“You’ve been at it since breakfast,” I point out. It’s not that late, actually. It’s just past five o’clock. I’ve quickly learned that out here, dinner happens when the sun’s still high. Very different from New York, where “dinner” typically coincides with sane people’s bedtime.
“Sorry I disappeared on you all day,” he says with an exhausted sigh.
“Your dad explained you were trying to compress three months’ worth of ranch work into one weekend.” I lift the picnic basket. “I brought leftovers. Here’s your ‘wimpy chili,’ not a hint of spice in sight.”
Forrest laughs, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. “Keep teasing me, Sora. See what happens.”
I pump my eyebrows at him. “I’m feeling daring, wimpy boy. Do your worst.”
He smirks. “Three dates. Remember?”
Damn his resolve.
“Your dad took Dakota into town to buy her cowgirl boots,” I say, setting the basket down on a relatively clean hay bale.
“I thought I heard the truck.” Forrest’s smile falters. “He doesn’t need to spend money on that. They’re unnecessary.”
“He wanted to,” I say gently. “And he agreed to watch her and put her to bed tonight so you could show me around town. Maybe go out?”
His expression softens, and he wipes his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket. “That was thoughtful of him.”
I kneel to unpack our makeshift picnic. “We had a nice talk while making chili. He told me some things about your mom.”
Forrest stills, his posture tensing slightly. “Did he now?”
“Mmm,” I affirm, pulling out containers one by one. “I brought cowboy chili, cowboy butter, cowboy cornbread, and cowboy coffee.”
Forrest fetches a blanket, discarded in the corner. He shakes it out aggressively, hay, dust, and dirt making a dust cloud. He lays it on the barn floor, gesturing for me to sit. “You know we don’t actually put ‘cowboy’ in front of all our food, right? It’s cowboy chili and butter. The cornbread is just cornbread.”
“Shhh, don’t ruin my Wild West fantasy,” I tease. “I’ve been picturing you lassoing stray cattle all day.”
“Hate to disappoint, but I’ve been mending fences and checking supplies.” He gestures to the feed bags. “Glamorous stuff.”
We settle on the blanket, and he graciously accepts the container of chili I packed him. For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional distant groans of cattle and the soft rustle of hay beneath the blanket as we shift our weight.
The barn is surprisingly cozy, the ancient wood holding decades of warmth within its frame. Old lanterns hang from hooks, their glass cloudy with age. Forrest follows my gaze, examining the barn. “This place is going to shit.”
“It’s not. It’s just a little worn.”
“I feel bad. Dad’s getting older. He needs help around here, and I’m not here to give it.”
“He understands,” I assure him. “He told me he’s proud of you—not for being a ‘hotshot city guy,’ but for being a good father.”
Forrest’s eyes soften. “He doesn’t even know what I actually do. Did,” he corrects himself. “What Ididfor a living.”
“I don’t think that would change his opinion,” I say honestly. “He sees how you are with Dakota. That’s what matters to him.”
Forrest nods, then sets aside his empty container. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Why am I in New York now? With the escort job over, what’s keeping me there? Dakota’s school, I guess, but there are other options, you know? She seems to really like it here. I think Dad thought I was bringing home a prissy princess, but that’s not the case.”
“Is prissy princess in regards to Dakota, or me?” I ask, scowling.
“Hey, is that the coffee?” Forrest points to the tin canister by my thigh.
“You jerk,” I playfully mutter, handing over the canister.
“You’re both doing great,” he says with a teasing grin. “Makes me want to stay here.”
My heart does a strange leap in my chest, part exhilaration, part panic. “Are you saying you want to move back to Wyoming?”
