Chapter 6
Chapter six
Everett
Ican’t quite believe that out of billions upon billions of people, the one who sat down beside me at the bar last week was the one woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head.
The one I knew next-to-nothing about, other than that she smelled like oranges, drank margaritas, and her name was Ruth.
I know just a little more about her now, and it only makes me hungrier.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember from New York.
Long lashes frame her eyes: dark, with just a hint of something—a bright, springtime sparkle.
Dark hair falling over her shoulders. Those blunt bangs are already growing out into some curtain-like things that always fall forward when she tucks her hair behind her ears.
And I wouldn’t even have run into her again if I hadn’t spent another few days in New York with Ashton.
I think I’ve come home twenty pounds heavier, stuffed to the gills with all of the brownies and cupcakes she made me taste-test, but hot damn, it was worth it—for the food, and for running into Ruth again at the airport.
If there’s one thing Ashton Tanner can do, it’s bake.
Her couch might not be much comfort for sleeping on, but my god, she is unmatched in the kitchen when it comes to sweets.
We did some more of the tourist stuff too, of course.
She took me out to some off-the-beaten-path neighbourhoods with some fun diners and cool boutiques, and we took the ferry out to Ellis Island when the weather finally held up.
We took hundreds of photos of ourselves standing against every landmark we could get to.
I’ve missed having my sister around since she moved to New York, and if my first trip didn’t, then this second, impromptu visit only made me realise I need to visit her more often.
Now, though, I’m home, replacing some fencing out on the far western pasture before we rotate some cattle out here later this week, and my phone has just vibrated in my pocket. I pull it out with one hand and use the other to absent-mindedly rub a line down Della’s nose as she nudges at me.
ROO
this made me think of you
*attachment: one image*
It’s like she knew I’d been thinking of her.
We’ve texted a little back and forth over the last week, but I’ve always been the one to initiate a conversation.
This time, Ruth texted me first, and as I wipe sweat from my brow with the hem of my tank top, I feel a little giddy at the thought.
The photo Ruth has sent is of a piece of art in a frame sat on what looks like a bookshelf.
The artwork itself reads cowboys do it better, and it’s decorated with a hat, boots, a cactus, and a length of rope tied like a lasso.
I laugh out loud. It’s kind of cute, in a stereotypical country kind of way.
That, and the fact that it made Ruth think of me. My thumbs fly across the screen as I type a message back. It has a smug grin spreading across my face.
Everett
100% true
ROO
is that so?
what, pray tell, do you do better?
Everett
come back to Austin and I’ll show you
I tuck my phone back into my pocket and step into the stirrup, swinging one leg over Della’s back.
The fence is just about fixed, and the way the sun is getting higher and higher in the sky tells me it’s time to head back to the house and grab some lunch, before I sit down to help Mom with some admin work for the ranch.
I could’ve hung out with Brooks and Jody today.
Brooks invited us both over to shoot the shit, and I’m pretty sure he and Jody are over there right now.
Brooks rents one of the cabins in what we’ve always called ‘The Village’—a small cluster of cabins rented out to the ranch hands, or occasionally to outside contractors who come in and spend time here.
It’s about a ten-minute walk from my place, or three, if you’re racing ATVs.
Don’t ask me how I know that.
We have another cluster of cottages on the other side of one of the paddocks—The Hamlet, as it’s affectionately known—and we rent those out sometimes for some small summer camps.
They’re a little fancier, perfectly located for some stargazing when the Texas sky is clear at night.
My cabin is a little larger than most of the others, and it’s much more secluded than The Village.
It’s a two-storey A-frame, hidden by a cluster of cedar elms, and it backs onto a creek that runs through our land and the Fishers’.
Over on the other side of the creek, accessible either by walking knee-deep through the water, or by crossing a small bridge about six hundred yards east, there’s another matching cabin.
It’s the one Grandaddy earmarked for Ashton.
I stop in every couple weeks to make sure there are no animals getting in, and keep the water running clean.
Anyways. Point is, I turned down an afternoon and evening with the guys. I’m usually the first one to accept that kind of invitation, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go. I’m just not feeling it. I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because the only thing on my mind lately is Ruth. Her beautiful smile, that laugh that sounds like the song of angels. Lately, the only thing I’m interested in is spending time with her. And since she’s a whole damn ocean away, that time has to be spent on the phone.
It’s a little after four in the afternoon.
I ate one of Mom’s famous turkey subs for lunch before we sat down to do a little work on marketing for the ranch, but I’m hankering for a snack already.
I’m just staring, unseeing, into a kitchen cupboard when my phone buzzes three times on the counter.
I glance down to see Ruth’s name on the screen, and it gives me an idea.
Everett
you up for a facetime call, ruth?
When she responds with a yes, I tap the video icon next to her contact photo with one hand, and reach into the cupboard with another, pulling out a bag of chips.
I’m pouring them into a green bowl—one with pasta scrawled over its interior and around the outside—when she answers, and immediately, I feel all the tension leave my body at the sight of her smile.
“It’s a little soon to be taking me to bed, isn’t it?”
Ruth throws her head back and laughs, and the world could end right here. I’d never know, and I truly don’t think I’d care, as long as I had that sound in my ears.
“It’s after ten at night here,” she explains. She’s in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a wine-red button-down pyjama shirt. The colour suits her. Every time I see her face, she’s even more beautiful than the last time.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot about the time difference,” I say. Pangs of guilt stab at my stomach, but they’re immediately healed by another one of those laughs.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth says. “I work for an American company. I work into the evening a lot.”
“Not tonight, though?” Hope blooms in my chest. Hope that work is being good to her. Hope that she’s not even thinking about work right now. Hope that she’s choosing to spend her evening with me instead—even if it is over a video call.
“Not tonight,” she confirms happily. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t feel like the best damn thing in the whole world. I feel a grin tug at my cheeks so hard they start to ache, and I grab a jar of salsa from the fridge as Ruth asks about my day.
“It’s been fine,” I say. It has been fine. It’s been fine, until now, when it’s great. “Fixed some fences out on the pasture, and then helped Mom with some marketing things. She wants to try something new this summer, bring in some more groups for horse riding camps and even some equine therapy.”
“Wow.” Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Equine therapy, huh? What exactly does that entail?”
“Honestly? I don’t really know.” I scoop the salsa into a small bowl and nestle it among the chips in the larger one.
I rinse the jar and toss it into the bucket I use for recycling.
“But Brooks’s sister has a friend who just finished college, and apparently it’s a new thing, it’s good for kids with—what’s the word we’re supposed to use? Neuro-different?”
“Neurodivergent?”
“Yeah, that one. Mom said it’s good for kids who are neurodivergent, and adults, too. I think riding horses is good for pretty much everyone, to be honest, so I’m all for it.”
“Do you have a horse?”
“Of course I have a horse, baby girl, I live on a ranch,” I say with a laugh. I stick my hand into the fridge again and pull out a bottle, swiping it against my wall-mounted opener to release the cap. I toss that into the bucket too.
“Of course you do,” she says with an eye roll and a smile. “You’re a cowboy, of course you have a horse. Duh.” She slaps her forehead with an open palm, and I laugh.
“You wanna play twenty questions? You can ask me about my horse.” I wink as I juggle my phone and food, carrying everything and a bottle of beer into the living room.
I use an ornamental wooden bull to prop the phone up on the coffee table as I dig my hand into the bowl of chips.
Scooping up some salsa, I pop the snack into my mouth and chew, savouring the sweet tang of tomato and jalapeno as the flavours explode on my tongue.
On the screen, Ruth’s eyes flicker with something, darkening ever so slightly as she shifts to tuck her feet beneath her.
“Sure,” she answers. “You wanna go first, though? I feel like you probably have some questions burning a hole somewhere.” Her little laugh sounds like a choir of angels, and fuck if just talking to her isn’t giving me all kinds of thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
Especially not for a woman I hardly even know.
One who lives thousands of miles away, at that.
I smile at the thought of all the questions I’m dying to ask.
“Oh, honey, I could ask you a hundred questions—a thousand, even—and I’m sure I’d never even scratch the surface. I want to know everything. Your birthday. Your favourite colour. Your favourite sandwich.”
“Well, that’s three,” she says with another laugh. “January second. Maroon. Chicken salad. Now you have to answer.”
I make a mental note of all of Ruth’s answers. If we weren’t on a video call right now, I might even write them down so I don’t forget. I don’t want to ever forget a thing about this woman.
“October eighteenth,” I begin. “Summer sky blue. And you can’t beat a humble ham and cheese.”
“Acceptable,” Ruth hums with a smile. She lifts a hand to push her glasses further up on her nose and I notice her nails are painted maroon. Her hands are otherwise bare; no jewellery except for the wine-red band of a sleek, discreet smart watch on her left wrist.
“Acceptable, huh?” I ask with a smile of my own.
A little thrill shoots through my veins, prickling at my skin as Ruth’s nose wrinkles in a bigger smile.
I’m slowly starting to unravel the enigma of my airport girl—she is mine, I feel it in the very marrow of my bones—and she might be my most favourite mystery I’ve ever tackled.
She hums again in agreement before pressing her lips together.
“What’s your coffee order?” Another classic question, but I’m betting you can probably tell a lot about someone from their caffeine preferences. That’s what Ashton always says, anyway. But then again, she drinks her coffee with a metric fuck-ton of sugar and about half a pound of flavouring in it.
“Hot and black, baby. Unadulterated, right from the pot.” I grin, and Ruth giggles at my answer. It’s another musical sound and it sets my blood simmering.
“Mine is a caramel latte, light on the caramel, extra shot of espresso.” I make a mental note of Ruth’s preference. A little sweet, extra strong. That matches perfectly with everything I know about Ruth Bevan so far. And I can’t wait to learn more.
There’s just something I can’t quite put my finger on, but it makes me want to know everything about this woman.
It makes me want to hold on with both hands, throw caution to the wind.
Talking to her every night the way I have for the last two weeks, even just through text, gives me the same kind of elation, the belly-swooping freedom that I feel when I climb up on a horse, when the wind blows through my hair as we gallop across the plains.
“Your turn to ask a question, Ev,” Ruth reminds me softly. I realise suddenly that I’ve been staring at her image on the screen, at the way her lips are curled into a gentle smile that reaches all the way to her eyes, crinkling them at the corners.
A question. Right.
“What’s your favourite style of potato?”
She laughs suddenly, a full belly-laugh this time.
One that has her swaying in place as the force of her laughter knocks her off-balance.
One that has her whole face lighting up in the most dazzling way.
I’ve seen the Texas sky at sunrise, sunset, and at every moment in between.
I’ve seen the circle of life working with cattle.
I’ve even seen the world from above now, flying across mountains and deserts.
But my god, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than Ruth Bevan when she laughs.
“My favourite kind of potato?” She’s still laughing.
“Ye-yeah. You know, they’re the most versatile food.”
“Oh, I don’t disagree,” she says with a smirk. “I just wasn’t expecting the question.”
“So, what’s your answer?”
“Granny Bevan’s dauphinois,” she says decisively, without any hesitation at all. And then she adds, “But you can’t go wrong with a good French fry.”
“Have you ever had a Texas baked potato?”
“I’ve had a baked potato. What difference does Texas make?”
“Oh, honey. Next time you’re in Austin, come hungry.” I wink into the lens, and I realise I’m flirting hard.
“Are you offering to cook for me, Cowboy?”
Well, if I’m flirting, Ruth is flirting right back, with a coy smile on her face. I feel my cheeks tighten as my grin widens, ecstatic at the thought of seeing her again.
“Might be,” I shrug. “Depends on whether you’re gonna come and see me again.”
“Tell you what,” she says, grabbing her phone and bringing it towards her face. “I’ll come visit if you cook for me. Deal?”
“Why, Ruth, I do believe you’ve got yourself a deal.”