Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
LENA
Sunday morning. My last day.
The suitcase is packed. Equipment cases stacked by the door.
Camera bag on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker I won't use because the coffee maker in the main house makes better coffee, but I'm not walking to the main house because Tucker Brant is in the main house, and Tucker Brant can choke on his brand.
My eyes are swollen. Dried out from crying, then crying again, then running out of tears around two in the morning when Dolly scratched at the cabin door. She slept on my feet all night. Even his dog knows he's wrong.
Mama I'm coming home today
Mija what happened
He happened
Do I need to send your father
No Mama. It's over. I'll be home by dinner
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stare at the blue flannel folded on the pillow. His flannel. The one he dropped over my shoulders that first morning when my fingers were freezing around a coffee mug. Ten days ago. A lifetime.
Leaving it feels wrong. Taking it feels worse.
A knock on the cabin door. Hard. Deliberate. Not a knock that's asking permission.
"Go away, Tucker."
The door opens anyway. Because of course it does. Because the man has never once in his life respected a closed door when he decided it needed opening.
He fills the doorframe. Hat off. Hair messy, pushed back with his fingers. Dark circles under hazel eyes that look like he slept about as well as I did, which is to say not at all. Clean henley, jeans, boots. Holding something in both hands.
A frame. Wood, rough edged, handmade. And behind the glass, a photograph.
My photograph. The one of the calf nursing at dawn with 247, shot from the east fence on my third morning. Golden light spilling across the pasture. The calf's dark eyes, the mother's lowered head. My best work from the entire project.
Under the photo, in Tucker's handwriting on a small strip of paper:
Brant Ranch. Est. 1924. Photographed by Lena Cordero.
"Manny drove to town last night," he says. His voice is rough. Wrecked. "Print shop was closed. He woke up the owner. I built the frame this morning out of fence wood from my dad's section."
My throat closes.
"The photos stay up." He steps into the cabin. "All of them. The website, the logo, whatever you designed. It all stays. Including my face, if you want it."
"Tucker."
"I'm not done." Another step. "Yesterday I said things that weren't true because the truth scared me more than the lie. The truth is that you didn't turn my ranch into marketing. You saw it’s true worth, when I forgot to."
He sets the frame on the kitchen counter. Carefully, like it matters. Like everything about this matters.
"The truth is I'm not angry about the photos. I'm scared of Sunday. Scared of your car driving down that road. Scared of making one cup of coffee instead of two." His jaw works. Those hazel eyes are bright, wet at the edges. "Scared of my kitchen without your sweet tea."
One tear spills down his cheek. Tucker Brant, who communicates in grunts and single syllables, standing in my doorway with tears on his face.
"You were right when you asked what if carrying it alone is what makes it so heavy.
" His voice drops. "It is. It's been heavy for nine years.
Then you showed up in those red heels, told me not to clean up, stole my flannel, taught my dogs to love you.
Made everything lighter." He swallows hard. "Made me lighter."
"Tucker."
"I love you, Lena."
The words land in the center of my chest.
"Fell for you on day three when you climbed my fence in hiking boots and shot a photo that made me see my own ranch for the first time. Fell harder every day after. Fell completely when you sat at my kitchen table and asked about my dad, because nobody asks about my dad."
Crossing the cabin takes three steps. Grabbing the front of his henley takes less than a second. Kissing him takes everything.
His arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet. One hand in my hair, one on my waist, mouth desperate against mine. The kiss is wet, messy, tasting like tears and coffee and morning air. His forehead drops to mine.
"I love you," I whisper against his mouth. "I loved you when you gave me your flannel. I loved you when you smiled at lunch for the first time. I loved you when you pointed at that ridge and told me about your great grandfather."
"Stay."
"Tucker, my life is in Sacramento."
"Bring it here."
"That's not how it works."
"Why not?" He pulls back enough to look at me. Those hazel eyes are steady now, clear. "You work freelance. You bring your camera, your laptop, your equipment. Shoot from here. Sacramento's three hours away for client meetings. Your mom wants me for Sunday dinner. I'll drive."
"You'd drive three hours for my mother's tamales?"
"I'd drive thirty."
Laughing through tears, I grip his shirt tighter. "My family is loud. Five kids. Organized chaos."
"Good. This house has been too quiet for nine years."
"I rearrange everything. Josie warned you."
"Kitchen's already better since you got here."
"Tucker." Pulling back, I cup his face in both hands. Silver rings against his jaw, rough beard under my palms. "Are you asking me to move to a cattle ranch in the middle of Nevada?"
"I'm asking you to come home."
Home. The word breaks something open in me.
Something that's been looking for a place to land since my last boyfriend told me I was too much.
Since every apartment lease expired and I packed for the next city.
Since I started photographing other people's lives because mine never felt full enough to document.
"Yes."
His mouth covers mine. The kiss deepens. My back hits the cabin wall. His hands slide down to my ass, gripping, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist. He carries me to the bed, follows me down onto the mattress, his weight settling over me.
"The flannel stays," he says against my throat.
"It's been mine since day two."
"I know." His mouth moves down my neck. "Looked better on you than it ever looked on me."
Clothes come off fast. His henley over his head, thrown to the floor.
My tank top, my shorts. He unclasps my bra with one hand, tosses it.
His mouth closes over my nipple, tongue circling, sucking hard enough to make my hips jerk against him.
Both hands cup my breasts, thumbs dragging across my nipples while his mouth travels between them.
"Tucker. Please."
He strips off my underwear, settles between my thighs. His mouth drags up my inner thigh, beard rough against sensitive skin. Then his tongue presses flat against my clit, slow, firm. Two fingers slide inside me, curling forward, pumping while his mouth works.
"Oh God. Right there."
His free hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me still while his tongue circles, flicks, sucks. The orgasm builds fast, tight, electric. My fingers twist in his hair. His fingers curl harder, mouth sucking my clit, and I come apart, thighs shaking, his name on repeat.
Before the aftershocks finish, he's rolling on a condom from the nightstand. Pushing inside me in one deep stroke that makes us both groan. He braces on his forearms, forehead to mine, eyes open.
"Look at me." His voice is wrecked.
My eyes lock on his. Hazel, warm, full of everything he spent nine years locking down. He starts to move. Deep, slow, grinding strokes that hit every nerve. My hips rise to meet each one.
"Harder."
He shifts his angle, hooks one arm under my knee, opens me wider. The pace picks up. Deep, steady thrusts that rock the bed frame against the wall. His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing tight circles.
"Come with me, Lena."
Two more strokes. His thumb presses harder. Everything tightens, crests, breaks. The orgasm tears through me and he follows, burying deep, groaning my name against my neck. His body shudders. Goes still.
We lie tangled together, breathing hard. His mouth presses lazy kisses against my collarbone. My fingers trace the muscles of his back. Slow. Unhurried. No Sunday deadline. No departure.
"Josie's going to be insufferable," I murmur.
"Already is." He reaches for his jeans on the floor, pulls out his phone. Shows me the screen.
Tucker I swear if you don't fix this I'm driving up there myself
Its 6am Josie
DID YOU TALK TO HER
I'm talking to her right now
AND???
She's staying
The reply takes four seconds.
I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT
Tell Lena I love her
Tell Lena she's my sister now
TUCKER ARE YOU CRYING
He puts the phone face down on the nightstand. Looks at me with a smile that reaches his eyes, crinkles the crow's feet, shows actual teeth. Full, real, unhurried.
"Come on." Rolling off the bed, he pulls on his jeans. "Cows don't wait."
"It's my last day. Technically I don't work here anymore."
"You don't work here. You live here." He holds out his hand. "Different job description."
Taking his hand, I let him pull me up. Steal his henley from the floor, pull it on over my bare skin. It hangs past my thighs.
"That's mine," he says.
"Everything's mine now, rancher. The flannel, the henley, the dogs, the kitchen." Stretching up on my toes, I kiss his jaw. "You."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then the full smile again. "Yeah. Me too."
Outside, the sun is climbing over the mountains. Hank rolls onto his back the second I step off the porch. Dolly actually wags her tail, which Tucker informs me she's never done for anyone except his mother.
Walking across the yard to the main house, his hand finds the small of my back. Warm, firm, steady. The same way he touches everything on this ranch. With care. With intention. With the quiet certainty of a man who knows exactly what belongs to him.
Mama change of plans
I'm not coming home today
I'm already home
Her reply comes before I reach the kitchen door.
Mija. I know. A mother always knows.
Bring the rancher for tamales. Soon.
I'm bringing him next Sunday Mama
I'll make extra. Tell him I said welcome to the family
Tucker reads the text over my shoulder. Pulls me against his chest. Chin on top of my head. Arms wrapped tight.
Eight hundred and one head of cattle. Six hundred acres. Two dogs. One blue flannel.
And finally, someone to share the sunrise with.