Chapter 6 - Beau
SIX
BEAU
When I wake, my first thought is her mouth.
Not what I expected—not hard like the rest of her, not guarded.
Her lips were soft in a way that didn’t match the woman who’d spent the last month looking at me like I was something to be removed.
I keep my eyes shut, replaying last night on a jittery loop.
The way her lips found mine—sharp and certain, passionate.
The way her hands balled up in my shirt, like she hated herself for needing help standing.
The way I stood there for a full five seconds after she walked inside, fingers spread dumb over my own chest, stupid and hot and annoyed.
My routine is shot. The sun’s higher than it should be when I yank on boots, so my rounds go to hell quick.
The calves are clustered under the windbreak, like they’re hungover.
Even Buck, who’s usually pacing the property lines by now, is nowhere to be seen.
I stalk my own porch, pissed at the way the morning feels too quiet, like the air got thicker overnight and muted everything.
Willa spends the first half of the day hiding.
Not that I blame her. I stalk the barn, the tool shed, even the pasture gates.
She’s clever, or desperate, because I don’t spot her until almost two.
By then, I’ve fixed a fence, spoken more to the livestock than any human, and started to believe she left Sagebrush County in the middle of the night.
Instead, I find her behind the work truck. She’s prying at the tailgate with a crowbar, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to her elbows, a fine dusting of feed clinging to her wrist. She doesn’t turn when I walk up.
“Morning,” I say, because it’s not.
She pushes the crowbar deeper into the rust, putting her whole back into it. “If you mean that literally, you missed it by three hours.”
I want to tell her she missed her, but I hold my tongue. Her hair’s in a knot, and the line of her neck looks smug for some reason. I get a flash of her mouth from last night—open, plush, the taste of marinara and cold air.
“You’re gonna snap that,” I say, nodding at the over-torqued bar. “Or your wrist.”
She tightens her grip anyway, jaw set. “Little stuck, is all.”
“Let me,” I tell her, reaching past. But she doesn’t move.
Her arm’s in the way, so I press in. Close enough to smell her—something dry and lemony, not the fake stuff.
Her body holds firm against mine; she doesn’t back down an inch.
Heat goes up my spine. The bar shifts. My free hand settles on her forearm, steadying her.
The muscles in her arm tense under my palm.
We get it free together. The tailgate clatters and she staggers, elbowing my ribs. We hold there, locked in place. I don’t let go of her arm. Her pulse is fast beneath my thumb.
“Thanks,” she says. Her eyes flick to my hand, but she doesn’t pull back.
“Anytime.”
I try to let go, but my fingers catch on the fabric, and she feels it. She’s the one who looks away first, scanning the bed of the truck.
“Can you hold these while I unload?” she asks.
She means the bucket of mineral lick, but her voice comes out lower than usual. I say “sure,” even though it’s a two-person job, only if you want it to be.
Willa swings the bucket off the tailgate, and I take the handles from her, our hands brushing.
She watches me, unblinking, like she’s waiting for me to call her out on what happened last night.
I don’t. I haul the bucket, set it down exactly where she’s pointing, and wait for her to give me shit for it. She doesn’t.
She moves to the other side of the truck bed and slides more bags toward me. Sun catches on her cheek and lights up the tiny scar by her left eyebrow. She looks like she wants to say something, so I stand there and wait.
“You always this stubborn?” she asks.
I shrug. “You noticed.”
Willa’s mouth does that thing again, the faint upturn, but she bites it back.
Something shifts in us. It’s less like two enemies and more like—well, more like two people trying not to stare.
I wonder if she can listen as close as me, if she hears the hum in the air every time we get within arm’s reach.
We work that way for the next twenty minutes. Her hands, my hands, the buckets, the bags. Every task is an excuse to stand too close. The air is heavy with the smell of hay and dust and her. I keep waiting for the fight, but it never comes.
After we finish, she brushes seed husks from her jeans and leans back against the truck. She looks tired, but not defeated.
I lean next to her, arms crossed. We’re both breathing a little quickly from the work. Or maybe not from the work.
“Last night,” I say, because I’m not a coward, “you gonna regret it?”
She studies me, chewing on the question like it might be a trick. “Regret the whiskey, maybe. Not the rest.”
This knocks something loose in my chest. I don’t have a good reply, so I stare at the horizon. There’s still half an hour of sun left.
She bends to pick up a stray glove, and when she stands, I don’t move. She’s inches from me. Our boots are almost touching. I tilt my head, just a little, and she mirrors it. Nobody says anything.
She tries to move around me, but I catch her wrist. Not hard, not even tight, just a thumb and forefinger around the bone. She looks down at my hand and then up at me.
Her voice is low. “What, you need something?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. But I don’t let go.
We hold for that extra second, the one where every thought is louder. I want to pull her in, but don’t. She’s the one who steps forward.
We almost kiss, again. I feel her breath on my skin. She leans in, just a hair, and I brace myself. Then Buck barrels around the truck, barking loud enough to rattle my eardrums. The moment shatters.
Willa pulls her hand back, clearing her throat. I rub the back of my neck, pissed at the world for giving me a dog with timing.
“Buck’s got opinions, I guess,” she says, smiling.
“Always has,” I tell her. My voice is rougher than I want.
She walks away, slow and deliberate, with the glove dangling from her finger. I watch until she disappears into the house, then thump my fist once on the tailgate.
I want her. That’s the problem. I want her in my space and under my hands and against my mouth, and I want her on this ranch not because I need the land, but because her being here makes everything else sharper. I hate that it’s this easy, and I hate that I can’t make it not matter.
Buck whines, like he feels my mood through the soles of my boots. I reach down and ruffle his ears. “You’re killing me, bud,” I mutter. But I think I mean her.
Tomorrow, there’s work to do. There’s always work to do. I’m not sure if it’s hope or dread that makes me wish she’ll be around to do it.