Chapter 12
Mid-September
Titus ran the length of the cotton bandana through his hands and smoothed the crease with his thumb. Moonlight cut sharp through the truck cab and carved Kyla’s features into angles. Her mouth looked relaxed but her spine stayed braced as she waited.
He tugged the cloth over her eyes slowly. Her scent filled the cab, warmed skin and woodsmoke from her hair. Her throat flexed but she kept still. Only her breath stayed uneven at the edge of a laugh she refused to release.
He took longer than necessary with the knot and let his fingers rest on the curve where her neck softened into her hairline. She gave the smallest twitch. The back of his hand brushed a coil that had worked loose from her twist.
“Too tight?” he asked.
Her head tipped slightly. “Don’t coddle me.”
Her voice stayed steady. One corner of his mouth lifted. His hands stilled. He did not know how to tell her that coddling had nothing to do with it. He had spent years bracing every muscle against giving anything away. With her tonight, he wanted her to have everything.
The air outside was cool. Nothing but September grass sweetened by the last week’s rain and the faraway scent of cattle moving downwind reached him. He started the truck. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as he rolled out slowly enough for the dust to settle behind them.
He cracked the window halfway and rested his arm on the sill. The bite of night air sobered him. He saw the outline of her knuckles curled tight on her lap. She said nothing and gave him silence. He gripped the steering wheel until the tension in his chest loosened a notch.
They left the narrow county road and cut down an old wagon track that scraped between alfalfa stubble and new-cut wheat fields.
Every rut and bounce traveled up his arm where it braced the window.
He kept one eye on the moon, swollen and low.
Sometimes he checked Kyla as if she might bolt, but she only breathed quiet and measured with her head tipped back against the seat.
Her fingers moved once to smooth her skirt over her knees.
He stopped the truck at the edge of the auction barn. Tires crunched to a halt and the headlights pushed twin cones out into dust. Then nothing. The engine died. The fan wound down. Stillness rushed in. Space opened wide enough to make him conscious of the sound of his own breath.
He slid from the cab. His boots sank in the crushed dirt. He circled around and opened her door. The truck’s interior light caught the grain of her cheekbones. Her lips parted but she did not move until his hands came down gentle on her waist.
“Step out,” he said.
His voice carried nothing but function. She angled herself forward, searching for his touch. He took her hands in his and guided her to the ground.
Her boots met hard earth. For a moment neither of them let go. His thumb traced the spot where her pulse beat. She pressed back with her palm. He squeezed once and let the pressure mean what words could not.
He led her across the gravel. One step after another. He paced himself so their feet landed together and their bodies stayed tethered by touch. Hay seed scattered in uneven piles at the barn door.
Somewhere nearby, metal pinged as a weathervane spun once on the wind. He angled her toward the outside ladder and covered her hand with his at the first rung.
She reached upward sure and proud and refused the safety of his hold even now. He followed with his body close behind, ready but not interfering. The ladder creaked under their combined movement.
With each step, her shoulder brushed his chest and her back warmed the front of his jacket. When she hesitated, he rested his hand on the ridge of her hip and steadied her without words.
Moonlight spilled from the open loft bay and caught in the split wood above. The hayloft sat dark, but a faint glow from inside marked his preparations. At the top, she gripped the final rung.
Her breath came short and her chest heaved once with effort. He climbed high enough that his belt buckle nudged the back of her thigh. He had to let her move first. That cost him, but it was the point.
He swung a leg up and braced himself against the ledge. With both hands, he lifted her by the waist. Muscles flexed. She made a low sound of certainty and let him carry her those last few inches into the loft.
Titus’s hands shook when they should have stayed steady, but he tied the bandana slowly anyway and stayed careful at the knot behind Kyla’s head. Her exhale ticked over his skin in one quick tremor at her nape.
Then she tipped her chin and offered the last of her sight. The cab felt close even with the window half down. September air cut through them both and left the heat between their bodies private.
He let his knuckles rest there a second longer. The bandana felt soft against her scalp.
“You good?” he murmured.
His thumb stroked a slow line below her ear. Kyla’s lips parted. Nothing but breath moved between them. She gave a clipped nod. Her hand tugged at his thigh, bolder than her mouth.
Go.
He slid the truck into gear. Gravel churned under the tires as he pulled them into the hush of the back pasture. The window stayed down. Night moved around them. Fields paled and fencelines stood crisp in silver.
He gripped the wheel tight so he would not touch her again before they arrived.
Her profile stayed turned toward him. The blindfold lay flawless across the arch of her brow.
Lashes rested dark against skin. No fear showed in the set of her jaw.
Only concentration. The curve of her lower lip looked bitten.
A coyote called off near the cottonwoods. Kyla’s shoulders lifted as she shifted and chased some ache she would not voice. Every pothole in the rutted lane threatened to jostle her. Titus navigated each one with more care than he used hauling yearlings.
His body pitched forward and his focus locked on her. He could smell her laundry soap and a faint sweetness from the lotion she kept by the sink layered over something richer and earthy. That scent marked her as surely as his hand did.
When he braked behind the auction barn, the engine ticked into silence. He glanced at Kyla. She stayed still. Her breath slowed long and measured.
She licked her lips with nothing nervous in the motion. Moonlight bathed the barn’s battered walls and turned tin pale while it picked out every gouge in the planks.
Titus slid out first. His boots grated on packed gravel. He pulled open her door with his arm steady and his body angled to shield her from the night. He brushed his palm down her forearm and tucked his fingers under her elbow.
She did not ask where they were and did not reach for the blindfold. When her boots met ground, she pressed in just enough to signal trust without a drop of submission. He drew her hand to his chest. His fingers felt broad and dry against the callus in her palm.
“Ladder’s to your right.”
No explanation.
He wanted her climbing up into this barn under the moon like she belonged here.
They moved slowly. His boots followed hers. One hand stayed steady at her hip as she searched for the first rung. The air up here carried hay dust and sweet rot mingled with sweat and old straw.
Every noise grew amplified. The groan of a plank under her boot. The flex of the ladder bolts. The ragged undertone of their combined breathing. He stayed aware down to the marrow of her shape in front of him. Her hips rolled as she found her balance. The bandana had turned her head into a secret.
He fought the need to grip her hips tighter and claim space where he had only been granted invitation. Instead, he held position and waited. Every few rungs Kyla hesitated with her foot hovering. Titus braced his chest against her back until her body aligned with the next step.
“Keep going. I’m right here.” His tone came low.
She did not answer except to climb. Moonlight streamed through the open hayloft door at the top and banded her in silver as he edged up close.
He pressed his lips together and forced his pulse down.
At the final rung, he hooked an arm around her waist, guided her up, and lifted her over the threshold.
Kyla’s boots crunched on straw. Her hand stayed in his. The barn interior glowed faint blue and grey with dust motes suspended in the cold air. The auction ring below sat empty.
Up here, every creak echoed off high rafters and roof patched with old tin. He drew her forward and let his thumb brush a line above her waistband. Then he let go and waited for the next signal.
He had never led anyone further than this.
He waited half-crouched inside the loft. Kyla’s hand stayed steady in his. The hay smelled raw with sunlight baked in and bitter under the lantern’s spill.
She stood with her spine straight and her chin lifted beneath the blindfold while she breathed in as if she could name every detail by scent alone. Titus stripped the bandana off slowly and let moonlight reveal what he had hidden.
Her eyelashes fluttered. For a heartbeat, she stayed blinking and getting her bearings while her pupils widened. She took in the lantern’s low glow, the blanket layered over clean straw, and the shape of him blocking the open door.
She locked onto the single object he had risked bringing. A square hand mirror braced against a bale gleamed in the moon. Kyla’s mouth parted as if to say something but she let her eyes roam and take inventory.
First the thick navy blanket. Then the way the night drafted through the wallboards. Then back to the mirror. Her breath moved slow.
Titus kept his hands by his sides with his shoulders squared. He itched to pull her close or touch her face just for proof. Instead, he tracked the flutter at her throat and the glossy mark left by her lipstick gone faint from the bandana.
Every detail lived sharper than any other memory he owned. Her hair loosened by the knot. The faint gloss of sweat at her collar. The tense flex at her forearm.