counted.
So it’s no wonder that a man who can start a fire in my hearth in under two minutes is pulling an unmet need to the surface—one I’ve done such a good job at silencing—sparking a different kind of fire in the process.
Because it’s not that I long to be taken care of or doted on.
It’s having a partner who can handle shit.
Someone who can lead, so I don’t have to all the time.
Bonus points if he can fold me like laundry and make me forget my own name.
In my kitchen, I use Rowdy’s hearty bread to finish the soup and slide the enamel bowls under the broiler. At the fridge I glance over my shoulder at him.
“Is sparkling water okay?” If we were in Paris, there would be wine, but bubbles are still fun.
“Sounds great.” Rowdy swivels, a handful of kindling clutched in his fist. He’s removed his sweater and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the edge of a vividly outlined falcon tattoo on his muscular forearm. I drink in the clean lines for long enough that his gaze lifts to mine.
He smiles, and do I detect a gentle heat in his gaze?
I spin away, heart tapping into my throat. While I focus on getting waters and spoons and napkins set up on the breakfast bar, he washes his hands at the sink, his woodsy scent mingling with the savory aroma from the oven.
“Thanks again for putting this together,” Rowdy says as I carry each bowl by its handle to the set of placemats.
“Company’s nice,” I say to keep it neutral.
We settle onto the stools side by side. Sitting next to him instead of facing him across my table feels casual, yet somehow still intimate. And I love eating here with the pretty view, especially today with the racing clouds and patches of blue sky.
He dips his spoon into the broth and brings it to his lips, his dark lashes fluttering closed as he blows across the surface.
The way his full lips purse coupled with the scent of the woods he’s brought to my space is making it hard to stay focused.
Then Rowdy slides the spoon into his mouth and groans.
I can’t hide the rush of pleasure warming my insides. “You like it?”
“It’s really good.” He cuts a bite with the bread and melted cheese.
“Lily says the secret is cognac.”
“Tell her she’s right.” Our eyes connect again, sending an electric buzz dancing under my skin.
I force a stuttered breath from my lungs and take a spoonful of broth, pausing to savor the caramelized onions while Rowdy slips a small envelope from his pocket and sets it on the counter between us.
The handwritten note inside from Colton is brief but sweet enough to make my heart melt a little. That longing to stay connected to him tightens inside me. “He’s doing okay, then.”
“So far, yeah. He’s in a group home while they try to find placement with a foster family.”
I’ve done some research on the process, so this tracks.
Though I can’t imagine the group home is all that great.
Colton’s plea to stay on as my ranch hand keeps skipping through my thoughts.
Maybe once he gets a little further along in the process, his foster family would let him come work for me a few days a week?
He might appreciate a job, and I know I’d appreciate his help.
“When can I visit?” I ask.
Rowdy sets his spoon down and slips his phone and a pair of glasses from one of his breast pockets. “Here’s Benjamin’s number. He’s the social worker in charge of Colton’s case.”
I didn’t think Rowdy could look any more distinguished, but the glasses prove me wrong. “Thank you.”
“We could visit him together.” Rowdy sets his glasses and phone to the side.
“Okay.” I blow on my bite of soaked bread and cheese. Do I feel his eyes on me as I swallow it down? I lick my lips, and he shifts on the stool next to me.
“Maybe something on the weekend?” I prompt.
“Good idea.” He breaks a piece of the extra bread I toasted for dipping and pops it into his mouth. “How about Saturday?”
I glance at him, but he’s focused on spooning up another bite. “Sure. Micah’s visiting with some friends, but not until late.”
“I’ll set it up.”
There’s that strong leadership I sensed in him, and god, is it nice.
“My daughter Sofie sometimes volunteers with protective services,” he adds. “Turns out, you’ve met her friend Kirilee? Something about you volunteering at the community art center she runs?”
“Oh my goodness, yes.” A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. Is this the reason for the strained energy pouring off Rowdy since we sat down? “Kirilee is adorable, and her senior painting class is a hoot.”
He smiles enough to make that dimple pop. “I can only imagine. Have you taught art before?”
“I was a TA in college.” I spoon up another bite. “Not quite the same thing.”