Chapter 5
LARK
“One errand," I announce, slinging my tote over my shoulder. "Fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops."
Laurel is already in her swimsuit and cover-up, sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara, on the porch. "Lark, we’re heading to the pool in thirty."
"I know."
"Is this errand about six-foot-four and covered in soot?" she says, smiling sweetly.
I groan. "It's a surprise, Laurel."
From inside the cabin Lyla yells, "It’s about your present, nosy."
"Oh." Laurel brightens, then schools her face. "I mean, proceed."
I tug my hat down and take off before she can run a fresh interrogation.
They both know something happened with Garrett last night, but I wouldn’t tell them, even over the long ride back to the ranch earlier. So they’ve been even more obnoxious than usual.
But as I step onto the path, I feel myself relax.
The whole ranch is already familiar. I already know which sections have ruts to avoid, which live oak drops acorns like little grenades, where the bluebonnets crowd up against the fence. I shouldn't know these things yet. I've been at ranches for months and not clocked half this much.
I push that thought off the edge of a cliff and keep walking.
The big double doors are open, the forge humming, and Garrett's at the workbench in his leather apron, head bent, polishing something small with a soft rag. He looks up when my boots hit the concrete, and his whole face softens and warms. If I wasn't already a goner, that would finish the job.
"Hey, cowboy."
He wipes his hands and his eyes drop to my mouth before I've crossed half the distance between us, and when I get close enough he curls a finger into the front belt loop of my jeans, tugging me the last step.
“Good afternoon, cowgirl.”
He gives me a short, soft kiss, as if he couldn't help himself, but also doesn't want to start something he can't finish.
Still, if given the chance, I’d climb him in a second.
"Sleep okay?" I ask.
"Not really." His mouth twitches. "You?"
"Not even a little."
He grins, and it’s actually kind of wicked. As if knowing he kept me up after we went our separate ways last night makes him happy.
I swat at his chest and he catches my hand and kisses it. Then he turns and reaches for a bundle on the bench, a square of dark blue cloth, folded carefully.
"Your belt buckle." He hands it to me and I peel back the cloth.
It's even better than I pictured.
There’s a quarter horse mid-stride worked in beautiful relief, mane flowing, with muscles under the hide. Twisting oak branches frame it, leaves tapered similar to that bracket on his wall. And down in the lower right, tucked in like a secret, are her initials, L.D.
My eyes sting and I hate that. I blink fast.
"Garrett."
"Yeah."
"This is—" I have to clear my throat. "Beautiful and so perfect. She's going to love it."
"I’m glad."
"I'm serious. This is art."
He shrugs, but his cheeks have gone a little pink.
I wrap the buckle back up, as gentle as a baby bird, and tuck it into my tote. Then I gaze up at him.
"I'm coming back tonight."
"To the forge?"
"To your cabin."
His eyes go dark, but he doesn’t respond right away.
"After the pool thing, and dinner with the girls. Late, probably. That alright?" I ask.
He pulls me to him. “Fuck yes, it’s alright.”
“Just checking. I didn’t want to assume, but—”
He doesn’t let me finish before he grabs my face and plants a long, deep kiss on my mouth. "I'll be there," he says, leaving me dazed.
Somehow I make it back to my cabin, though I have no idea how.
"SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN!"
Laurel is crying.
She's lying on a poolside lounger in a black one-piece and a straw hat the size of a satellite dish, and she has the buckle cradled in both hands.
And she’s bawling like a kid just given a new puppy.
"Lark. Look at it."
"I'm looking, babe," I say, with my arm wrapped around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze.
"The horse. Look at her mane—"
"I know."
"And my initials, oh my god, my pretty initials.”
Lyla hands her a fresh margarita and Laurel takes it, still staring at the buckle as if it's the Shroud of Turin.
"Happy birthday, love," Lyla says, and I kiss Laurel’s cheek, which smells of sunscreen and chlorine.
"I can't believe you both did this." She sniffles. "I can't believe he did this?"
"He's talented," I offer.
"He's magical,” she replies.
"Mmhm."
Lyla is giving me a look over the rim of her margarita that could strip paint.
I pretend not to notice.
The pool is that kidney-shaped type, tiled in turquoise, with a swim-up bar at one end.
Laurel's got her gift and her book. Lyla's in a green bikini that turns her into a sexy mermaid.
I'm in a tiny black two-piece that I’m probably too old for, but too damn bad, I rock this thing.
And I float off on a couple of pool noodles with a frozen margarita balanced between my boobs, soaking up the kind of Texas sun that bakes all the bad decisions right out of you.
But somewhere between margarita two and margarita three I start thinking.
Which is never a good idea.
I'm watching Laurel trace her initials on the buckle with her thumb, while Lyla tells some story about a boarder's daughter who tried to braid her pony's mane with gum in it. Kids are laughing and swimming under me and a family is playing a diving game with colored rings in the deep end.
And I think—just for a heartbeat—what if I didn't leave?
The thought crashes down like a dropped plate…loud, shattering, and sending shards everywhere.
I’ve never once thought that. Not in ten years of drifting, not at the llama farm, not at the dude ranch in Bozeman, not even with the foreman in New Mexico who was genuinely crazy about me and thought we might have something.
I left all of it. I always leave.
And now I'm floating in a pool in Texas and thinking about a cabin in the oaks and a man with soot covered hands and dark blue eyes and wondering if maybe—
Nope. That's the margarita talking. It has to be.
Tequila is a hell of thing.
I tip the last of my drink back and hand the empty to Lyla without looking.
"Another?" she asks.
"Duh."
The sun goes down orange and pink over the hills, and we drag ourselves out of the pool like three wet raccoons, pruny and sun-drunk, to go back to the cabin and get ready for dinner at the lodge.
When we get there Lucinda has set aside a big round table for us. And for the birthday girl—wildflowers in a mason jar, and a very generous pour of red wine from Carl, who winks at Laurel and tells her she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.
Halfway through the peach cobbler, Lucinda marches out from the kitchen with a little chocolate cake blazing with candles, and the whole dining room sings. Carl hands her a small wrapped box that she unwraps immediately, showing us a pair of tiny silver-dipped horseshoe earrings.
After that, it's storytime.
Lyla tells the one about the three of us sneaking into the camp kitchen for leftover pound cake at thirteen and getting caught by the counselor.
Laurel tells the one about me convincing them both that bullfrogs would bring good luck if we each kissed one.
I tell the one about Lyla riding a rescue donkey bareback into a wedding reception by accident, which she denies loudly into her wine glass, and we all laugh so hard we can barely breathe.
By the time we spill onto the porch of the lodge, the stars are up and I'm full of cobbler, cake, and drinks….and something warmer than both.
"I'm gonna—take the long, long way back," I say, and give them both a wink.
"Enjoy your evenin’, Larkie," Lyla says with a giggle.
Laurel smiles. "Go get your cowboy."
I blow them a kiss and turn to walk off.
On the porch of Garrett’s cabin, a lone wind chime sings. There's a light on inside but it's low.
I knock.
Nothing happens.
I knock again, heart in my ears. And once again there’s no sound or movement.
It’s late and I don’t want to call out, so I try the handle.
The door swings open into a room that carries his musky scent. There’s a braided rug, a cast iron stove, and a loft with a bed I can just see the corner of, and…
…Garrett, asleep on the couch.
He's got one boot kicked off on the floor and one arm flung up over his eyes. His shirt has ridden up, showing a band of tanned belly with dark hair trailing down into his jeans. His mouth is slightly open.
He looks soft. Not grumpy or trying to carefully hold himself together.
It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
God, I want him so badly.
I close the door quietly behind me and set my tote down. I toe off my boots and pad across the rug in my socks, pull off his other boot without him waking up, and then kneel beside the couch.
Then I put my hand lightly on his chest. "Garrett."
He shifts, his arm coming down from his eyes and he blinks at me, unfocused—until he sees me clearly and smiles.
"Hey," he breathes. “What time is it? Did y’all get dinner?”
"Yep, it was great."
"Good." He reaches up and pulls me down for a kiss. It’s slow and deep and a little bit clumsy from sleep…and it's the best kiss of my entire life.
"Bed," I whisper against his mouth.
"Yes, ma’am." He sits up, groaning a little, and scoops me up bridal style, and carries me to the loft ladder. I climb up before him, yelping when he grabs my ass.
The bed is a big iron thing with an old, obviously handmade quilt. He lays me down on my back, and gazes down at me. “You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Lark.”
"Ditto, cowboy."
"Need you to tell me if anything's too much, darlin’," he says, while stripping his shirt over his head, then his belt and jeans.
"I can take it," I tell him. "I want to take everything you have."
His mouth twitches, and I gaze at him…all that thick, hair-dusted muscle, the bulky chest. The soft belly I want to lick. The cock, already hard and flushed, standing up against his stomach.
He looked amazing last night, but in the light he looks even better. My pussy throbs. “Damn, you’re a dream.”
He huffs a laugh. "Yeah?"