18. Ranch Dinner Revival
Ranch Dinner Revival
The aroma of dinner reached every corner of the house.
Goat stew simmered in the cast-iron Dutch oven their mother had used for as long as Josie could remember.
Potatoes, carrots, onions, herbs dried from last summer's garden, and thick chunks of meat had melted together into a richness that made every stomach at the table growl.
Liz carried the heavy pot to the table. "I hope nobody's picky."
Jay grinned. "At this point, I'd eat my boots if you seasoned them."
"He's kidding," Cara laughed.
"I absolutely am not."
Liz ladled steaming bowls around the table. "Fortunately for all of us, goat beats leather."
Layla took one bite, her eyes widening. "This is really good!"
Liz smiled. "I'll take that as the highest compliment."
Josie smiled over the rim of her bowl. "I could never make it taste like this."
"Mom always said the secret ingredient was butter," Liz offered.
"There has to be more to it."
Liz shrugged. "Love."
For a little while, conversation drifted to lighter topics. Jay asked about the horses. Cara wanted to know if the greenhouse could still be used. Layla proudly informed everyone that her bare thought the goats smelled funny.
Even Seth smiled. He didn't say much, but Josie caught his gaze lingering on the table more than once—on what looked so much like a family—on something she suspected he was mourning, too.
Each time their eyes met, a current passed between them before they both looked away, a charge that lingered a little longer each time.
When dinner ended, no one hurried off. Liz brewed coffee while Cara insisted on washing dishes over her protests. Jay wandered into the living room to inspect the woodstove. Seth carried in another armload of split oak and banked the fire for the night.
Outside, wind howled across the open fields, rattling windows and skimming snow across the yard. Inside, the old house settled around them with familiar creaks and groans, holding the warmth within its walls.
Eventually, Jay unfolded the county map across the coffee table one last time. "We should work out watches."
"I'll take first," Liz said, glancing toward the front window. "I know every shadow on this ranch."
Jay spoke up. "Cara and I will split second watch. We've done it enough times."
Seth leaned back in his chair. "Third's mine."
That left one stretch before sunrise. Josie looked around the room. "I'll finish."
Jay hesitated. "You sure?"
"I've spent enough nights awake in hospitals. A few hours watching windows won't kill me."
No one pushed. Doors were checked, curtains drawn, and weapons placed within reach. Just another night.
Liz was the first to stand. "Come on. I'll show everyone where they're sleeping."
She led them upstairs, past family photographs still lining the hallway—school portraits, Christmas mornings, horse shows, Josies wedding photo. She she stoped to look at it, they were all pieces of a life that had simply stopped.
Liz assigned Jay and Cara the front guest room, explaining, "It stays the warmest." Then, opening a door farther down the hall, she looked at Seth.
"The back bedroom. It used to be Grandma Evelyn's."
A handmade quilt stretched neatly across the bed, and an old rocking chair sat beside the window. Seth nodded slowly, the hard line of his jaw softening for just a moment. "It'll do just fine."
Finally, Liz stopped at the last bedroom and opened the door.
Josies old bedroom exactly as she left it when they visited in the spring last year.
Layla ran straight to the bed and bounced on the old quilt. "Mommy! Can I sleep here?"
Josie laughed through the lump in her throat. "I think that can be arranged."
Liz squeezed her shoulder. "See you in the morning."
One by one, the lights went out. Josie helped Layla brush her teeth with warmed kettle water, then tucked her beneath the thick quilt.
"Tell me funny stories about Grandpa tomorrow?" Layla asked sleepily.
A familiar ache tightened in Josie's chest. "I will."
"And Grandma too?"
"I promise."
"I wish they were here,” Layla said around a yawn.
"So do I, baby."
Within minutes, her daughter's breathing evened out into deep sleep..
Josie stayed beside the bed, listening and thinking.
This room held every version of herself: the little girl, the teenager, the medical student home for Christmas, the newlywed on Mark's arm.
The mother who had introduced Layla to her grandparents.
Now, the widow.
She stared out the window into the dark. She'd cried until she believed no tears remained. And then she'd kissed another man. She could still remember the roughness of his jaw, the way his hands had trembled against her face, careful, as if she were something he could lose. As if he might.
In the truck that morning, she'd told him they shouldn't explore it. The sensible choice. The responsible one.
But sensible choices belonged to a world that no longer existed. Tomorrow held no promises. Neither did next week. Hell—neither did the next hour. And she didn't want to spend whatever hours remained pretending she hadn't come alive under his touch.
She rose quietly, tucked the quilt tighter around Layla, and brushed a kiss across her forehead.
"I love you."
Layla murmured something and burrowed into the pillow.
Josie slipped into the hallway. The farmhouse was silent, save for the occasional pop of the woodstove below. With each step toward his door, her heart beat harder.
She stopped outside it, her hand hovering over the wood. She could still turn around, go back to bed, pretend today never happened.
But her pulse was a frantic knock against her ribs.
She lifted her knuckles and gave a faint, almost hesitant knock against the old wooden door.
The door swung open. Seth stood there, halfway through pulling a shirt over his head. He froze, arms raised, his bare torso exposed.
"Sorry—I was changing." He didn't step aside. "Is everything okay?"
Josie drew a shaky breath, then crossed the room in two strides and pushed herself into his arms.
Her mouth found his with none of the careful hesitation of the barnyard.
This kiss didn't ask; it demanded. He made a rough sound of surprise that dissolved into a murmur as his arms locked around her.
One hand slid up her spine, pressing her closer, while the other cradled the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a tenderness that finally answered months of stolen glances.
He deepened the kiss, and she opened for him, every unspoken word dissolving into the taste of coffee on his tongue and the solid feel of his shoulders under her hands.
They stumbled backward in a clumsy, urgent tangle, neither willing to break apart for more than a heartbeat, until the backs of his knees met the bed.
He sat hard, the mattress dipping, and drew her down with him so she straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the bedding on either side of his hips.
Her thin dress rode up her thighs as she settled, and she found the hard, unmistakable ridge of him through his half-open pants—hot, straining—so clearly it made her breath hitch.
She rocked against him once, slow and deliberate, then again with intent, and the friction sent a sharp pulse of pleasure through her even as it dragged a broken groan out of him.
"Josie—" Her name came half-kissed into her lips, his voice already wrecked, his hands gripping her hips as if he couldn't decide whether to still her or urge her on.
"I don't want to wait." She whispered it against his mouth, warm and certain, her fingers rising to frame his face. "Not anymore."
Something in him settled then—a question finally answered.
His hands moved with purpose, steady despite the heat thrumming under his skin, working each button of her dress free until the fabric parted down her front.
He eased the sleeves from her shoulders with deliberate care, pushing the material down her arms until it pooled at her waist. The sudden exposure drew a shiver across her skin, but she didn't look away, and neither did he.
He paused only to look at her—eyes dark with equal parts hunger and reverence—taking in the flush spreading over her chest, the lift of her breathing, her nipples drawn tight in the open air.
Then his mouth traveled down her throat, open and warm, lingering at the hollow where her pulse raced before moving lower.
When he closed his lips around one peak and sucked gently, tongue circling in a slow, wet pull, Josie arched with a moan she couldn't have held back if she'd tried, back bowing, fingers threading into his hair to cradle him against her while pleasure sparked sharp and sweet through her.
She pushed at his waistband, fingers curling into the fabric, dragging it over the sharp cut of his hips.
He lifted for her at once, heels digging into the mattress so she could shove the material down and free him completely—thick and flushed, the skin smooth and burning hot, the blunt head already glistening.
The first press of her damp skin against the rigid heat of his, all yielding softness and hard muscle, wrung a shudder from them both—a shared jolt that rippled through muscle and breath alike of wanting finally arriving at this single, trembling point.
She rose onto her knees, dress bunched at her waist, and reached between their bodies to guide him.
Her fingers wrapped loosely around him, steadying the thick shaft as she notched the broad head against her entrance, her body yielding to the blunt pressure.
Then she sank down—slow, deliberate, taking all of him.
The stretch burned sweet and deep; each fraction of him that disappeared inside her drew a shaky exhale from them both, until at last he settled to the hilt, filling her completely.