Chapter 8LARK #5
I grab a beer from the fridge and step outside, the screen door creaking as it swings shut behind me.
The air is cooler now, dusk stretching long shadows across the fields.
The sky is painted in the last strokes of pink and gold, fading into deep navy where the first stars begin to flicker awake.
The wooden deck is cool beneath my bare feet, the grain smoothed by years of footsteps, of late-night talks, of kids running in and out with scraped knees and muddy boots.
I trail my fingers along the railing as I walk toward the edge, resting my weight against it.
The land spills out before me, endless and familiar—fenced pastures rolling into open fields, the barn standing sturdy in the distance, its weathered red paint glowing faintly in the soft light.
Beyond that, the tree line sways with the evening breeze, whispering secrets I used to think I could understand.
I take a slow sip of beer, the cold bite of it settling on my tongue. Inside, I can still hear the clatter of dishes, the laughter, Ridge’s voice carrying over the rest.
It feels like nothing has changed.
Except everything has.
I exhale, pressing the heel of my palm against the railing, my fingers curling over the wood. It’s strange, the way muscle memory still recognizes this place. The way my body still knows exactly how to move through it, how to breathe it in.
I close my eyes for a second, letting myself be sixteen again, barefoot on this same deck, the night buzzing warm around me, Boone beside me, his arm brushing mine.
A different lifetime. A different girl.
My phone buzzes against my hip. I sigh, pulling it from my pocket.
Miller: On a scale of 1 to Little House On The Prairie, how ranch-core are you right now?
Me: I just cleaned horse shit out of my boots with a stick I found in the yard, so….
Miller: Jesus. Do I need to send moisturizer? Or a priest?
Me: Both, probably.
Miller : On it. Also-found some interesting shit in Tate’s paperwork. When can you meet?
Of course she did.
I type back quickly: Lunch break tomorrow?
A thumbs-up appears instantly, followed by another text.
Miller : You make out with Booney boy yet?
I scowl at my screen, sending her the middle finger emoji before shoving my phone back in my pocket.
“Something wrong?”
Boone’s voice is so close behind me that I jump, my beer sloshing straight down the front of my shirt.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking down at the damp fabric clinging to my skin.
Boone lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he steps back inside. A second later, he’s back, a washcloth in his hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
I reach for it, but before I can grab it, he’s already pressing it against my shirt.
His palm is broad and steady, fingers spread wide over my stomach, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to touch me.
Like it hasn’t been over a decade since he did.
Heat rushes through me, the air between us shifting, something heavy settling in my ribs.
“I got it,” I say quickly, grabbing the washcloth from his grip.
He hesitates, just for a second, then steps back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry. Old habit.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “What is?”
His gaze holds mine. “Wanting to take care of you.”
My breath catches. For all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. It feels dangerous, like something I shouldn’t let myself hold on to. I drop my eyes, focusing on dabbing at my shirt, but I can feel him watching me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks after a beat.
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”
He reaches out, pressing his finger lightly between my brows. “You’re doing that thing.”
I swat his hand away, but I’m already smiling. Already laughing.
So is he.
I point a finger at him. “If you or Hudson point out the wrinkles between my eyebrows one more time, I swear to God, I’m gonna start pointing out your gray hairs or something.”
Boone barks out a laugh, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Joke’s on you, Westwood. I don’t have any. ”
I hum, taking a sip of my beer. “That’s to be determined.”
He chuckles, but then his smile fades just a little. “Seriously, though. What’s wrong?”
I sigh, rolling the bottle between my palms, staring down at the label like the answer might be there.
“It’s the Bluebell,” I admit. “I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know if I should sell or not. And now Miller’s found something in the paperwork, and I don’t even know what it is yet, but she says it’s interesting, which, coming from Miller, means it could be anything from a loophole to an actual crime. ”
Boone lets out a low whistle. “You think Tate’s trying to pull something?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
He stays quiet, waiting.
I sigh again. “I just…I don’t know what Alice would think of me if I did sell.” My throat tightens. “That place meant everything to her.”
Boone watches me for a long moment. Then he reaches out, plucking the beer from my hand like he’s done a million times before, bringing it to his lips.
I blink, stunned.
That was our thing. Back when we were young—way too young to be drinking beer—we’d steal sips from each other’s bottles like it was some kind of secret, passing it back and forth on the tailgate of his truck, the scent of summer thick in the air around us.
He swallows, then hands it back like it’s nothing.
Like it’s not everything.
“What do you want?” he asks. “Forget about what Alice would want, forget about what’s easier or harder or smarter. What do you want, Lark?”
I stare at the beer in my hands, the words coming out before I can stop them. “I want to travel with Hudson.”
Boone shifts, angling toward me.
“I want him to have the chance to see more of the world than just Montana,” I continue.
“We’ve already started planning a cross-country trip.
He marked all the places he wants to go on a map.
” I let out a soft laugh. “I want to take him to a Dodgers game. I want to see the beach. And New York City. We’re gonna walk through Central Park, eat pizza the size of our heads, maybe even take one of those stupid horse-drawn carriage rides. ”
Boone smiles. “Sounds like a hell of a trip.”
I nod, pressing the lip of the beer bottle to my bottom lip but not taking a sip.
“I just…I want to wake up in the morning and not have to go to work. The Bluebell has been good to me, but I don’t know if I want to be tied to it forever.
I want time with Hudson while he still wants to spend it with me. ”
His expression softens. “Then maybe it’s time to let go.”
I swallow, my grip tightening on the bottle.
Maybe it is.
But letting go of something that’s been your whole life for so long? That’s easier said than done.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “But I don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. I have to see what Miller has to say first.”
Boone nods. “Makes sense.”
The quiet settles between us, comfortable but heavy, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Our elbows brush against each other on the railing, the casual kind of touch that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.
I steal a glance at him, at the way his forearms rest against the wood, veins threading beneath bronzed skin. His jaw is sharper now, more defined, like time carved out every hesitation he used to have and left nothing but certainty in its place.
He was already that boy when we were younger—the one girls whispered about, the one who turned heads without trying, the one everyone looked at just a second too long.
But now?
Now he’s all of that and more.
Older. Settled in a way that makes my stomach tighten. There’s an ease to him, a quiet confidence, like he’s figured himself out in the years since I last knew him. And for some reason, that thought twists in my chest—because I don’t know this version of him.
And maybe I want to.
I can’t help but wonder—do women still throw themselves at him? Do they bat their lashes and laugh too loud when he talks? Does he take them home? Do they touch his curls, dig their nails into his back?
Does it bother me?
I take a long swig of my beer.
“What?” Boone’s voice is curious, teasing. When I glance at him, there’s a lopsided smile playing at his lips.
I shake my head, shifting my focus back to the land stretched in front of us. “Time changed you, that’s all.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “That a good thing?”
I study him for a second, take in the way the dim porch light casts a glow over his face, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. Then I nod. “Yeah. It is.”
Something flickers across his face, but before I can place it, I look away.
He clears his throat. “Time changed you too.”
I laugh. “Funny how time’s always doing that. Changing things.”
I hold my beer out to him. Boone takes it, fingers brushing mine, and there’s something so easy about it, so familiar, that I don’t think either of us realizes it’s happening until it already has.
He brings the bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip, before lowering it again. “I came back to see if running the ranch is really what I want.”
I glance over at him.
He exhales, staring out at the land like it holds the answer. “Dad left the ranch to me, but I don’t want it out of obligation. I want to know it’s something I’m choosing for myself.”
He nudges me lightly with his elbow, his lips curving just slightly. “Guess that puts us in the same boat.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Is it what you want? Settling down here, running the ranch? Having a family of your own to raise here?”
Boone doesn’t answer right away. He watches the land stretch dark and quiet in front of us, the fields rolling under the moonlight. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to work through the answer himself.