Chapter 36
maverick
Music rolls over the open pasture, guitars twang, fiddles hum, boots kick dust into the sky as folks swing and two-step under the string lights.
Wildflower Canyon’s Summer Kickoff has got that sweet mix of ranch grit and community polish.
There are folding tables loaded with potluck casseroles, toddlers chasing each other barefoot between hay bales, and old timers in pearl-snap shirts talking about the best bull they ever owned.
We’re near the dry creek bed at Old Oak Hollow, a wide clearing under a stand of cottonwoods where someone hauls out a flatbed to use as a stage, someone strings up lights, and someone starts the bonfire ring.
We have kegs of beer and enough food to feed an army.
“When I was growin’ up, this was my favorite event,” Aria told me when we were driving over, her eyes wide with excitement.
It’s been a year since Earl passed, and with each day, she’s shed some of the sadness of the past.
She’s a vision tonight—just like she is every time I lay eyes on her, no matter the place or hour.
It appears my sister convinced her to replace her jeans with a soft green dress that hits mid-calf, with a slit that tantalizes me.
She’s still wearing boots scuffed from the day.
I watch her as she laughs with Bree and Joy by the pie table, a pint of beer in hand.
My chest tightens as it always does when I look at her. I’m a man in love, and no one is as beautiful as my woman.
Who would’ve thought I’d turn into a sap in my forties? And who would’ve thought I’d be happy as a clam at being in love?
Aria has let go of a lot this past year.
She let go of Celine, who got twelve years in federal prison.
Celine avoided trial because the evidence was damning. She’d conspired to sabotage a working ranch, obstructed a federal organic audit, and was indirectly tied to a sabotage that killed a man and a bombing that killed another.
With good behavior, she could be out in eight to ten. But she’ll never set foot on Longhorn again—I’m going to make sure of it.
Aria made peace with that. Some ties are better cut. Her resilience amazes me.
She feels sorry for Celine, but not enough to let her poison contaminate our lives. She doesn’t carry bitterness. It’s a skill she has—a superpower.
That’s the thing about Aria. People mistake her quiet for weakness, but I know better. She’s got more steel in her spine than most men I know.
She’s glowing now. Shining bright. And, she’s all mine.
I walk up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist as the band starts to play a slow country number that hushes the crowd.
She rests against me, no resistance, as natural as breathing.
“You gonna dance with me, darlin’?”
“I suppose I can make time.”
I lead her to the center, where couples have already gathered, boots scuffing the dirt in rhythm.
The stars are out, big and bright, hanging over us like witnesses.
“I’ve been thinking.” I dip my head near hers as we sway.
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” she teases.
We’ve merged our lands.
Longhorn Kincaid is now one of the biggest organic farms in Colorado. But we’re legally still two separate entities. We cooperate. Share labor. Share land.
“I think it’s time to legally merge our two ranches.”
She frowns.
“Like a marriage, if you will.”
She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. “Is that a proposal?”
“Not gonna propose to you, darlin’. You could say no. I ain’t takin’ that risk.” I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out a small ring box.
She smiles wide.
I know she’s seen the box and the ring. I saw her snoop through my underwear drawer in our bedroom at Longhorn Ranch.
We live together now.
I open the box, pull the ring out. It’s simple—a white gold, hammered band, and a small diamond like a sunrise.
We’ll have no speeches. No kneeling. Only the basics.
I slip the ring on her finger. “Congratulations, darlin’. We’re engaged. And just so there’s no argument about this, I want you to know that we’re getting married before the end of the year.”
She stares at the ring, then back up at me. “Are we now?”
The live music has slowed.
People are probably watching us.
I thought about doing this privately and then decided, the hell with it. I want the world to know that we’re getting hitched.
“I’m not askin’,” I remark. “I already know the answer. You love me.”
“Do I?” She’s barely able to contain her laughter, her happiness.
She loves the ring. She told Joy, who told me.
“You’re mine,” I whisper.
“Yes, I am,” she agrees.
I kiss her. There are hoots and clapping around us.
She rests her forehead against mine. “We’re getting married. But not here.”
I pause. “Where then?”
“Napa,” she says with a big smile like she’s been planning this forever. “The vineyard. It gave me myself back when I had nothing else. I want to start our life in a place that reminded me who I was.”
A knot tightens in my throat. “Then Napa it is.”
She steps in close, a smile still on her lips. “I love you, Maverick Kincaid.”
Those are the best words I hear every damn day, and I intend to keep on doing so.