12. Bryn
TWELVE
Bryn
This man was not getting a second of peace.
Not for the rest of his life, as far as I was concerned.
“You know,” I said. “You seemed very confident about this whole thing on the walk…and now you’re so broody. Is this how you always are?”
He grunted.
I grunted back. Louder.
He looked at me.
“Two can play this game,” I said. “You want to communicate nonverbally? We can do that.”
I reached over and flicked him in the arm.
He looked at me again, his brow furrowed. “Jesus, woman.”
“Acting like I’m some innocent ingenue when you first met me…you’re in for it now, Stetson Holt. I have demands.”
“I’m startin’ to see that.”
We’d driven a little way into the woods, and there was an entirely dark cabin up ahead. Stetson cut the engine and just sat there for a second, hands still on the wheel.
“Well?” he said.
I unbuckled so I could face him fully.
“For starters, you’re going to stop calling me ‘woman’ like I’m a mule you’re negotiating with.”
“That how it sounded?”
“That’s exactly how it sounded.”
“Didn’t mean it like that.”
“Don’t care how you meant it. Consider it demand number one.” Buck interrupted me by suddenly leaping from the back of the cab into my lap. I huffed. “Number two, you’re going to actually finish a sentence tonight instead of trailing off like every word costs you money.”
“Costin’ me plenty right now.”
“Good. Keep talking anyway.”
He grumbled under his breath, but he got out and came around to open my door before I could do it myself. Buck jumped out right away and headed toward the dark house, leaving me alone with the broody cowboy.
I turned again, and Stetson stepped right in between my legs to lean against the car door, one hand braced on the roof.
“Anything else?” he asked.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“If you opt out of this, it has to be about us, not about…your baggage.”
“Haven’t known you long enough to even tell if there’s an us.”
“And yet you didn’t hesitate to come inside me.”
“Well, when you asked like you did…”
“Ah…you just couldn’t control yourself, hm?”
"Somethin' like that."
"So which is it, Stetson? You lost control, or there's an us and you're just too stubborn to say so."
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me, one hand still braced on the roof of the truck, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him in the cool night air.
"Maybe both," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the honest one."
"Fine. I'll take honest." I reached up and hooked a finger into his shirt collar, pulling just enough that he had to bend toward me.
"But you don't get to disappear on me again.
Not tonight, not after your dad shows up, not when it gets hard.
That's the actual demand. Everything else was just warm-up. "
His voice dropped to a low rumble when he spoke again, his breath a warm whisper against my lips. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy.”
I laughed. “And you like it.”
“I’ll be damned…yeah, I do.”
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me out of the truck, and I folded my limbs around him so he knew I wasn’t letting go. He carried me up the porch steps like that, my legs locked around his waist, mouth already finding mine before we made it to the door.
“I wanted to see your place,” I said.
“I’ll give you the grand tour once you’re naked and knocked up.”
Jesus.
He got the door open one-handed, kicked it shut behind us as Buck moved past us to find what I assumed must be his favorite spot somewhere in the living room. I could make out the vague shape of sparse furniture, a moonbeam coming through the window and lighting up a rack of antlers on the wall.
“Bedroom?” Stetson mumbled against me as he pushed me against the wall. “Or right here?”
“Bath,” I said. “We’re filthy.”
“Maybe I like you that way.” His nose dragged up my throat, his lips following in its wake. “Like you tastin’ like springwater and sunscreen.”
“Ah…so your type is bog witch?”
“Apparently my type is you.” He pulled back just far enough to look at me, one hand still braced against the wall by my head. “So…yeah, bog witch.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Already has.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, then reached out to tug my shirt off and leave it on the floor. Now that I was inside, off the trail, I was starting to feel the days of travel…the water, the sweat. I caught his wrists.
“Really,” I said. “Bath. I presume you’ve got one?”
His shoulders slumped and he smiled, then tilted his head. “This way.”
He led me down a short hall, boots discarded somewhere behind us, and flipped on a light in a bathroom that looked older than either of us.
A clawfoot tub sat against the far wall, white enamel gone slightly yellow with age, a curtain rod bent into a half-circle around it and a faded floral shower curtain hanging from rings that didn’t quite match.
“Sorry for the…” he waved his hand at the room like that explained the need for an apology. “Don’t have a lot of women here.”
I shook my head. “No need to apologize—it’s quaint. Looks old?”
“Older than me. Adam and Peggy honeymooned here.”
I peered over at him. “Didn’t they live here?”
“Sure did.” He knelt by the tub to get the water running, testing the temperature with two fingers. “Never wanted anything else. This place…it runs through our blood. We don’t go far from Holt Creek. None of us. Keeps callin’ us home.”
He paused for a second. Then:
"You know how your frogs won't leave that one stretch of creek," he said.
"Even though the whole world's out there.
Even though nothin's stoppin' 'em." He shrugged, almost embarrassed by his own comparison.
"That's us. That's every Holt that's ever been born here.
Somethin' about this ground just decides you belong to it, and once it does, you don't really unelect yourself. "
I didn’t want him to know, but it made me melt to hear him say that.
To compare himself to maybe the thing I cared most about in this whole world.
“That’s beautiful, Stetson.”
"Wasn't tryin' to be."
"I know. That's what makes it work." I undid my pants, shimmied out of them…kicked my shoes off along the way. Bra came off next, and Stetson didn’t even look, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. "Your dad's not part of that, is he. The pull."
"No." He said it simply, no anger behind it for once, just fact. "Arlo never belonged to this land. Just wanted to own it. Different thing entirely."
"What's the difference?"
“When you love something, you gotta accept it’s ungovernable.” He glanced back at me, and his eyes roamed over me…over the stitches on my ankle, the dried mud that had crept through the layers of clothing, short nails, no makeup, straggly hair. “Like a bog witch.”
I laughed softly, then grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet. I found the buttons on his shirt, undid them one by one…then shed his t-shirt, revealing that well-muscled chest, peppered with dark hair.
I ran my hands down over his stomach, feeling him tense under my palms, and reached for his belt.
"You gonna keep starin'," he said, "or you gonna get in?"
"Multitasking."
I got his belt undone, jeans shoved down, and he stepped out of them the rest of the way while I finished undressing myself.
Neither of us said much for a minute—just the sound of water still running, steam thickening the air, his eyes tracking every inch of me.
He stepped in first, then I got in front of him—and we both sank into the water to settle there, his arms coming around my waist.
I groaned at the sensation of the water, my eyes closed, his broad chest behind me…God, it felt good.
“This is…heavenly,” I breathed.
“Yeah.”
I cracked one eye open to look over my shoulder. “You’re allowed to enjoy things, you know. Not everything has to be a fight.”
"Workin' on it."
"You've got a long list of things you're working on."
"Got a lot of years to make up for." His mouth found my shoulder. "Figure I got time now."