Chapter 17LARK
LARK
“Okay, but, hear me out,” Hudson says, hands on his hips like he’s about to deliver the most profound argument of his life. “How do I know you actually know what you’re doing?”
Boone sighs like he’s been personally insulted. “Kid, I was roping cattle before you were even a thought.”
Hudson doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but were you good at it?”
I snort, slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the laugh, but it’s too late.
Boone’s jaw drops, full dramatic betrayal. “Wow. You wound me, Hud.” He presses a hand to his chest like he’s been personally victimized. “Who do you think taught Ridge everything he knows?”
Hudson shrugs, deadpan. “Ridge.”
Boone glares. “You wanna walk home?”
Hudson grins. “No, I wanna learn from someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
Boone points a finger at me. “This is your kid. Your kid.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Yeah, and he’s got a point.”
Boone mutters something under his breath, gives the rope a quick flick—and before I can even blink, it snaps clean around the fence post like it’s second nature. He glances at Hudson, smug as hell. “Think you can top that?”
Hudson squints at the post, then back at Boone. “Definitely.”
Boone grins, hands him the rope, stepping aside like he’s got all the time in the world. “Alright, cowboy. Let’s see it.”
I lean against the fence, arms crossed, watching them. Hudson’s got that laser focus, jaw set like he’s on a mission. Boone’s just standing back, calm and steady, correcting his grip when it slips, showing him the flick again without making a big deal out of it.
Hudson swings. Misses the post by a mile.
Boone just laughs under his breath. “We’ll keep working on that.”
Hudson scowls down at the rope like it personally betrayed him. “This one’s defective.”
Boone claps him on the back, still grinning. “Sure it is, bud. We’ll go with that.”
Boone texted me earlier—said Hudson might want some fresh air now that he’s feeling better and asked if we wanted to swing by the ranch for a bit.
I told myself it was just a distraction. Something to do. A reason to get out of the house before I spiral any deeper over the Bluebell and everything that’s slipping through my hands faster than I can catch it.
But that was a lie. And I knew it.
I said yes because I needed to see him. Because no matter how hard I try to guard my heart, no matter how many times I remind myself that getting close to Boone Wilding could be a bad fucking idea—I can’t stop thinking about him.
About the way he looked at me the other night. Like I was something he’d been trying to find his whole damn life.
About the way he touched me—like he already knew every inch of me, like his hands remembered what my skin needed even after all these years.
Sex with Boone has never just been sex.
Even back then, when we were kids fumbling through it with shaky hands and too much want—he always knew how to get me out of my head. How to read me without asking questions. How to make me feel seen .
But the other night?
That was different.
That was something else entirely. Something that felt less like a hookup and more like a homecoming. Like I’d been holding my breath for a decade and he was the only one who could knock the air back into me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
It was slow, like he was savoring every second, like he was trying to etch the shape of me into his memory.
It was the kind of connection that made me forget where my body ended and his began.
It was the way he kissed me—hungry, desperate, but still so damn careful, like he knew I was fragile, like he was holding something breakable in his hands and wanted to prove he wouldn’t drop it this time.
And now I’m here, watching him with Hudson, watching the way he moves so effortlessly into this role he never knew he was supposed to have, and I feel it all over again—the ache of it, the weight of it, the terrifying realization that Boone Wilding is still the only person who has ever made me feel like I belong to someone.
I tighten my arms around myself as I lean against the fence, forcing myself to stay in the present, to focus on the scene in front of me. Boone, standing next to Hudson, teaching him—patient as ever. And Hudson, determined and stubborn, exactly like Boone.
I shake my head, smiling as I watch them. God, I love this. I love seeing them together, love the way Boone encourages him without an ounce of frustration. I love the way he fits into this role so naturally, like he was meant to be here all along.
Hudson lets out a triumphant yell as the rope finally catches, wrapping tight around an old fence post that Boone had set up for him to practice on. His whole face lights up as he turns toward me, beaming.
“Mom, did you see that?”
I nod, grinning. “Sure did, bud. That was pretty impressive.”
He pumps a fist in the air like he just won a championship. “I wanna do it again.”
Boone laughs, shaking his head as he steps in to adjust Hudson’s grip. “ Alright, alright. One more time. But this time, keep your elbow up. Don’t drop it too soon, or you’ll lose your loop before it even gets where you want it.”
Hudson nods, focused as Boone demonstrates, his big hands moving with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from years of practice. I watch the way Hudson’s brows pinch together, the way he soaks in every bit of instruction Boone gives him, eager to get it right.
I let my gaze drift beyond them, taking in the ranch as the sun sinks lower.
I forgot how beautiful it is this time of year.
The pastures stretch wide and endless, a sea of green rippling in the breeze, flecked with wildflowers—lupine and Indian paintbrush, flashes of purple and red against the honey colored light.
The air smells like warm earth and fresh grass, tinged with the faintest hint of horses and leather.
The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks still dusted with the last remnants of winter snow, but down here, spring is in full bloom, tipping toward summer.
The sky is streaked in shades of amber and rose—a sunset that would make you stop and take notice, that settles something restless inside you.
I used to love this time of year. Used to love how the days stretched longer, how the nights carried the promise of something new. For years, I pushed that feeling down, locked it away with all the other things I tried not to think about.
But standing here now, watching my son, watching Boone, feeling the warm breeze against my skin, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—I could let myself fall in love with it again.
Boone claps his hands together, turning toward me with that easy, lopsided grin that always gets him what he wants. “Alright, your turn.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He gestures to the rope still dangling from Hudson’s hand. “C’mon, Lark. Show the kid how it’s done.”
Hudson snorts. “Yeah, right.”
Boone raises an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think your mom can do it?”
Hudson gives me a once-over, clearly skeptical. “I mean…no offense, Mo m, but I don’t see it.”
I scoff. “What a shocking vote of confidence from the kid who tried to eat glue sticks throughout his toddlerhood.”
Boone smirks, grabbing the rope from Hudson and tossing it in my direction. I catch it automatically, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Go on,” he teases, crossing his arms. “Show him.”
I shake my head, fingers curling around the rough, well-worn fibers. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything with a rope, Boone.”
“Muscle memory,” he says, like that settles it.
Hudson nudges my arm. “Come on, Mom. Just try.”
I let out a long breath, rolling my eyes. “Fine. But if I throw my back out, one of you is carrying me home.”
Boone chuckles, and I turn the rope over in my hands, the familiar weight of it sparking something long-buried in my chest.
Summers on this ranch come flooding back—the way Boone, Sage, Wren, Ridge and I would spend hours running through the pastures, making up our own rodeo events.
Swinging ropes at fence posts, tree branches, each other.
We used to play this game where one of us would ride double on Wren’s old pony, and the others would try to lasso them off.
Looking back, it was a terrible idea. But at the time?
It felt like the greatest sport ever invented.
I roll my shoulders back, plant my feet, and try not to overthink it. Boone’s watching me with that lazy sort of grin he wears when he already knows how this is going to go. Amused, entertained. Hudson’s next to him, arms crossed, trying to look supportive but already bracing for disaster.
I blow out a slow breath, fingers tightening around the rope. Muscle memory kicks in as I swing it overhead—wrist flick sharp, form decent enough that, for a second, I think maybe I’ve still got it.
The loop flies toward the fence post, dead-on.
And then, at the last second, it slides off—misses by an inch—and drops into the dirt.
Hudson’s eyes widen. “Okay, that was actually good.”
I laugh, reaching over to playfully punch his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have doubted me.”
He grins, rubbing his arm dramatically. “Still wasn’t a win, though.”
Boone steps up beside us, arms crossed, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Alright, Hudson, what did your mom do wrong?”
Hudson scrunches his nose, thinking, then shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Boone clicks his tongue softly, stepping in close. Closer than necessary.
I go still the second his chest brushes my back, his presence that taking up more space than it should. My fingers tighten around the rope on instinct, but my pulse gives me away.
“Your wrist,” he murmurs, voice low and far too close to my ear. “You dropped it too early. Gotta keep it steady—let the rope do the work.”
His hands come to mine, slow and sure. Calloused fingers sliding over mine, adjusting the grip without rushing it. Guiding, not correcting.