Chapter 7
Wilder
“Thank you, dear.” My mama’s warm hand grazed over mine as she took a hold of the saucer and cup I handed her way, the two pieces clinking together slightly as she brought it up to her lips.
I stood by just long enough to make sure the tea made it up to her mouth without the whole thing toppling over and spilling the once boiling liquid into her lap. One too many times, we had some close calls since winter hit; the shakiness in her hands growing worse this past year especially.
I hated to see age catch up to my mama. My memories of her were locked in a time long since passed, back when my father was still alive and I was just barely up to his shoulder.
She’d been spritely back then, a real firecracker of a woman who carried a sharp-witted tongue that never quite seemed to know how to stop moving.
But now?
Now, the weight of the years was pressing down on her, catching up in ways that were hard to ignore no matter how much I wanted to.
The lines on her face were deeper, carved into her skin like the stories she carried.
Her hands, once so steady and sure, now trembled when she reached for things, the strength in them dwindling little by little as the years rolled by.
It made my chest ache.
“Of course, Mama,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
Her gray-blue eyes, still sharp despite the years, flicked away from the TV to glance up at me. “Oh, quit your fussin’. I’m not made of glass, Wilder Reese.”
I huffed out a laugh, forcing back the sudden lump in my throat.
The use of my middle name, the last living piece of my father the both of us had left, was always a sure-fire way to get me to listen to her. That was for sure.
She only pulled it out when she was tired of me hovering, when she wanted to remind me in the only way she knew how that despite the years, she was still as strong and still as capable as she was way back then.
“Sorry, Mama.”
She waved her hand at me, after carefully settling her cup and saucer down on the arm of the couch, her movements slow but deliberate. “Go on, now. I know you haven’t eaten yet. I can hear that stomach of yours growlin’ from all the way over here.”
Amusement tugged at my lips, my mouth twitching at the familiar nagging.
Even now, even with the weight of the years settling into her bones, she was still my mother. Still the same woman who could somehow tell when I hadn’t been eating right, who could sniff out exhaustion in my voice before I even admitted I was tired.
Leaving her to fall back into her daytime show, I turned and headed for the kitchen again, my boots quiet against the worn hardwood.
I supposed it was only natural of me to worry; to latch onto things like caring for her and overdoing it.
She was the only parent I had left.
With my father leaving us so suddenly in the way that he had, it had only cemented something deep in my chest, something that made it impossible to sit still when I saw the changes creeping in on her.
She wasn’t frail. Not yet. But the signs were there—small, quiet things that might have gone unnoticed if I hadn’t been living with her. And I, in true Wilder Reese Boone fashion, reacted the only way I knew how.
By doing.
By fixing.
By throwing myself headfirst into whatever I could control, overcompensating just to make sure I didn’t repeat the same mistake twice like I had with my father. That I took things seriously instead of waving it away like I did the few months leading up to my father’s fatal heart attack.
It wasn’t rational by a long stretch, I knew that better than anyone.
Neither of my parents had been particularly elderly at the time, but the way my father had gone, so fast and unexpected, had left a scar. One that never quite healed no matter how much time passed.
Grief had a funny way of lingering like that. Some days it felt distant, tucked away in the quiet corners of my mind. Other days, it was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday, creeping up in the smallest moments—a smell, a sound, the weight of a memory catching me off guard.
But now was not the time for that.
Pushing those dark thoughts aside, I focused on the task in front of me, pulling out a few things from the fridge to slap together a quick lunch. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft hum of the TV in the other room and the occasional clatter of utensils as I worked.
When I glanced out the window above the sink, I noticed the sun had disappeared behind thick, heavy clouds, leaving the world outside cast in a hazy overcast gray. My gaze shifted across the property, scanning the stretch of land until a familiar figure caught my attention.
Asher?
He was walking up from the stables, hands shoved deep into his jean pockets, head tilted downward, gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. His pace was unhurried, but there was something about the way he moved that made me pause.
What was he doing up here so early?
Sully and I had already called it an early day, deciding to let the ranch hands loose to do whatever they wanted until dinner-time chores rolled back around.
With the temperature dipping lower, it wasn’t worth pushing them through another few hours of work when the conditions were already miserable enough.
But Asher?
He was the last person I expected to turn in early.
He never did. If anything, I was usually the one reminding him to take a damn break from that filly before he overworked himself into exhaustion.
But here he was, making his way up toward the house, his usual easygoing energy noticeably absent.
My stomach twisted slightly, my fingers stilling over the sandwich I was assembling.
Then again, Asher always did have a way of surprising me. Whatever it was, hopefully it wasn’t too serious.
Abandoning my lunch, I wiped my hands off on my jeans and headed straight for the back door.
I unlatched it, the old hinges creaking slightly as I swung it open.
The moment I stepped outside, a bitter breeze hit me full force, cutting through the warmth of the house like a blade but I barely registered it.
My eyes were too busy being locked on him.
His shoulders hunched slightly against the wind, finally tilting his head up and lifting his gaze from the ground when he reached the edge of the walkway.
He stopped short, his entire body stilling at the sight of me.
Wide brown eyes blinked at me, shifting into something caught between surprise and hesitation.
For a brief second, he looked like a deer caught in headlights—like he hadn’t expected to run into me and like whatever thoughts had been rolling through his head had just slammed to a halt.
My hands twitched at my sides, a familiar itch working them into fists as his messy hair fell into his eyes.
Really need to get him to wear that damn bandana.
“Oh,” he murmured, his voice quiet. His breath curled in the cold air between us. Then, a beat later, he seemed to catch himself. His posture relaxed just a fraction, a lopsided, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” I said, leaning to the side until my shoulder caught the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to see you up this way so early.”
My words weren’t meant to be a dig. Far from it, actually. Asher was as hard working as they came; something I wanted to keep encouraging without my blatant favoritism over him showing too much.
Truth be told, that was a hard thing to do when all I wanted was to praise him to the high heavens like he deserved.
However, if I started treating him differently—if I started handing out compliments a little too freely, if I started making it obvious just how much I noticed him—others would pick up on it. And so would he.
That was the last thing either of us needed.
He blew out a long breath, the exhale curling white in the cold air. “Actually, I was coming up to talk to you.”
Unfairly, my heart stuttered.
There was no reason for it—none at all. Just a simple statement; nothing weighted, nothing unusual. But still, something about the way he said it had my pulse jumping before I could school my reaction.
I straightened just slightly from where I was leaning. “Something wrong?”
Asher hesitated. And that was what made my stomach tighten.
Because Asher didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t waver when it came to what he wanted. He never danced around a subject or played a game of cat-and-mouse, expecting others to guess what was on his mind. That just wasn’t who he was. Instead, he was honest—always open, always upfront.
So the moment his gaze darted away from mine, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, I knew something was off.
“No? Not really, I guess. I don’t know.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Not one bit.
His words were too uncertain, too unlike him. Something was bothering him. Something that had driven him all the way up here when he should’ve been back at the arena with the rest of the ranch hands or still down by the stables, killing time until dinner.
I tilted my head slightly. “You don’t know?”
He huffed out another breath, this one carrying a little more frustration, which seemed to be directed more at himself than anything. “So, I had a conversation with my brother yesterday.”
Well.
That sounded ominous as hell.
“And how is he?” I asked.
“Fine.”
I waited for him to continue.
When he didn’t, I bent back just enough to grab a hold of the handle to the door and swing it shut behind me before making my way over to him. His eyes snapped up to meet with mine the second I got close, slightly wide like he hadn’t been expecting me to actually move toward him.
His lips parted slightly, the tip of his tongue darting out just enough to wet his bottom lip—
And fuck.
I noticed.
Too much.
Heat pooled in my stomach, sharp and sudden, cutting through the cold like a damn branding iron. I forced my gaze up, locking onto his way too wide eyes, the hesitation written all over his face.