Chapter 14 The Ride
The Ride
The sun hangs high, unrelenting in the late-afternoon sky, spilling golden heat across Devil's Ridge Ranch.
The scent of warm wild grass drifts on the breeze as I step out of the car in front of the main house.
The driver returns to the car as I scan the yard beyond the house.
Marcel is already waiting near the corral, one hand resting on the saddle of a grey mare, the other shielding his eyes as he watches me approach.
He doesn’t smile right away, but his gaze lingers. Steady as I walk his way. "You made it," he says.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
He shrugs, but a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just say I didn’t know if you would back out."
I don’t respond to his doubt; instead, I give him a small smile as I stop in front of him. The mare beside him stamps a hoof and tosses her mane. I reach out instinctively to soothe her. "She’s beautiful."
"Her name’s Lark. Spirited, but steady. Reminds me of you."
The words sink into my skin. I glance away, but my pulse betrays me.
Marcel steps forward and offers his hand.
I place mine in his, and there's a pause.
A flicker. His grip is firm, fingers calloused but gentle.
When he helps me mount, his hand slides to the small of my back, lingering just a beat too long.
My stomach twists, my skin wants more. I keep my eyes on the mare.
Once settled in the saddle, I glance down. He meets my eyes with that same genuine kindness laced with mischief.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As I’ll ever be."
He mounts his horse beside me, and we leave the yard.
The trail stretches out before us in gentle curves and sunlit patches, slicing through fields of tall grass and groves of trees where the light flickers like secrets.
We ride in silence at first, the sound of hoofbeats settling into a nearly meditative rhythm.
I steal glances at him now and then, noticing how he moves with the horse as if they are one.
He begins to talk, his words coming easily, mirroring the rhythm of our horse’s hooves on the well-worn trail.
He tells me about the ranch. The foal that came too soon, fragile but determined to live, and the storm last fall that nearly tore the west fence from the ground.
He speaks of Ada and Frank, how they took him in when his parents died, when he was little more than a boy drowning in grief, and didn’t know where to place all the weight he carried.
When it’s my turn, I tell him I’ve always loved horses, how I used to ride with my uncle when I was a girl, the wind rushing past me like freedom itself.
I confess that winters in Cheyenne are lonely, the city streets cold and gray, and that sometimes I long for the hush of trees rather than the constant hum of people.
He doesn’t pry or press with weighty questions. Instead, he lingers on the small things, wanting to know what I enjoy and what stirs happiness in me, as if those are the pieces that define who I am. It’s startling, almost disarming, to feel so clearly seen. And it feels good, achingly good.
The trail narrows at a bend in the creek, where water runs shallow and bright over smooth stones. Marcel swings down first, tying his horse loosely to a branch. Then he turns to me, his hand outstretched. I hesitate, not because I doubt him, but because I know what his touch will stir in me.
Still, I slip my hand into his. His grip is steady as he helps me down, his arm guiding me with a kind of care that leaves my pulse stumbling. When my feet find the earth, I don’t move away. Neither does he.
“You alright?” His voice is low. His eyes search mine like they’re searching for a place to rest.
I nod, brushing flecks of dust from my skirt with fingers that won’t quite steady. “I think I needed this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. He only watches, his gaze heavy, “You look different out here,” he finally says.
“Different how?”
His eyes linger on me, “Like you’re not holding your breath. Like maybe—just for a moment—you remembered what it feels like to simply be yourself.”
The words take root deep in my chest, warm and dangerous, and I want to respond to him. But my tongue is weighed down by everything I can’t say.
Then, slowly, so slowly, I feel his fingers brush against my cheek. He tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear, the intimacy of it far too tender for the hour. My breath stumbles.
I don’t move. The air between us tightens.
“Clara—” he breathes my name like a secret, like a prayer that shouldn’t be said aloud.
He looks at me, and the world falls away—no families, no promises carved by someone else’s hands. Just us, standing on the edge of something we aren’t supposed to want.
“Yes?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” His voice cracks. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I fear he can see it. His features turn impossibly soft as he sighs. “You know what, it isn’t nothing. This afternoon is everything.”
I wrap my arms around myself to keep from reaching for him, from choosing something I have no right to choose.
“You’re dangerous when you talk like that,” I say, trying to sound stern. Instead, it comes out unsteady.
He takes one step closer.
“And you,” he says quietly, “are dangerous when you look at me like you don’t belong to anyone.”
He’s so close now I can see the flutter of his lashes, the catch in his throat, the way his eyes flick to my mouth and then back to my eyes. I can’t breathe.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, so softly it could be the wind. “But if I do…I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
The world holds still. My heart hammers against its cage.
He leans in. Close enough that I feel the heat of him, the want. I tilt my chin, waiting, almost afraid he’ll close the distance between us. But instead, he pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to make the ache bloom wide and sharp.
The silence between us trembles.
“Marcel, I’m–” I stumble on my words. Knowing I need to set a boundary but fearing that if I do that my chance will be gone.
“I know. I know what the future holds for you. But still, I don’t know what it is about you, Clara, but I can’t hold my tongue like a gentleman should around you.”
I struggle for a moment. I don’t want him to stop with his words, with his eyes, his closeness, even though I know I should mark a clear line. The war in my mind, in my heart, in my skin is consuming me.
“Then don’t.”
He exhales with my words. Nodding, he gives me space. “You’re a confusing creature, Clara Albright.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I lower my eyes to the ground.
He returns to my space, placing a hand on my jaw, tilting my eyes to his. “Do not ever apologize for who you are. Ever. Besides, figuring you out might become my favorite pastime.”
I lean into his touch. I’ve never felt my head spin from the touch of a man. My thoughts race, my heart pounds, my eyes bore into his, wishing he would dare to put his lips to mine.
“Clara, I have another wish.” His thumb sweeps over my cheek. “That I would be the luckiest man alive if I could have just one day with you. A day where the world doesn’t get a say, and you could be mine.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. One day. One selfish, stolen day. The thought is wild, impossible—and yet my chest aches with the wanting of it. I can almost see it in my mind. There’s no ring, no vows, no expectations shackled tight around my throat. Just Marcel. Just me.
My heart thrashes like it’s trying to break free from its cage. This is dangerous. Foolish. If I let myself step closer, I may never stop. But the fire in his eyes pulls me in, erases every warning I’ve clung to.
One day.
I can’t help myself.
I reach up, gently placing my hand on the rough fabric of his shirt, and before reason can drag me back, I bring my lips to his.
The feeling of his lips on mine is like standing in a field while a storm breaks after years of drought.
His breath catches, then he groans low in his chest as his arms wrap around me, pulling me in like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
His lips claim mine with both desperation and reverence, tasting me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I gasp into him, my body ignited, every part of me leaning into the madness of this moment. His hand cradles the back of my head, the other grips my waist, holding me firm as I press closer, reckless, breathless, and undone.
It’s wrong. God help me, it’s wrong. And yet—it feels truer than anything I’ve ever known.
When I finally break away, I stay close, my forehead resting against his chest, both of us panting, trembling, wrecked.
My voice is shaky, but sure. “I want that too. Just one day.”
His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in ragged, uneven pulls. His thumb strokes my cheek. I move my lips closer to his again.
“Clara…” His voice is rough, frayed at the edges. “If you kiss me again, I don’t know that I’ll be able to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper, my hand still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath like a war drum. My body feels like it’s moving on its own, closing the sliver of space between us. The scent of him, sun-warmed cotton and sweat, wraps around me like a tide pulling me under.
His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth as if caught in a struggle he’s already lost.
“Tell me, show me.” I say. My voice shakes, but the truth in it stands steady.
He inhales sharply, his grip at my waist tightening, his thumb brushing slow circles over my hip as if trying to ground himself. The tremor in him matches the tremor in me. For a moment, neither of us moves, suspended between what’s forbidden and what’s inevitable.
Then, slowly, he leans in, his lips finding mine again, softer this time, sweeter. My knees go weak, my heart hammering against his chest, and still, I pull him closer, wanting every ounce of it, every impossible piece of him.
His lips linger on mine, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the kiss. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His breath brushes against my mouth, his forehead still pressed to mine. For a long moment we just stand there, suspended in a fragile hush where everything feels possible.
Then Marcel exhales, a sound heavy with restraint. His hand slips from my waist, though not before his thumb traces one last circle over the fabric of my dress. “We should head back,” he says softly, his voice husky, almost reluctant. “Before someone starts to wonder where you’ve gone.”
The words feel like the break of a spell. My heart aches at the distance as he steps back, adjusting his hat with a trembling hand, his eyes lingering on me as though letting go is the hardest thing he’s ever done.
“Is it okay to make the same wish twice?”
I study him. “I think it’s my turn to make a wish, don’t you think, Cowboy?”
He smiles, “You’re right. Tell me your wish, Clara.”
I step back into his space, looking up to meet his eyes. “I want to see you again.”
He exhales, “Just tell me when and I’ll be there, Firefly.”
The word catches in the air between us. My chest tightens, a flush rising up my neck before I can stop it. No one’s ever given me an affectionate name before, and somehow it feels right.
I nod, though my body resists. My lips are still tingling, my chest still full of him.
We walk back to the horses in silence, the air between us heavy with all that’s just passed. When he helps me into the saddle, his touch is sure and steady, as though we’ve crossed some fragile threshold.
The ride back is quiet, the sun dipping lower, brushing the fields in a wash of copper light. The steady rhythm of hooves carries us side by side, but the space between us hums with all the words we didn’t dare speak.
By the time the ranch comes into view, my throat is tight, my heart is a storm and I know nothing will ever be the same again.