“Okay, it’s safest if we walk from here.” He leans an elbow on the center console to get a better look at my footwear. Strappy sandals with a slight heel—hardly appropriate for walking on pavement, never mind on an uneven dirt trail. “But that’s not an option, since you’re a city girl now, apparently.”
“I take offense to that statement. Just because I dress nicer than I used to doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own in the country.”
“Then unbuckle your seat belt, and be ready to bail out of the truck if I tell you to.”
My face twists in horror. “What the hell are we about to do?”
“I’m taking you somewhere special.”
“To my early grave?”
“Not if we’re lucky.”
With a groan and a lurch, the truck starts up a steep hillside, along a path that the majority of civilization wouldn’t deem worthy of being called a road. Twisting and winding along the mountainside, up steep embankments, past terrifying cliffs. Denver grips the steering wheel, never letting his eyes leave the path, giving the truck just enoughoomphto get over each knoll and pothole. The views are stunning—not that I can look out the window long enough to appreciate them, because I’m staring at the door handle, and having a mild panic attack about the idea of leaping from a truck as it careens off the edge of the road.
Reaching the top, both he and the truck shudder an exhale when we come to a stop in front of the best view of the Wells Canyon valley I’ve ever seen. And finally I’m able to quit nervously picking at my cuticles.
I throw open the passenger door, taking a deep breath, and step onto compact earth. The view extends far beyond Wells Canyon, likely allowing a sightline all the way to Sheridan, if you squint hard enough. The ranch, the distant ski hill, and a sea of treed hilltops.
“Wow, it’s gorgeous up here. How did you come across this place?”
He walks around the truck and drops the tailgate, motioning at me to come over. “I did a lot of driving around by myself after you were gone. Eventually, even the never-ending backroads come to an end, so I started driving wherever I thought was wide enough for my truck.”
He gives me a hand onto the tailgate, then reaches into astrategically placed cooler and pulls out two bottles of beer—hesitating for a moment before offering me one. “All I have is beer-flavored water, or whatever your hoity-toity ass called it.”
“The dirty ice water sloshing around in the bottom of the cooler probably tastes better,” I tease, elbowing him in the side but accepting the beer with a smile. “But the beer’s more sanitary, so thank you.”
The cool liquid goes down better than expected, with the sun on our backs and a picturesque view, legs dangling from his tailgate. I press the amber bottle to my neck, sighing at the refreshing cold against my flushed skin, and beads of condensation run down my chest.
“How often do you come out here?” I ask.
How often do you bring other girls here?
“Not as often lately.” The bottle rim hovers in front of his parted lips for a moment as he thinks. “We split up Mom’s ashes because the three of us couldn’t agree about what to do for her. I actually tossed my portion into the wind up here the spring after she died. So for a while, I was here all the time.”
My heart sinks, and I spin to sit cross-legged facing him, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
“It would’ve been weird for you to be there…considering everything. But I thought you’d like to come see it now.”
I nod silently, internally battling with the urge to reach out and touch him. His right hand is resting on the truck bed, ripe for the taking. His callused palm, warm and strong, would fit in mine perfectly.
“How are you doing? Your mom, moving back here, Brickham’s dumbassery. You have a lot going on.”
I laugh under my breath to keep from crying. “Not to mention babysitting Hazel, helping wrangle my nephew, making sure my dad’s okay, being around you all the time. But honestly, I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
So maybe I’m actually flailing, fighting to keep my headabove water. But I’m not drowning—not yet—so that’s basically the same as being fine.
He stares at me, breaking down every wall with the hollowing of a dimple in his right cheek. As he takes a swig of beer, his eyes don’t leave mine, and right when it feels like every atom of oxygen has left the air between us, he opens his mouth.
“You’re fine.” His look of disbelief has me feeling the need to double down.
“Yep, sure am.” I give him a weak smile. “Other people have worse things going on, so it feels silly to complain about my life.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Don’t have to do what?” I pick at the corner of the beer bottle label.
“Diminish everything you’re going through. Pretend like you’re managing totally fine. Cut the crap—give me five seconds of honesty.”
