Chapter 3
LARK
I’m not thinking about him.
I’m thinking about this delicious coffee while I watch the steam curl out of the mug and into the early sunbeams. I’m listening to the rocker under me squeak like an old tomcat and smelling the morning Hill Country air—green and clean and a little peppery, like sage and flowers blooming in the distance.
I’m not thinking about big weathered hands on an anvil…or on the small of my back while we sway to a slow waltz.
"How'd you sleep, Larkie?" Lyla asks, beside me.
She knows I hate when she calls me that. I should never have told her it made me want to claw my eyes out. Gotta love friends.
"Like a baby."
"Mm, really?" She smiles into her coffee. "You seemed to toss an awful lot for someone who slept like a baby."
"Babies toss."
"Uh-huh. And stare at the ceiling sighing."
"You were watching me? That’s creepy."
"I had got up to pee.” She shakes her head. “You didn’t even notice.”
“Well, excuse me.” I swallow a sip of my coffee and roll my eyes. “I didn’t know I was supposed to keep track of your nocturnal urination habits.”
She sticks her tongue out at me as the screen door behind us squeals.
Laurel steps out onto the porch balancing three cinnamon rolls on a plate, her coffee, and between her teeth, a folded piece of paper. She sets the saucer and mug down on the table between us.
“You do know we get a full breakfast at the lodge in…” I glance at my phone on the table, “...forty-five minutes.”
“I know. But Lucinda came around with these while you were in the shower, and I wasn’t going to turn her down. Look at them.”
They do look divine. “Point taken.”
“Besides,” she flips the piece of paper open. “It’s my birthday week, and I can have as many cinnamon rolls, or other sweet treats, as I want.”
“Yes. You. Can,” Lyla says, and we all clink our coffee mugs.
Then Laurel adjusts her reading glasses and clears her throat. "Activities," she announces. "Day Two."
The birthday girl also gets to decide what we do for the next six days. Mostly.
"Wildflower hike at ten, lunch under the oaks at eleven-thirty, pool at two, massage appointments at three-thirty, dinner at the lodge at six, then at eight we have the sunset hayride.
We wagon out to a bonfire site for s'mores and live music under the stars.
" She raises her head, pleased with herself. "Logistics locked."
"Thank god," I say. "I was worried we'd have to wing it."
“Ha ha,” Laurel replies.
Lyla hums into her coffee. "Wonder if you’ll see Big, Broad, and Grumpy today, Lark?"
"What now?" Laurel glances between us, pastry paused halfway to her mouth.
"Our girl had a late night," Lyla says.
"I was right behind you."
"You stood in the cabin doorway for ten full minutes staring at the stars before you came inside."
"I can’t enjoy the scenery?"
"Oh, you were too busy swooning to notice the landscape."
"Not true!"
Laurel sets her cinnamon roll down after taking a hefty bite. With a mouthful she says, "Okay. Walk me through this."
"There's nothing to walk through."
"She danced with a man last night," Lyla says.
I shrug. "I danced with a lot of men last night. And some kids.”
"That’s not news, Lyla," Laurel says, licking her fingers.
"See?" I glare at Lyla.
“This was not a regular dance partner, Laurel. Lark was basically drooling over him.”
“What? I was not—”
"The blacksmith," Lyla says, and pops a piece of pastry in her mouth.
Laurel raises her eyebrows, pauses mid-sip.
"Real big guy," Lyla says helpfully. "Black hat. Beard. Arms like tree trunks."
"Oh." Laurel sets her mug down. "I saw that guy. The thick grumpy-looking one?"
“He’s not that grumpy."
"Lark, he’s extremely grumpy,” Laurel replies. “I walked past him and said hello yesterday and he didn’t even look up."
"He's reserved.”
"He was probably just distracted,” Lyla offers, suspiciously.
"He's enormous," Laurel adds.
“I’m used to big,” I say, waving them off. “You know all my brothers are big dudes. I mean, Lance is six-six.”
But now they’re both staring at me as if I’m babbling on about nothing.
Lyla leans over to Laurel. "She's doing the hair thing."
“What hair thing?" Laurel asks.
"You know, where she does this." And Lyla tips her head and pushes her hair back over her shoulder slowly…and to my horror, it’s an exact imitation of me.
"I don't do that," I pout.
"Yeah, you do," they both say in unison, then crack up.
I turn away and eat my cinnamon roll and consider, seriously, finding new friends.
Somewhere far off a hawk screams, but the icing on my roll is still warm and it melts the anger away.
The sun is coming up over the oaks and I’m going to eat a big breakfast, then go on a wildflower hike. I’ll sit by the pool and read a romance novel and watch Laurel do her crossword puzzle, and sip a strong drink.
I’m not going to spend the whole day wondering whether a certain blacksmith will show up to a hayride.
I stand in front of the little mirror above the dresser and turn sideways.
Jeans…boots…and a soft cream tank.
My hair is down. My hat is in my hand. I have a bit of shimmery gloss on my lips and a coat of mascara. I think I look pretty damn good for thirty-four.
"You look hot," Laurel calls from the porch.
"Thank you," I yell back.
"He's going to lose his mind," Lyla says from the bed, where she’s lying spread-eagled with a can of La Croix in her hand.
"Oh, stop it. I don’t even know if he’s going to be there."
She smiles. "Well, if he is, he’ll eat his heart out."
I roll my eyes, then slap the hat on my head.
Two wagons are already hitched up at the top of the lane when we walk over, with big palomino draft horses swinging their tails briskly.
The sky has gone that watery pink-gold it gets before sundown.
The smell of hay is everywhere. There are maybe thirty other guests milling around—families with kids, couples, and clusters of women who have clearly all had some alcohol with dinner.
And leaning against the back of the wagon with his giant arms folded is Garrett.
He’s in a flannel-lined denim jacket, black T-shirt, and that same black hat.
Damn, he’s fine.
I keep my face neutral. Cool as a cucumber. I’m a creature of the earth, a still mountain, a stoic stone.
"He's here," Lyla whispers behind me.
"Yes, I see him."
She giggles like an idiot.
"Jesus, Lyla."
"Oh!” Lyla says, loudly. “Let's get on, Laurel, come on—" and loops her arm through Laurel's, dragging her around me, then clambering up into the wagon like as if they’ve rehearsed this, finding the only open spots to sit, besides the one right next to…
…him.
I glance up.
A big hand is stretched down toward me. “Evenin’, Lark.”
It’s weathered and huge, with soot ground into the creases of his knuckles. I know that hand. And I have, as it happens, pictured it about nine thousand times since then doing things that had nothing to do with metal.
I take it. “Howdy,” I reply.
He pulls me up like I weigh nothing. But I know I’ve got plenty of curves and muscle to give me mass. He’s just strong as an ox.
Our eyes lock when I come up to him. The brim of his hat nearly bumps mine. His mouth is set in that casual line as if nothing in the world is happening, except his dark blue eyes say something very different.
I turn and clock my two so-called best friends, behind us. Lyla has her chin on her fist, staring at me, and Laurel is pretending to be absorbed in a piece of straw.
Lyla shrugs and calls out. “Sorry Lark, no more room over here. You should stay on that side.”
I give her a look, then sit next to Garrett on the last bit of bench.
Our thighs have no choice but to touch…from hip to knee. His legs are so thick and bulky, they make mine seem like a child's in comparison.
My eyes naturally move upward.
Don’t look at his crotch, Lark. Just don’t.
But I do.
God.
So this is how I die.
The wagon lurches forward with a jingle of harness and we roll out down a dirt track between the fields, the palominos' big hooves clopping steady in the dust. The light is going.
The bluebonnets in the pasture are a hazy blue-purple that could almost be fake, and a handful of deer lift their heads in the tall grass to watch us pass.
Every bump—every rut and hole and dried-out tire track—shoves my thigh into his. I’m aware of every second of the ride in a way that makes my spine feel as if it's plugged into a wall outlet.
"Another mandatory activity?" I ask.
He looks down at me, lashes dark in the gold light. I want to run my fingers through the scruff on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Just wanted a s’more.”
I smile. “Me too.” I realize I’m doing the hair thing I was just teased about, and force my hand to my lap. “So, what's out here?"
"Cedar brake straight ahead," he says. "Creek runs past that stand of oaks yonder, cuts through the property and back out. Prickly pear all along the fence line. Good deer country."
"You know every inch of this land, huh."
"Pretty close."
"That's nice," I say, gazing off into the trees. "Knowing a place like that."
"Never knew any other way to live." He’s quiet for a beat, then gestures with his chin, at the hills rolling off into dusk. "Born under this sky."
I look up when he does, and the first stars are coming out. A smear of pink changes to purple right above the tree line. "That's sweet, Garrett."
"It's home."
When I glance back at him, he’s already staring at me, and he quickly turns away as if caught.
The wind picks up.
It isn't cold exactly—it's May in Texas and the day's heat is still hanging in the air— but the breeze skims over my shoulders and my bare arms, and I shiver.
My flannel is tied around my waist, but I’d have to stand up to get it.
Without a word Garrett shrugs out of his jacket and settles it around my shoulders.
It’s warm and smells of smoke and coal and musk. I close my eyes and try not to inhale too loudly.
"Thanks," I manage.