31. Sage
SAGE
The new lodge smells like fresh-cut pine and drywall dust. A ladder stands open near the far wall where one of the contractors has been installing the final light fixtures, and sunlight pours through the massive front windows overlooking the lower pasture.
After taking a few shots of the view through the windows, I wander farther in. “It’s a beautiful building.”
Sterling grunts, phone in hand. “Expensive is what it is.”
Across the room, River laughs. “You were stressing about expenses before I left too.”
“Because they keep coming.”
“And because you enjoy complaining.”
“That too,” he mutters.
I smile to myself and look back through the lens toward the fireplace. The stone stretches up two stories along the far wall. It’s impressive. The whole building is.
But it doesn’t quite feel finished, and not just because it’s still missing a few cosmetic touches.
I lower my camera again, turning in place as I study the massive room.
It’s gorgeous in the way luxury hotels are.
Elegant lines, beautiful rustic finishes.
But none of it says Wild Ember. This lodge could exist anywhere.
I turn back, attention drawn to the expanse of wall flanking the fireplace. I point. “Are you putting anything there?”
Sterling squints at the area. “We’ll frame some of your landscape photos and hang them.”
I roll my lips together. “Hmm. Okay.”
He steps up alongside me and scans the wall. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong…”
He arches a brow. “But?”
“What if you put all of Wild Ember up there?”
Frowning, he looks at the blank surface again, like he’s trying to picture what I mean. “In what way?”
“I mean visually.” I step forward, already seeing it in my head.
“Photos, yes. Some of mine, for sure. But more. The ranch’s history, generations of your family.
Guests don’t come to a place like this just because the wood and stonework are beautiful.
They’ll want to feel the history of the land. To experience its story.”
River comes to stand on my other side, but I ignore both men, too busy thinking. “You’ve got generations of stories here. People building Wild Ember up to what it is today.” I pivot to face them, my voice rising. “You could do an entire installation here.”
River stares up at the wall. “I think it’s a great idea.”
Sterling’s brows pull together. “You think that’d be any more of a selling point than landscape photos?”
“People care about connection. The ranch feels real because of its story and the people who live—and have lived—here. Guests should see that the second they walk through the door.”
There’s quiet for a moment, then Sterling asks, “How much work and expense are we talking about?”
I tap my lips with my finger. “I’d have to sort through the photos you have, get them printed, framed, and hung. I wouldn’t charge for my time, so it would just be the cost of the materials. And I’m sure we can source secondhand frames or get someone to make them for us out of reclaimed wood.”
He studies the wall, then me.
I hold my breath, silently willing him to agree.
Eventually, he gives a curt nod. “Okay, as long as it doesn’t eat into your other work.”
I grin, a little curl of excitement twisting through me. “It won’t, I promise. I’ve already started putting together the first branding gallery for you. But I will need access to old photos.”
Fifteen minutes later, River leads me up the stairs at the top of the ranch house, carrying a plastic tub. “I should warn you,” he says over his shoulder, “the attic’s a disaster.”
“I’m not sure I’d trust anyone who has a minimalist attic.”
He snorts a laugh, pushing open a narrow door at the end of the hallway. The staircase beyond is steep and narrow, disappearing into dimness above. Warm, dusty air drifts down immediately.
“Wow,” I murmur when we make it to the top of the steps.
“Mom liked to keep things,” he says, switching on the light.
The attic is wider than I expected beneath the sloped roofline. Not finished, but floored enough for storage. Dust motes hang suspended in the slanted shafts of afternoon sunlight cutting through a small side window, and the floor creaks beneath us as we move deeper.
Sheets draped over old furniture create ghostly shapes near the far wall, while a wooden crib leans crookedly against one beam. Nearby, an old saddle sits on a stand beside several empty picture frames.
And boxes. So many boxes.
River places the tub on the floor and scans the dark space. “Are you going to be okay up here on your own?”
“Of course. Go do your thing.”
He nods. “I think the photos are in the boxes near the old Christmas decorations.”
That information would be a lot more helpful if there weren’t approximately four hundred boxes up here. “Thanks, River.”
Once he’s gone, I lift one of the boxes down from the top of a stack and crouch, squinting at the label.
McBride Rodeo
That’s a start.
I open the box, finding loose ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, and old programs. I gently sort through the keepsakes until my fingers land on a photo.
When I pull it out, teenage Holden stares back at me, all long legs and tanned skin and an absolutely horrific attempt at facial hair drawn onto his face in black pen.
I laugh out loud. “That’s coming downstairs.”
“You’re a menace, you know that?”
I jerk upright and spin around, sending dust flying. Holden stands near the attic stairs with one shoulder braced against a beam.
I press my hand to my chest to calm my pounding heart. “How long have you been standing there?”
One side of his mouth tips up. “Long enough.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“And miss that reaction?”
He ducks beneath another beam and crosses toward me. The attic feels much smaller with him in it.
I hold up the picture, my lips twitching. “Explain this, please.”
His eyes narrow. “Toss it.”
“Absolutely not.” I hide the photo behind my back.
“Sage.”
Laughing, I shift backward.
He reaches for me, and I twist away, bumping into a tower of boxes that wobble terrifyingly.
Holden steadies the stack with one hand, his other closing around my wrist, his grip firm and warm.
And suddenly I’m aware of every inch of him.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, but he drags his attention back up. Letting go of the now-stable boxes, he wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me flush against him.
My pulse kicks hard. “The door’s open,” I murmur.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
He studies every inch of my face as we stand in a dusty shaft of sunlight. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes my heart stall. Not because I don’t like it, but because I like it too much.
The ghost of a smile touches his lips, as if he can see my mind working.
Hand splayed across my back, holding me against him, he uses the thumb of the other to brush gently over my cheekbone.
“Every time I see you these days you’re covered in dirt or dust,” he says, his eyes warm.
My breathing shallows. “It doesn’t sound like you think that’s a bad thing.”
His smile is slow and easy. “Means you’re at home here.”
My pulse is in my throat now. “I-is that a good thing?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s a good thing.” He threads his fingers through my hair and cups the back of my head.
And I forget all about the open door. Or maybe I just stop caring. Because as his lips come down on mine, I don’t protest. And I don’t think twice about winding my arms around his neck and arching into him.
With the photo in one hand, I tangle the fingers of my other in the hair at his nape. It’s not a demanding kiss, like the ones he gives me when we’re naked and he’s moving inside me, but the restrained passion in it leaves my body torn between melting against him and sparking to life.
He catches the sound before I do. The creak of a door, the scuff of boots, someone coming to end this moment too soon. With a frustrated grunt, he loosens his hold, preparing to let me go. I’m the one who clings a second longer.
As I step away, my cheeks are warm. If the person coming up those stairs sees me now, with Holden standing so close, they’ll have no doubt about what just happened.
And maybe a part of me is starting not to care.
Before I can figure myself out, Holden plucks the photo I’m still holding from my hand and pivots away from me.
Taryn appears at the top of the stairs, apparently home from school.
Her gaze shifts between Holden and me, but before she can comment, Holden holds the picture up. “Sage is threatening to show this to everyone.”
Immediately distracted, she closes the gap between us and snatches it from his hand.
Her laughter echoes off the exposed beams. “If she doesn’t, I absolutely will.”
The corners of his mouth tug up. And god, that hits me as hard as the kiss. I swear, every smile of his works its way a little deeper under my skin.
Taryn looks up at me. “Sterling said you’re going to hang old photos of the family and Wild Ember in the lodge. I love that idea.”
Holden’s brows draw together, and I hesitate. I’d assumed he knew why I was up here, but it strikes me now that I should have run the idea by him first. “Yeah,” I say softly, my eyes fixed on his. “I want the guests to feel connected to the ranch and its history while they’re here.”
My stomach twists as I wait for his response, but all he does is reach past me for another box, his arm brushing mine. “Did you find the family stuff yet?”
The knot inside me unravels. “The rodeo box is the first one I came across.”
“I’ll get my homework done,” Taryn pipes up. “Then I’ll come help you go through them.”
When she’s gone, I step closer to Holden. His head is bowed, his attention on the box in his hands. “Do you ever come up here?” I ask quietly.
“Not in years.” The hollowness of his tone causes an ache deep inside me.
He pulls out a faded photograph and his expression wavers.
“What is it?” I ask.
In answer, he hands it to me. It’s a shot of Holden and Chance as boys, standing beside a paint horse, grinning, while a woman leans on the fence behind them, laughing at the photographer.
I recognize her from the framed picture downstairs.
His mom.