With a glimmer in his eyes, Denver kisses me softly, then turns to head back to his horse.
Picking up a massive slice of watermelon from my plate, I watch him sort the cattle and try not to drool at the way his shoulder muscles flex under his shirt. His body’s perfectlyrelaxed yet sturdy, moving with his cutting horse like they share a soul, completely trusting the animal to do its job. The cows fight separation from the herd, always looking for a way to get back. And it seems entirely chaotic, with Austin yelling at his guys from the top fence rail, horses moving through the cattle, guys working the cow squeeze to check ear tags and confirm every animal is safe to travel before they’re loaded onto a massive livestock trailer—destination: Alberta.
And Jonas, my short, skinny preteen nephew, is right in there. When Denver mentioned lining up some work for Jonas over the summer to keep him out of trouble, I didn’t expectthis. He’s using every ounce of energy in his tiny body to open and close the backstop on the cattle chute—the sliding door that keeps cows from backing out of the chute once they’ve been loaded in.
I pull out my phone and zoom in to discreetly take photos for my sister. Then I turn the camera toward Denver, and when he looks at me with a smile, I snap my new favorite photo of him.
Denver said I brought the light back into his life, but I don’t think he’ll ever understand how badly I needed him to anchor me here. Before I came home, I had a career and a fancy apartment, but I was anxiously flitting about. Working as much overtime at the hospital as I could manage and spending a concerning amount of my free time at the gym—being busy kept my mind from wandering, and I confused that with my brain being calm.
But this? This is calm. Sitting in the sunshine with my best friends, catching smiles from the love of my life, and eating the most flavorful watermelon I’ve ever had.
—
Mildly sunburned, exhausted, and feeling the tiniest bit tipsy, I let Denver boost me into his truck and buckle my seat belt. Hopping into his seat, his right hand instantly finds mine inthe center of the bench, and we pull away from the sun-soaked ranch. He insisted on showering at the bunk house before we left, and now heading down the long driveway, he rolls the windows down to get a breeze through his damp hair.
When he turns left—as if heading back to Wells Canyon—I look at him confused. For us, going for a drive has always meant heading farther into the middle of nowhere, not closer to civilization.
“Where are we going?”
“Just sit back and enjoy the drive. You’ll see it when we get there.”
Rolling my eyes, I do what he says, leaning my head against the back of the seat. Denver drives along the tree-lined dirt road, with classic country softly playing. Stretching my fingers, I stick a hand out the open passenger window and let it swim through the wind current. The other takes its natural place on his thigh.
The sun chases us down the mountain, threatening dusk. Then he turns onto my street, and I cackle. “Thedrivewas a ride home?”
“Something like that.”
Denver
The sun’s barely hovering above the skyline when I pull into the driveway of a modest blue cottage.Theblue cottage Blair didn’t shut up about any time I drove her home back in high school. Just down the street from where her parents live, it’s set back from the road in a heavily treed lot. But there’s no missing the blue siding, white front porch, and sunshine-yellow door.
And the confusion on Blair’s face kills me.
“Why are we at Mrs. Weaver’s house?”
“Figured you haven’t had a piano lesson with her in close to twenty-five years, and since your leg is busted up, you needsomethingto do—other than eye-fuck me at work every day.”
“Funny guy.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you.” I pop open the glovebox and rummage around to find a key. “She gave me a key. In case you’re worried there’s some funny business going on. Nobody’s coming to arrest us for this.”
Her face remains scrunched, with confused wrinkles on the bridge of her nose, the entire time I help her out of the truck and up the porch steps. The key slips into the lock with ease and I swing open the door, careful to catch it before it hits the interior wall.
“Key or not, I’m still not convinced we aren’t breaking and entering.” She hesitantly steps inside, and I flip the lightswitches, walking ahead of her into the living room and lighting it up.
But the space is empty, and the harsh, cool ceiling light reverberates off the white walls and recently polished hardwood floor. Blair squints when she steps through the archway.
“Wait—is Mrs. Weaver moving?”
“Moved already, actually. Last week. Down to Florida because apparently she’s sick of the cold winters here, and they have some pretty bomb seniors’ communities. I was tempted to dye my hair gray and tag along. Maybe find me some cougars down there.”
“I bet you could find some really wonderful women in need of a pool boy.” She leans on a crutch and runs her hand through her hair. “So she gave you the keys to her empty house? Like an Airbnb situation…sans the furniture?”
God,she’s really not understanding where I’m going with this. She’s supposed to be the smart one here.
“Blair.I fucking love you,but sometimes…” I massage my temples. “She gave me the keys because I bought the house from her.”
“Um, no you didn’t.” She laughs under her breath.
