Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sedona
I’m in the barn, lying on a bed of hay that feels like silk. Hands are everywhere.
One set is rough, callused, sliding up my thigh. Another is smooth, firm, tangling in my hair. I smell pine and leather and rain.
Billy is there. His blue-gray eyes bore into mine, his jaw tight. He whispers my name against my throat.
And then there’s Seth. He’s behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath hot on my neck. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
They move in tandem. A rhythm I can’t predict, but my body instinctively understands. One touches my hip; the other cups my face.
It’s overwhelming. It’s too much. It’s everything.
I arch into the sensation, a moan building in my chest. The pleasure coils tight, a spring ready to snap.
I wake up with a gasp.
My eyes fly open. I stare at the wooden ceiling of the bunkhouse, my chest heaving. My skin is damp. My heart is beating out of my chest.
I want to laugh. A hysterical, disbelieving bubble rises in my throat. A threesome dream. About the Carson brothers.
I really am losing my mind.
I sit up slowly. The room spins for a second, then rights itself.
I have had a headache since late last night, a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes that the medication didn’t quite chase away. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to massage the ache away.
I look over at the other cot. Clara is a lump under the blankets, only the top of her dark hair visible. Her breathing is deep and even.
She’s exhausted. The quarantine, the fight with Joey, the packing—it has drained her dry.
I need coffee. Desperately.
I slip out of bed and grab a hoodie, shivering slightly as I pull it on. I open the door and step out onto the porch.
The ranch is waking up. The sun is a pale yellow disc rising over the hills. The cows are lowing in the distance.
I walk toward the main house. I go up the steps and let myself in. The kitchen is quiet. But not empty.
Seth is standing at the counter.
He has his back to me. He’s wearing a dark blue flannel, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is damp, like he just showered. He’s pouring water into the coffee maker.
Boone is lying on the rug by the fridge. He lifts his head when I enter, his tail thumping once against the floor. He looks at me with big brown eyes, then rests his head back on his paws.
“Morning,” Seth says. He doesn’t turn around. He knows it’s me. He can probably smell me.
“Hey,” I say.
He turns then and offers a small, tired smile. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
“Thank god.”
I walk over and lean against the counter next to him. We stand in silence, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. The smell fills the room, rich and nutty.
“How was your night?” he asks.
“Dreamless,” I lie. “Until the alarm went off in my head.”
He nods. He reaches into the cupboard and pulls down two mugs.
“How did the meeting with Grant go?” I ask.
Seth sighs. He leans his hip against the counter.
“It went,” he says. “Grant is wired. He’s thrilled the quarantine is lifting. He thinks the press coverage—once the ‘deadly parasite’ angle is corrected—will actually boost attendance.”
“Disaster tourism?”
“Something like that. He wants us to be the face of the fair. The ranch that survived.”
“Are you okay with that?”
Seth shrugs. “I don’t love the spotlight, but Billy doesn’t mind. And Tex lives for it. If it helps the bottom line, I’ll smile and shake hands.”
He pours the coffee. He hands me a mug.
“Thanks,” I say. I wrap my hands around the ceramic, soaking in the warmth.
“We’re signing up for the team roping,” he says. He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Billy and me. Billy’s shoulder is complaining, but he’s stubborn. He wants to prove a point.”
“That’s great,” I say. “You two make a good team.”
“We’ll see. It’s been a while.”
We drink our coffee. Boone gets up and walks over, nudging my leg with his nose. I reach down and scratch his ear.
Seth watches me.
Yesterday, this man had his hands on me.
I remember the way his fingers felt against my skin, the way he massaged my nipples through my shirt, the friction sending jolts of electricity straight to my core. I remember the way he kissed me, hungry and deep.
Now, he stands here in a flannel shirt, talking about rodeo entries. It sounds so casual. It feels like we’re just friends, catching up on ranch business.
I hate it.
I hate the pretense. I hate the wall of normalcy he has slid back into place. I want to ask him what we are. I want to ask him if he thinks about the barn, about the way I gasped into his mouth.
But I don’t. I can’t. Not here. Not with Billy sleeping down the hall. Not with the last few days still hanging over us.
Not when I’m leaving anyway…
I finish my coffee. I set the mug in the sink.
“I’m going to take a cup to Clara,” I say. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I’ll be in the office. Paperwork to catch up on.”
“Right.”
I turn to leave. I pause at the door.
“Seth?”
“Yeah?”
I look at him. I try to find the words. I miss you already. I want to do it again. I’m terrified.
“Good luck with the paperwork,” I say.
He smiles. It’s a faint, crooked curve. “Thanks, Sedona.”
I walk back to the bunkhouse, the headache pulsing dully behind my eyes.
Inside, Clara is stirring. She sits up, rubbing her eyes.
“Is that coffee?” she mumbles.
“Liquid gold.”
I hand her the mug I poured for her. She takes it gratefully, inhaling the steam.
“You’re an angel,” she says.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy,” she admits. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
“You will,” I promise. “Once we get you on that plane.”
Clara takes a sip. She winces. “We still have to go to your dad’s house?”
“Yeah. To get the rest of your stuff. And I need to check on a few things.”
She nods. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
We get ready. I pull on jeans and a sweater. Clara brushes her hair and ties it into a bun. She looks better, the color returning to her cheeks.
We step outside. The sun is brighter now.
Tex is waiting.
He’s leaning against his truck, his arms crossed. He’s wearing a T-shirt that stretches tight across his chest and a baseball cap pulled low.
He looks so fucking good.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I say.
We climb into the cab. The interior smells like leather and hay. Tex starts the engine, and we pull away from the ranch.
The drive to my father’s house is short. As we turn onto the gravel drive, the ache hits me.
It never fails. Every time I come here, I expect to see him. I expect to see my dad sitting on the porch swing, a cup of coffee in his hand, waving at me as I pull up.
But the porch is empty. The swing still moves slightly in the breeze, but no one is sitting on it.
The pang is sharp and sudden. It steals my breath for a second.
Tex parks the truck. We get out.
“Are you okay?” Clara asks, touching my arm.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… memories.”
As we walk up the path, I pull the keys from my pocket. The metal is cold.
I unlock the door and push it open, expecting the smell of stale air. Dust. Neglect. A house that has been sitting empty for days.
But that’s not what hits me.
It smells clean. Like lemon polish and fresh laundry.
I step inside, confused.
The floors are swept. The rug in the hallway is straightened. The surfaces are dust-free. There are no cobwebs in the corners. Sunlight streams through the windows, where there is no layer of grime.
I look into the living room. The magazines on the coffee table are stacked neatly. The throw pillows are fluffed.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
Clara steps in behind me. “Wow. It’s spotless.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
I walk through the house. The kitchen is the same. The sink is empty. The counters are wiped down.
It looks like a home that is being lived in. Or at least cared for.
“I thought the house would be a mess,” I say.
“We head up to my bedroom and pull out her suitcase. We pack up the last of her clothes, her toiletries, and the books she brought with her.
It doesn’t take long. We work efficiently.
Tex appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame, watching us.
“Need help?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Can you take this?”
He walks in and lifts the heavy suitcase like it weighs nothing. He carries it out to the truck, and we follow.
Once it’s loaded into the bed of the truck, I stand by the tailgate, looking back at the house.
I turn to Tex.
“Who cleaned up?” I ask.
He looks at me and adjusts his cap. “What do you mean?”
“The house,” I say. “It’s clean. Dustless.”
Tex nods slowly. He looks at his boots.
“We used to check in on your father,” he says. “Help him out.”
“But what about during the quarantine?”
“Well,” he says, “after the quarantine… I’m not sure. Maybe Billy or Seth got someone to do it last night. I know they were worried about the place falling into disrepair while you were… away.”
I stare at him.
Billy or Seth.
They hired someone to clean my father’s house? They made sure the floors were swept and the pillows were fluffed?
It’s a small gesture. Neighborly.
It doesn’t feel neighborly, though. It feels like care. It feels like they were protecting my father and the memory of him for me, even when they thought I didn’t deserve it.
My chest tightens.
“Did you help?” I ask. “Take care of the place, I mean.”
He looks away. He kicks a pebble.
“I kept the grass cut,” he mutters. “Billy and Seth handled the inside. I handled the yard.”
I look at the front lawn. The grass is trimmed short. The edges are neat. The oak tree has been pruned.
They did this. All of them.
My throat burns. The headache fades, replaced by a warm, swelling feeling in my chest.
I have spent the last five years thinking I was alone. Thinking that when I left, I burned every bridge I crossed. I thought they hated me. I thought they washed their hands of me.
But they were here. They were mowing the lawn. They were dusting the shelves. They were looking after my father and keeping the home ready for a return they didn’t even believe would happen.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Tex shrugs. He looks uncomfortable with the emotion.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just… what pack does. You don’t turn your back on family. Even when they leave.”
Even when they leave.
I walk over to him. I stand on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck.
He stiffens, freezes.
Then, slowly, his arms come up around my waist. He hugs me back. It’s a brief, tight squeeze.
“Don’t cry, Sedona,” he murmurs in my ear. “Please don’t cry.”
I pull back and wipe my eyes.
“I’m not crying,” I lie.
He grins. It’s a lopsided, boyish grin that makes him look younger.
“Let’s get going,” he says. “Clara’s probably freezing.”
We climb back into the truck. Tex turns the engine over.
As we drive away, I look back at the house one last time.
It looks peaceful.