CHAPTER 8
ARDEN
I should not be sitting in the passenger seat of Ford’s truck right now. The last thing I should have agreed to is him picking me up. But here I am and my stomach is in knots.
Honestly, I thought I blew it at the movies, and he figured the whole thing out.
I called him Cowboy. The moment I realized it, I wanted to flee. It’s kind of wild how close I was to running screaming from the theater.
But I held it together and Ford relaxed next to me. He didn’t call me out or ask me if I spend a lot of time writing letters, like he’s pretending to be a detective and not the rancher he is.
Damn, he smells good. I glance over at him, unable to help myself. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, the sleeves pushed up his forearms while the heat is blasting in the truck like spring isn’t just around the corner.
I guess it’s not close enough for him.
Or maybe he doesn’t want me to be cold?
Nope.
I push the thought away because I do not need any more reasons to fall for Ford Conners.
The way I’m head over heels for the man is probably too much. The sparks I felt when we touched at the movies just proves it.
Or maybe we had a static charge and I’m looking way too far into it. Damn science.
Either way, when Ford asked me out on another friend date because he wanted to show me Sagebrush, I jumped at the chance. I’ve never been on his land, but I’ve closed my eyes and imagined it from the glimpses I’ve gotten.
I’m tempted to put my hand out of the window and ride the wind. But it would undo this whole heater thing he has going.
“You’re not going to slink down in the seat as we pass Watts, are you?” Ford’s voice is teasing and I shoot him a look that’s probably not nearly as withering as I want it to be.
“No,” I shoot back at him and shake my head like he’s being unreasonable. “I only considered it for a moment,” I admit.
I sit up straighter as we pass the turn for where Eliza and Kendrick live and Ford barks out a laugh. The sound fills the cab of his truck and part of me, a small part of the past whispering not to trust, melts.
We’re pulling into Sagebrush before I can think too deeply on what it all means. What this all could mean.
This isn’t feeling as friendly as I’m comfortable with. It feels intimate and it scares the daylights out of me.
My jaw drops when we finally come to a stop in front of a huge house. I thought the Watts house was big in comparison to the one I live in with Mom. This? Wow.
The longer I stare at it, the more it feels like it doesn’t really belong. Sure, the style is right and there are pretty features which are impressive, but it feels cold.
Even from the outside.
But there is so much beauty to take in as well. I can see the barn to the left and some of the land stretching out back behind the house. The sun is just starting to go down.
Something zips through me; a knowing. The show is going to be a good one when the sun sets.
Ford takes my hand in his and while it startles me, I don’t immediately want to pull away. The squeeze he gives my fingers makes me wonder if this man sees far more than I want him to.
He pulls me into the house and it’s a whirlwind of glass, views, and spaces which don’t seem to fit the man tugging me along. It’s like if he keeps moving then he thinks I won’t notice.
But I do.
Then there are nooks that are all Ford.
The way the boots at the back door are orderly, but dirty. And well worn. The jackets hanging there, some needing a wash or a good shake out outside. The neatly stacked files on his desk even though it feels far too large for the space. Or maybe it’s too fussy, too grand, for Ford.
Then there are the photos on the wall of Ford and Crystal, who I remember from before she took off for richer pastures. But the pictures stop. As if the last ones suspend the two kids in time. It’s eerie and it isn’t hard to figure out why the pictures seem to represent life frozen in time.
Or frozen by death.
The last stop on the tour is the kitchen, where an almost breathless Ford looks at me with amber eyes begging for something. Acceptance? Not to dig too deep? To be embraced, shown something more?
Sometimes there are such flickers of pain in his eyes. He hides them and no one seems to notice.
But I do.
And I’ve been writing him letters.
I swallow hard, my mind scrambling for something, anything, to say. “Your home is beautiful,” I blurt.
He grins, it’s boyish and reminds me of when I first started noticing him and looking for him. It’s the same grin from then, before it became something rarely witnessed. This time it’s directed at me.
Butterflies swoop through my belly. Why did my mouth just go so dry?
“I’ve been thinking,” he shoots me a sheepish look and rubs the back of his neck, “about changing things around here.” He shrugs with his whole torso, his arms spreading out. “I haven’t changed anything,” his voice drops as if his words are fragile secrets.
Maybe they are.
“Ford,” I can’t help but reach for him, my hand landing on his arm, and he freezes, “this is your home. You can do whatever you want with your home. Decorate it however you want.”
As he looks into my eyes, I watch something crack inside him. His mouth snaps closed and he swallows hard before nodding slowly.
“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me,” the words are delicate. “I wasn’t sure, especially if mother tried to come back.”
Revulsion skitters up my spine and so many words want to come out. I don’t say a single one of them. And I have no idea where the grace comes from.
“Even if she comes back, you get to make this place yours. You live here. She doesn’t. Isn’t there a saying about that?” I tease him, hoping to break the tension, the thickness of it all.
Because everything in me wants to reach for him. But I’m not sure what happens then. With every secret he shares, with every peek I’m given into who he is, I feel even worse about keeping who I really am from him.
His lips curl into a smile and it feels like I can breathe. “You mean about possession being nine-tenths of the law?”
I tap his nose, unable to help myself, and his eyes cross for a second. “That’s the one I was thinking of. Got it in one.”
“I made a picnic.” He clears his throat and I think I see a little blush peeking out of the top of his beard. “There’s a spot close by with a nice view,” he offers.
“Well,” I clap my hands, “I do love a view, and I’d love to see some of your land.”
What I want to ask is if this is a special place to him, his place.
Or is it just what he said—close with a nice view?
I’m not sure I want to know the answer and just follow behind him after he pulls a basket out of a cabinet, and packs it up before heading toward the back door.
When we step onto the back porch I freeze.
The land stretching out before me is better than I imagined. It’s peaceful. I can see the evidence of how the land is worked, but it only makes it mean more.
His legacy is one to be envied, but that doesn’t make it easy to bear.
“Shit, I almost forgot the blanket,” he mutters under his breath and I giggle.
Even though I can feel his eyes on me, I keep my eyes on the view. “I’m enjoying myself,” I indicate the splendor with a wave of my hand. “Go and grab it. I think I’ll be fine standing right here for a minute. Maybe even longer, if need be,” I tease him.
When I glance at him, there’s a look on his face that is a lot like awe. It makes me want to squirm.
I look back out at Sagebrush and feel something ease. He’s gone and back. It doesn’t take a minute even and he has his hat on his head this time. I chuckle as he grabs the blanket, basket and then my hand.
With him leading me I find I’m able to just look at what’s around me. I’m not worried about where he’s taking me. As someone who finds pride in being cautious, it’s an odd realization.
The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward, it feels easy. Simple.
After the blanket is spread out, he bows slightly and gestures toward it. Never one to be graceful when it counts, I kind of flop down and starfish on it for a moment before sitting up and crisscrossing my legs.
“While we’re eating, tell me about what you want to do to your home,” I keep my tone light and playful. Maybe if it’s a challenge, he’ll think about it differently.
He deserves a home that is his. That he can exist in and not feel like he’s wearing someone else’s clothes and living their life.
Ford’s chuckle is deep and rough as he shakes his head and sits, his long legs in front of him. He unpacks the basket quickly and then he’s serving me half an egg salad sandwich, a thermos of chicken noodle soup which I suspect is from a can, and an apple.
I smile and then he starts talking about his house. His words are small at first, measured. But I just nod and encourage him.
“Why are you doing that?” I point to his face and wiggle it around before taking the last bite of my sandwich. When he doesn’t say anything, I explain, “Why are you making that face when you mention the drawing room.”
“I think I hate that room the most,” he says it like he’s talking about the weather, and I find myself blinking at the man. “It feels like I could break something in there just by breathing, let alone sitting down,” he grumbles.
When I laugh, he joins me and the sound of them joining together slips under my ribs and wraps around my heart.
As we quiet, I reach over and squeeze his shoulder once before letting go. “Then you start in that room. Anything you want. Cozy couches that will hold you and give you somewhere soft to land at the end of the day. Photos of your land, the place you love. Or paintings of the Nevada landscape.”
I nod, my eyes drifting towards where the sun is just about to disappear. “Yeah,” I say absently, “that’s a better idea. Look.”
I was right about the show. The purple creeping in, darker were the stars threaten to peek out, sets the stage to give the day its final due. And this sunset does it justice.
Pink, orange, yellow and memories of blue paint the sky, clouds making it feel expansive instead of something I could reach out and touch.
“Don’t miss it, Ford,” I tell him, my tone earnest. “It’ll never happen again just like this.”
His hand finds mine on the blanket and the warmth of it feels like more. For just a moment, I let myself believe it’s possible.
Ford squeezes my fingers and when I look at him, his eyes search mine. Just when I think he’s going to lean closer.
Just when I think he’s going to kiss me. Yes, my first because of my fears, my demons, he jerks slightly and leans back. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
I want to yank my hand free of his, but that would make it weird.
“I think,” I glance around, wishing the stars didn’t have to witness this as they start to blanket the sky, and lick my lips, “it’s about time I head home.
I don’t want to keep you out too late driving me back.
” I force my voice to take on a lightness which feels like lead, “This is why I should have driven myself.”
“I’ll make sure you get home safe, Arden,” there’s something in his voice I don’t understand.
Maybe I don’t want to.
It feels like a plea to wait.
But I’m not even sure what I’m waiting for.
“Okay,” I chirp and stand, probably too quickly. I brush off my jeans even though I was sitting on the blanket.
Everything is packed up, back in the house, and we’re on the road in practically no time at all. Wild how fast you can move when it feels like you’re breaking in slow motion.
I try to keep my face neutral, but whether I’m successful or not is something I completely ignore. This time the silence between us is not easy. Or simple.
It feels messy and filled with so much unsaid.
Was he going to kiss me back there? Can I admit I wanted him to?
I’m grateful when we pull up outside my place. When I reach for the door, I pause and look over at him. “I know your birthday is coming up and it’s Valentine’s Day, but I just wanted to make sure you’re aware friendship dates aren’t really a thing on such special days.”
I’m babbling and it sounds a little crazy. I also can’t seem to stop. My hand shakes as I reach for the door handle and open it, not looking at Ford.
“I do hope that you celebrate your birthday, though. It’s easy for birthdays to be swept under the rug on days like that,” I throw out the words, already halfway out of the truck.
I don’t look back.