Chapter 7
The wealth in this house feels obscene when I think about where Legion came from.
Ten days of watching him move through these spaces has been like observing a wild animal in captivity—careful, alert, constantly assessing.
When we first brought him in, I caught the flash of disgust across his face before he could hide it.
The vaulted ceilings. The hand-carved staircase.
The custom stone fireplace that took eight men three months to build.
I saw my home through his eyes for the first time. Not just nice, but oppressive.
By Montana standards, we are the elite of the elite. Most people in Drybone live on the edge of financial collapse, one bad season from bankruptcy. One medical bill from ruin. One drought from selling everything.
But the Ashbys never worry about drought.
I stand at my bedroom window, looking out over our summer pastures—green and lush while the neighboring ranches already show patches of brown. The difference isn't skill or luck.
It's water.
My great-great-great-grandfather bought this land specifically for what lies beneath it—a network of artesian wells that push water to the surface without pumping.
While other ranchers drill deeper every year, we have six active wells that never run dry.
The paperwork grandfather filed in 1962 secured "first-in-time" water rights that can't be challenged, no matter how desperate the county gets.
The wealth that comes with those rights isn't flashy. It's not diamond necklaces or sports cars. It's the security of knowing your cattle will always drink, your crops will always grow, and your neighbors will always need what you have. In a drought year, those rights are worth more than gold.
I slip a cotton sundress over my head, nothing fancy—just something that will let the summer breeze reach my skin. I've been craving that sensation, wanting to feel alive again after spending so many days in the stale, antiseptic air of Legion's makeshift hospital room.
"Savannah?" Mercy calls from down the hall. "Do you think I can ride Peanut by myself today?"
I smile at her excitement about the pony Cash bought her. I haven't told Legion yet, but Cash mentioned there's an opening at Rimrock Academy outside Glendive—my old day school. The perfect place for a bright kid like Mercy.
Legion will say no, of course. Just because it's Cash offering. But I've seen how Mercy's eyes light up when she talks about the art room and the science lab we toured last week. She'd thrive there.
I push the thought away. That's a battle for another day.
Today is about Legion and me finally getting some time alone.
I had to have a careful conversation with Mercy about "grown-up time" yesterday.
I've been going absolutely crazy knowing Legion is just downstairs and not up here in my bed.
He hasn't been well enough for us to fool around, but after ten days of antibiotics and rest, the color has returned to his face.
Each day has brought visible improvement. That first day, he could barely make it from the ambulance to the front door without pausing to catch his breath. By day three, he was eating full meals on the screened-in back porch, the warm air doing what medicine alone couldn't.
Our walks started as slow shuffles around the garden, then extended to the stables, and yesterday we made it all the way to the creek. His appetite returned first for food, then for conversation, and lately I've caught him watching me with that look that makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
Mercy is still talkin'. I never answered her about riding Peanut, but she doesn't care. That girl talks non-stop these days. She's always got somethin' to say to me. To everyone, really.
I'd never seen Mercy like this. Not that I knew her well, but I did stop by the old trailer on the regular while Legion was inside. She was feral over there.
Here, she's a little ranch princess with a bubbly personality that can't get enough of what the Ashby Ranch has to offer.
Legion hates it, I can tell.
But he doesn't say anything. Just lets her be.
I head downstairs with Mercy bouncing along in front of me.
She's wearing a summer dress I swear could have come straight from my childhood closet, though I have no idea where it came from.
The sight makes something twist in my chest—I've never had a little sister before, but I'm starting to understand the appeal.
Legion is already outside on the porch when we arrive, staring out at the mountains with that restless energy I recognize. He's been talking about going home more frequently. Yesterday he mentioned the new trailer twice.
I get it. Cash and Legion circle each other like wolves whenever they're in the same room. Wyatt has mostly kept his distance, staying in one of the guest houses near the river. But I like having Legion here. I want him to stay.
Mercy barely slows down as she passes us. "Hi, Legion! Bye, Legion! Madeline's waiting!"
Cash hired Madeline—my dressage instructor, a former Olympic equestrian—to teach Mercy basic riding. Now this nine-year-old who never had anything gets private lessons from one of the best riders in the world.
The moment Mercy disappears toward the barn, Legion's mouth is on mine.
His kiss is hungry, desperate, and wanting, the heat of his body radiating through his clothes as he presses against me.
I feel the unmistakable hardness of his arousal against my stomach, his desire for me evident in every taut line of his body.
The intensity of his need sends a shiver down my spine, his hands gripping my waist with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch.
After days of careful distance and restraint during his recovery, this raw, unfiltered passion feels like coming home—dangerous and perfect all at once.
His body remembers what his mind has been forced to deny, and there's no hiding how much he's craved this connection. We've been so careful with his recovery, keeping everything chaste, but his body is clearly done with restraint.
"I have a surprise," I say when we come up for air. "Your antibiotic treatment is officially over. So we're celebratin'."
His eyes darken. "How exactly are we celebratin'?"
I take his hand and lead him toward the driveway where an old Willys Jeep sits loaded with picnic supplies. The vehicle is a faded brown color that reminds me of the sandstone cliffs near Drybone. And though it’s a ranch vehicle—a favorite of the ranch hands—there’s no logo on it.
"Want to drive?" I ask, holding up the keys.
Legion's face breaks into a genuine smile as he runs his hand along the hood, his fingers tracing the weathered metal with reverence. "This thing is a classic," he says, eyes lighting up with appreciation for the vintage military vehicle before us.
He looks so much better than he did ten days ago. The white t-shirt stretches across shoulders that have regained their strength. His faded jeans hang perfectly on his hips. He looks so good now, you'd almost never know he was on death's door three weeks ago.
Only I know about the scars hiding underneath—the healing tissue where his brand was, the marks from prison, the story of his life written on his skin.
We climb in, the Jeep's engine roaring to life with Legion behind the wheel.
I direct him away from the main house, past the eastern pastures where the tall grasses sway in the afternoon breeze, and toward a secluded canyon formation I've known since childhood—a place where the sandstone walls rise up like ancient guardians, their surfaces etched with decades of wind and weather.
The dirt path narrows as we approach, winding between juniper trees and scrubby sagebrush that release their earthy scent with each step.
We park the Willys at the trailhead, its engine ticking as it cools in the summer heat.
I gather our supplies from the back—Legion hefting the heavy wicker picnic basket with one hand as if it weighs nothing, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath his tattoos.
I take the soft cotton blankets, their edges worn from countless family outings, though this is the first time I've brought anyone here aside from Colt.
The way Legion's eyes scan the landscape, taking in every detail, makes me wonder if he's memorizing an escape route, or simply appreciating the wild beauty that's always been my sanctuary.
The canyon isn't far, just enough of a walk to feel like we've earned our privacy.
It's a natural alcove carved into the sandstone, sheltered from prying eyes by an overhanging lip of rock that curves like a protective hand above us.
The weathered formation creates a perfect pocket of seclusion—a secret chamber that feels both exposed to the elements, and completely hidden from the world.
Centuries of wind and water have hollowed out this sanctuary, sculpting the warm amber stone into a space that seems designed specifically for forbidden love.
The ground beneath our feet is almost powdery, fine particles of eroded stone create a soft, sand-like cushion against the hard earth.
The sun's direct rays can't penetrate this hidden pocket, creating a cool refuge from the relentless summer heat that bakes the plains beyond.
Wind has sculpted the interior walls into smooth, undulating curves that seem to embrace us as we step deeper into the shadow.
And the air feels different here—still and ancient, carrying the faint mineral scent of stone.
We spread the blankets over the soft ground. I've barely straightened the last corner when Legion's hands are on my waist, turning me to face him.