Chapter 7
BECK
Two days.
That's how long it's been since Laurel’s tail lights cut the dark at the end of my drive.
The cabin's too quiet. It’s as if somebody scooped out the inside of every room and left the walls behind.
I keep reaching for things that aren't where I expect them to be—a coffee mug she rinsed and set on a different shelf since it was more efficient for the flow of the kitchen.
Or the salt she moved three inches because she liked it closer to the stove when she cooked.
Stupid stuff. Domestic stuff, I never noticed before.
I haven't slept right, either.
I stayed up too late thinking about her, then found myself napping the day away.
Riot’s been tearing the place apart since she left. He paces the fence line, then plants himself by the gate and stares down the drive like he can summon her back by pure horse magic.
And he’s pissed at me. He's stopped taking treats from my hand. Cold-shoulders me when I bring him hay. Last night I stood at his stall door and apologized, and he turned his rear end toward me, lifted his tail, and took a dump right there. I don’t think he could be any clearer to how he feels about it all.
I even called Maverick yesterday.
That conversation was interesting. I'd been rehearsing exactly how to tell my old buddy that I’d slept with his sister, fell in love with her, and now she’s gone, leaving me a miserable piece of shit.
“Aw, hell, Beck," he’d said, after I spilled my guts.
Then he was quiet for a long time.
"You’re really in love with her?" he finally said, on a sigh.
"You know me, Mav. Have I ever mentioned love when it came to women before?"
He went quiet again. Long enough I started wondering if I should hang up and call back next year.
"Goddammit, Beck." And I knew he was mad because Mav doesn’t swear. "I told you not to be an ass."
"Tried, brother. Got pretty close," I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He blew out a breath that crackled the line. "Did she cry?"
"Yeah, not in front of me though.”
He sniffed. "Sounds like Laurel."
He didn't yell at me after that. Didn't tell me to go to hell. Just said he'd keep me posted on how she was doing in Texas. And that was good enough for me.
I've also been calling around for trainers, too.
But half-hearted at best. There's a guy out by Steamboat Springs who trains cutting horses and could drive over a couple of days a week.
There's a young woman fresh out of a working-student program looking for steady hours.
And I found a retired ranch hand named Chet who knew my dad, though he's seventy-five.
None of them are right.
I tell myself I just want what's best for Riot. He needs a particular kind of rider, after all. But I know I'm looking for Laurel in everybody else and not finding her, and acting surprised every single time.
She was so special…in so many ways.
Now it's dusk, and I'm on the porch because there's nowhere else in this house I haven't already worn out. The light goes long across the pasture and turns the tops of the pines that smoky gold that always made my mother sigh through the screen door.
I have a beer and my boots are propped on the cedar crate. Riot's at the fence line, head low, ears soft for the first time all day, watching the same stretch of road I've been watching…both of us doing the same dumb thing.
I think about her last ride.
I sat right here while she took him out. She was gone an hour and when she came back, she ran a hand down his neck, leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his mane, and said something I couldn't hear. Riot stood as still as a statue. He’s never done that before…even on set.
By the time she swung down and led him into the barn, my chest was aching.
She came out a half hour later, eyes red and puffy like she’d cried until there was nothing left.
I wanted to beg her not to go, or let me come with her, or give me more time….any excuse to keep her here. But I held my tongue.
When she looked at me, I just opened my arms, and she walked right into them as if it was exactly where she needed to be. I held on tight, memorized the scent of her sweat, the land, and Riot on her.
I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I couldn't do that. Not without losing myself right there.
And she didn't need to carry that down the mountain on top of everything else.
Then, I let her go.
She got in her truck and didn't look back. Smart, because I'd have run after her if she had, busted ankle or not, dignity be damned.
I’m onto my fourth beer, when the headlights come up the drive a little after sunset.
I clock them and tell myself it's just a hunter looking for the Jefferson place or a delivery truck that misread a number—since hope, at this point, is a punch to the gut I'm not able to take.
But then Riot's head snaps up like a gunshot.
Both ears come forward at once.
He breaks into a trot along the fence, then a gallop, his black tail flagged, his whole body pointed at those headlights.
He hasn't moved like that since…
My heart picks up a faster beat.
The silver truck rolls into the gravel and parks, and I'm on my feet before I remember deciding to stand. The driver's door opens, and there she is.
She’s in jeans and that gray tank top I can't look at without losing time, hair pulled back in a knot that's mostly given up. Her eyes find mine and they’re absolutely wrecked all over again.
Riot whinnies from the fence so loud she turns and laughs. "Hey, buddy," she calls to him, and her voice cracks halfway through.
She turns back to me.
I'm not sure I can breathe through whatever this is. A breeze comes through the porch and lifts strands of hair off her cheeks.
"I made it as far as Lubbock,” she says, and takes one step. She stops at the bottom of the porch with one hand on the rail as if she needs it to hold her up.
"Got there last night. Found a motel off the interstate, ate a bag of vending-machine pretzels for dinner. I cried in the shower so the people in the next room wouldn't hear me through the wall." She lets out a short, broken laugh and squeezes the railing.
"I’ve been crying a lot," she says. "From the second I crossed into New Mexico. I told myself I just needed to get there and get to work and I'd settle. But the closer I got, the worse I felt."
She takes a shaky breath. "I know I told you that I had to do this on my own.
That if I let a man have an opinion about my life again, I'd lose myself.
And I meant it." Her chin lifts. "But I drove eight hundred miles before I figured out the problem wasn't men having opinions.
The problem was one specific liar I let take control of my life.
And I've been making decisions based on the consequences of his hold on me. Including leaving you."
"Oh, darlin'."
"He doesn't get to keep having a say in my life.” Her voice steadies.
"I thought taking that job was listening to my heart.
But it wasn't. It was listening to the part of me that's still afraid to trust myself because of him.
In reality, my heart's been begging me to turn the truck around since the on-ramp. "
I give her a watery smile.
"Now I'm listening to it." She glances up at me through wet lashes. "I love you, Beck. My heart tells me you’re a good man. And I won’t let the people in town who can’t seem to let go of the man you used to be affect my feelings for you.” She swallows. “I want to stay here with you…and Riot."
Riot whinnies and paws the ground hard.
She laughs.
My eyes continue to fill up fast and I have to look up at the porch beam for a second to keep my face together. "And what about building your life your own way? By yourself? I'm not gonna be the man who gets in the way of that."
She nods like she expected the question.
"I’ve always wanted to work for myself. Be my own boss," she says. "I think building the life I want, my way, is running my own business—working with the horses I want, living where I want to live, and choosing who I get to spend my time with.” She gives me a small smile.
"You’re welcome to run your business here," I say. "I’d love that."
"Me too. Because you’re here, Beck. And where you are is where I want to be.”
Hearing that…I'm done. “Come here, dammit. If I was able, I’d run to you and spin you around.”
She closes the distance and then I've got her. One arm around her waist, one hand at the back of her head. She's trembling and so am I. And I don't know who's holding who up.
Her arms wind around my back, holding onto the fabric of my shirt, and she's half-laughing, half-sobbing, and Riot is leaning his big dumb head over the fence snorting.
I tip my forehead back enough to look at her. "You’re the best thing that's ever happened to me, Laurel Dempsey. I want you to hear that part real clear. And I'm gonna spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you."
"Beck—"
"Hush for a second." I brush a tear off her cheek with my thumb. "I’ll always be there for you, however you need me. Whether that's standin' behind you or standin' next to you or sittin' down and shuttin' up while you do your thing—you tell me, and I’ll do it. I just want to be yours."
A wet laugh slips out of her. "Mine…and I’m yours."
"You know it."
She laughs again, tugging at my shirt, then pulls me down into a kiss. And I kiss her back like I've been starved for days.
Because I have been.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are wet, and the porch light has clicked on, as if the house itself was waiting for her to come up the steps.
"Come inside," I murmur against her mouth. "I'm makin' you something better than pretzels from a vending machine, woman. You need a home-cooked meal.”
"Because I’m home."
I press a kiss to her cheek and smile so wide my face hurts. "Hell yeah, you are."