Chapter 1 #2
"Love you, birthday girl." I'm out the door before she can respond.
The walk across the property is maybe a quarter mile, and I take every step of it slowly on purpose.
The sun is warm on the tops of my shoulders through my T-shirt and my boots kick up little puffs of red dust. Somewhere off to my right, a horse nickers, followed by the low murmur of a wrangler talking to it in that singsong voice they all use without really meaning to.
My hair keeps getting in my mouth and I tuck it back under my hat.
There’s something about this place…and I've been a lot of places. I like when places hit me. That's kind of the whole point.
But this is different. This is…I’m not sure yet.
I shake my head, tug the brim of my hat lower, and tell myself to shut up about it. I'm here for Laurel. I'm here for food, drinks, fun, and bad decisions in any order. I am not here to get pensive about the landscape.
The smithy sits a little bit apart from the main working buildings, off to the side of the stables. It has its own squat weathered structure with a tin roof and the big double doors rolled open on both sides so the air can move through.
The smell I caught earlier hits me again—hot metal, coal, oil, sweat, and something sharp and clean underneath it all like struck flint.
I love it. I have always loved it. My uncle had a forge in his garage when I was a kid and I used to sit on an overturned bucket and watch him beat a hinge out of a piece of scrap until my mom came and dragged me home for dinner.
I slow down twenty feet out since I can hear it now…the ring of a hammer on steel, measured and steady. Tink. Tink. Tink-tink. It’s a working rhythm.
I stop in the doorway, leaning my shoulder into the frame, and look inside.
Oh, wow.
He's bent over the anvil with his back half to me, wearing a black leather apron over a gray T-shirt that has gone dark with sweat between his shoulder blades. The short sleeves are rolled up to his shoulders and those arms—I need a moment for his arms.
They are doing things to me. They are corded and veined and bulky, and his forearms are powdered with dark hair. There are multiple smears of soot along them and every time he brings the hammer down his massive biceps jump.
My entire body heats up.
He's big. Broad through the shoulders, brawny through the chest, and thick through the middle, the kind of body you get from twenty years of hard work and eating like a grown man.
He’s really tall, too…even hunched over the anvil I can tell he's a giant, well over six feet.
When he straightens up and turns his head to set the piece back in the forge I see the side of his face: endless scruff, a few grays coming in along his jaw, dark hair curling damp at his temple under a black bandana, and a heavy brow.
I'm gonna guess he’s about forty, give or take. And built like a brick house, sweating in a leather apron. I realize with a kind of delighted horror, I haven’t exhaled in ten full seconds.
Jesus.
I give my hat a tug and push off the doorframe. I clear my throat. "Hi."
He doesn't look up. He taps the piece once more, and slides it back into the coals.
"Yeah?" Pretty gruff. Not unfriendly exactly, but preoccupied. He’s a man who doesn't stop working for small talk and has built a life around that.
"Maybe." I step inside. The heat slams into me like a wall and it’s exhilarating.
I trail a finger along the edge of a workbench, eyeing a row of tongs.
I nod at a piece hanging on the far wall.
"You made that?" It’s a twisting iron bracket, resembling a climbing vine, leaves fanning off it in a way that makes it seem almost alive. A lamp hangs from the end of it.
He glances up at the bracket, then—briefly—at me. There are dark blue eyes under the edge of the bandana. They skim me once, fast, and flick back to the coals. His jaw works. "I did."
"Scroll work is clean."
He pauses. “Thanks.”
"How'd you get the leaves to taper like that? Hot cut and then hammer?"
He actually looks up this time, for a proper look. His eyebrows pull together as if he's trying to figure me out, or like he's mildly annoyed at having to do so. I give him my most innocent face, which I’m told isn’t as innocent as I think.
"Hot cut, then a cross peen to draw 'em out," he says slowly. "Then back in the fire and dress 'em with a ball peen."
"Mmhm." I nod, filing it away. "That's why they look so thin at the ends, I was gonna say."
His eyes narrow just a hair. I can see him recalibrating. A second ago I was a chick in a cute hat. Now I'm someone who said hot cut without having to think about it. Watching his face is possibly the most satisfying thing I've felt in a while.
"You smith?" he asks.
"Nope. My uncle did. And I worked a ranch with a guy who did, a couple summers back. I'd hang around and annoy him." I smile. "I'm real good at hangin’ around and annoying people."
"Imagine so."
I chuckle. Okay, grumpy. You've got a sense of humor.
He sets the hammer down and wipes his forearm across his brow, which is a sight, and finally turns to face me full-on.
God, he is tall. I'm five-four in my boots and I have to tip my chin up. His chest is like a massive oak…an oak I want to touch. Climb. Bite, a little.
"What can I do for you?" he says.
His voice is lower when he's looking right at me. Does he know he does that?.
"I need a belt buckle." I tuck my hands in my back pockets and rock up on my toes.
"Custom. It's for my best friend. It's her birthday this week.
She trains horses—quarter horses, mostly, and does some cutting—and she just got divorced.
She's moving across three states for a fresh start and me and my friend want to give her something she'll burst into tears over. You know, the good crying?"
One corner of his mouth moves. It's not a smile. It’s the ghost of a smile. "I know the good crying."
"I knew you would."
He leans a hip against the anvil and folds his arms, his biceps like boulders. "Got a design in mind?"
"Something western, obviously. Something with a horse in it. She'd want a horse. Maybe her initials, real small, tucked in somewhere. Clean. Not too fussy. She's a little fussy, but she doesn't want anyone to know that." I shrug. "You're the artist. Surprise me."
He's quiet for a second. "Two hundred and fifty."
"Done."
His eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a half-second. I don't think he meant to, but the moment it happens his jaw tightens and his gaze snaps back up to mine as if he's angry at himself.
I smile.
He looks away and clears his throat. He reaches for a pencil stub and a scrap of paper on the workbench.
"When do you need it?"
“Wednesday? I know it’s tight, but her birthday dinner's that night."
"I can do that.”
"Perfect." I let a beat pass. "What's your name?"
He pauses, the silence stretching as he decides whether to give it to me. "Garrett."
"I'm Lark."
He nods once and writes it on the paper.
I push off the workbench and head for the door, taking my sweet time about it, too. At the threshold I turn and walk backwards a step, tipping my hat up with one finger so he can see my face. But he’s already looking. I caught him, and he didn’t even try to hide it.
"I'll be back for it, cowboy."
Our eyes lock and the forge pops softly between us. Somewhere way off a horse whinnies and there’s a giddy ache low in my belly.
Garrett doesn't say a word. He just nods, once.
I turn and walk out into the sun, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole way down the path. I don’t look back, because I have some dignity, and also because if I do I will absolutely trip over my own boots.