Chapter 6
Coffee - Beabadoobee
Tally
Champagne was the devil, and my mouth tasted like the pit of hell—burnt sugar and something sour that clung to my tongue like death.
The throb in my temples carried a samba beat, relentless and mocking, while the nausea rolled through me in slow, cruel waves like a tide dragging seaweed and shame to shore.
The sheets tangled around my legs were twisted and damp with sweat, the air thick with the stale stink of alcohol and the faint undertone of smoke from last night’s fire.
My hair clung to my neck in knots, and my makeup, what was left of it, had probably migrated south, leaving raccoon rings under my eyes and a smear of mascara on the pillow that looked like a bruise.
I knew the best thing to do was get up, peel myself out of this pit of hungover gloom, and shower until my skin remembered what clean felt like. But moving felt like starting an argument with the stillness that was barely keeping the nausea at bay.
“Oh God,” I groaned, my voice cracking against the cotton of the pillow. “Why did I drink so much?”
The soft creak of the bed frame followed me as I swung my legs over the side. My bare feet hit the wooden floor with a dull thud, warm from the lingering heat of the fire, and I sat there for a moment, testing whether the room would spin or stay still. It wobbled, slightly, but I could deal.
The embers in the fireplace still glowed faintly, soft red pulses in a sea of ash. The warmth of last night’s buzz had drained out of my blood, leaving a clammy chill in its place that made me shiver.
Coffee. I needed coffee. Maybe even baked goods. Maybe death.
Bracing my palms against the mattress, I pushed to stand. The floor swayed under my feet like the deck of a ship, but I held my ground.
Then came the knock, three firm raps at the door.
I flinched, the sound crashing through my skull like cymbals. Definitely not death. Death wouldn’t knock.
It was my day off. If Gunner was at my door, something had gone wrong with one of the horses. But the pounding behind my eyes made dashing to the door feel like a suicide mission.
I pressed my fingers to my temples and opened the door slowly, wincing against the morning light.
“Wow,” came Wilder’s low drawl, his voice full of amusement and something else I didn’t want to name. His eyes dragged over me with a lazy thoroughness as he rubbed a hand over the smirk tugging at his perfect mouth.
“What?” I asked, running a hand through my hair like that was the worst part of how I looked. Sweaty strands clung to my fingers, and my scalp throbbed beneath my touch.
“Just…wow.”
He stood there like a walking daydream, light stubble on his strong, square chin, worn jeans slung low on his hips, a shearling-lined jacket open over a moss green Henley that hugged every inch of muscle.
His ball cap shaded his eyes, but not enough to hide the spark of amusement.
God damn him, how did he manage to look so effortlessly good all the time?
Meanwhile, I was barefoot, braless, and half-baked in regret and alcohol.
“Is there something wrong with one of the horses?”
Wilder’s gaze dragged up my body, slow and blatant, settling on my face with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Why do you look gray?”
“Thanks for the compliment. So, is there?”
He shook his head, mouth twitching. “Sorry, I was distracted by the sight of you.” Then he laughed, deep, low, and guttural, like it had started in his boots and clawed its way up. The sound reverberated through my chest and throbbed behind my eyes. “I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it before.”
“I don’t have pretty hangovers, so sue me.”
A breeze whistled in off the range and slipped across my bare skin, raising goosebumps and making me aware, painfully, of the thin tank clinging to my body.
My nipples tightened against the white cotton, and I crossed my arms quickly.
Wilder’s attention shifted, no doubt noticing, his grin sharpening as if it amused him.
“Wilder, what do you want, visiting my cabin in broad daylight?” I asked, more bite in my tone than I meant. The hangover made everything raw. That was all it was. Right?
“Brought you this.” He held up a brown paper bag with the Missy May’s Diner logo stamped on the front and a takeaway cup with steam rising from it. “Hazelnut latte. Jam donut. Hangover survival kit.”
My heart stuttered, one beat skipped; one beat too loud, then settled back into rhythm with an ache I didn’t want to name.
“You went into town and got this for me?” I took the bag like it was breakable, fingers gripping the warm paper like I was holding the edge of something I might fall from.
Wilder shrugged in that effortless, cowboy way, all lazy muscle and maddening ease as he passed over the coffee too.
“Was going anyway.” He gave me another once-over and smirked. “It’s a toss-up between you and Cassidy for who looks worse. She might just have you beat. Unless you’ve puked this morning.”
I shook my head. “What about Lily?”
“Hah! She hasn’t moved. Last I saw, she was still starfishing on the bathroom floor.”
I winced, then looked down at the goodness in my hands. The scent of hazelnut drifted up, warm and sweet. The donut’s glaze was already seeping through the paper of the bag, buttery and sinful and perfect. My stomach clenched, caught between craving and queasy.
“Go eat and drink,” he said, flipping his ball cap backward in that maddening way he knew I noticed.
My stomach clenched again, for an entirely different reason. I wanted to pull him inside. Drag him to bed and pretend last night hadn’t left me aching in ways that had nothing to do with alcohol.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “I appreciate it.”
He gave me a lazy salute. “Anytime, ma’am.”
Closing the door on him felt wrong. Like shutting the world out just as something good was trying to get in. Hungover or not, I could still appreciate perfection when it brought me coffee.
There was nothing like coffee and grease to make you feel better.
A hot shower scoured away the last of the cloying stench of alcohol, the fog of regret and the mascara clinging for its life to my lashes.
Slipping into my armor of jeans, flannel and scuffed boots, I felt more like myself. Hungover but functional.
Lazy days didn’t do it for me. It was working with horses that lit that fire within me. Dream Maker especially. He was my ignition, my favorite kind of challenge. Hence why on my day off I was heading for the stables.
The second I stepped outside my cabin everything fell into place.
The crisp mountain air filled my lungs, elevating my mood and clearing away the remnants of champagne and guilt.
The world smelled clean. Pine needles, cattle, horses, a faint trace of woodsmoke curling from the ranch house chimney.
It pumped through my veins giving me life.
Jump starting my senses and filling my soul with something better.
Horses whinnied in the paddock, warm eyes welcoming and thoughtful as I passed them.
A beautiful gray mare, Isabelle (thankfully already named so Bertie didn’t get to give her one), being trained for Gunner and Cassidy’s children’s camp pushed her nose over the fence, desperate for attention and probably an apple.
“Hello, sweet girl. You know you’re not allowed.
” She had a big barrel belly that we were trying to reduce.
She was ideal for kids, sweet natured and patient, but her previous owner had let her have far too many treats.
“How about a scratch instead?” She lifted her head in anticipation, and I was sure she was smiling—those two missing teeth where the sweet treats had taken their toll only made her more charming.
“Thought it was your day off?” Gunner came up beside me, giving Isabelle a gentle pat on her back.
“Hey. I needed some fresh air.”
His chuckle rumbled low. “You girls drank your body weight of champagne last night.”
“Ugh,” I shuddered. “Just the mention of it makes me want to throw up.”
“Cassidy’s nursing a bucket of black coffee in the den,” he said, leaning against the fence and folding his arms across his chest. “She’s declared a lifelong ban on alcohol.”
“Is Lily still…erm how is Lily?” I almost let it slip that I already knew.
And even though Wilder and I hadn’t exactly agreed to keep things quiet, I hadn’t said anything either.
It wasn’t shame, not exactly. Just…something quieter.
More fragile. Like saying it out loud would make it real in ways I wasn’t ready for and invite the kind of questions I couldn’t answer.
“Lily is…” Gunner paused and gave me a crooked grin. “Nash convinced her and the kids that getting the winter barn ready would cure her hangover.”
“Really?” I grimaced. “That’s brutal.”
“She’s stopped puking at least. Felicia gave her some lavender tea which sorted that out.” He nudged me. “So, why are you out here and not inside looking all pale and interesting?”
My vision tilted a little with the shift in focus, and I grabbed the fence for balance. “Fresh air but I’m beginning to wonder about the wisdom of it.”
“You’re not thinking of getting on the back of a horse are you?” Three worry lines creased his brow. “I’m not sure you should.”
“I was thinking Dreamy. He’s been doing great under a saddle.”
Gunner shook his head. “Not today. He’s too intuitive.
He’ll feel you’re off balance and that might rattle him.
” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “Isabelle would be a good choice. Or better yet, you could just take a walk.” He pushed off the fence.
“Okay, I’m off to check on my fiancée. See if maybe I can get her to eat.
” Taking a couple of strides, he stopped and turned on the heels of his boots.
“And Tally if you do take a walk, make sure you have a fully charged radio and phone.”
“Will do, boss.”
“And no checking emails in the office,” he added, raising a finger. “It’s your day off, remember.”
Smiling, I gave him a thumbs up but as I turned toward the office, something twisted in my stomach, and it wasn’t the hangover.
“Well, well. Don’t you look better.”
His voice, low, rough, familiar, wrapped around me like a worn blanket I hadn’t meant to reach for.
Wilder Miller stood in front of the barn; strong gloved hands adjusted a strap on his saddle.
His smirk was pure sin. Leather chaps. Dusty boots.
Ball cap tilted back just enough to show the grin I hated loving.