“Knock ’em dead tomorrow, darling.” He waved as he and Inez reached their rental car. She gave me a big smile as they drove away.
I climbed into the truck, the weight of the day lifting with every step. Finn reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You ready for a real night’s sleep?” he asked.
I smiled, the protection pouch warm in my pocket. “I think I am.”
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t afraid of what waited in the dark.
If the nightmares wanted me, they’d have to get through a bakery witch, a prairie dog, a small army of cinnamon rolls, and the two best men I’d ever known.
I liked my odds.
Chapter 20
Gunner
Brie didn’t have a nightmare all night. That was the first miracle. The second was that we both woke up just after sunrise, tangled up in each other, not shivering, not clutching at the bedsheets for dear life, but just… at peace. Aspen’s little charm bag still sat on Brie’s nightstand, the yellow ribbon laid out like a canary feather, and whether it was the magic of the charms under our pillows or just the power of suggestion, I didn’t care. I’d have placed a hundred charms under the mattress if it meant I got more mornings like this.
She stretched long and catlike before blinking over at me. “Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Like the dead,” I said, and meant it.
She smiled—maybe the first real one in days—and sat up; the sheets falling to her waist. I watched her for a second, just memorizing how the soft morning light painted her skin gold. Then, she did the thing that always melted me: she went from goddess to gremlin in a split second, sticking her tongue out and making a little goblin noise as she fished for her phone on the nightstand.
“Don’t take pictures of my morning face,” I warned, rolling onto my side.
“Too late.” She snapped one anyway. Then she climbed out of bed, stark naked, and did a little victory lap around the room while she scrolled through her notifications. If she cared that I was openly staring at her, she didn’t let on. Honestly, at this point in our lives, the only person who could make her self-conscious was her own mother.
Brie’s morning routine was a war zone of accessories and last-minute inspiration. She started with the wardrobe: ripped black jeans, her lucky vintage cowboy boots with the cracked turquoise leather, and a shirt that looked like it had been cut from a 1970s grandma’s curtain. Over that, she layered on scarves, a vest, and then picked her way through a mess of necklaces on the dresser. She selected three: one made of glass beads, one with a silver wolf pendant, and the last—a choker of braided leather with a big chunk of amethyst. She wore them all, like a shield.
Her hair, wild from sleep, took her less than a minute to tame. She ran her fingers through the dark brown waves, tousled with blue-dyed streaks. Mascara went on in a single pass. No blush, and her lips wore just a little tinted lip balm in dark plum. She looked like she was about to knock over a train, or at least steal the hearts of every art critic in the Texas panhandle.
“You nervous?” I asked, sipping my coffee at the kitchen table.
She slumped into the chair across from me and made a face. “If I stop moving, I’ll start puking.”
“Then don’t stop.”
She took a deep breath, then gave me a look. “Will you come with me, or do I have to brave the gallery alone?”
I finished my coffee, then grinned at her. “I’ll drive. You can choose the playlist, but I am not starting my day with more Johnny Cash.”
“Sacrilege,” she muttered, but her hands were already on my forearm, squeezing tight.
She ducked back into the bedroom to grab her statement dress—because, as she explained to me last night, every artist needs a statement piece for the opening. She’d gone with a floor-length gown in a sage green thatset off her eyes, with bursts of violet in random panels and some kind of mesh overlay that made it shimmer like grass after a rain. She’d hung it in one of those plastic garment bags like it was the Hope Diamond.
Today was a day for pulling the King Ranch out of the garage. My mate deserved to arrive in style on this occasion.
“Wow, Idofeel special getting to ride in the lap of luxury today. You know how to make a girl feel treasured, cowboy.” She gave me a cute wink when I got her strapped into her seatbelt.
“You’re precious cargo, Maverick. Gotta be sure everybody sees I know how to treat a lady.”
I loaded her dress and tote bag full of whatever else she had packed up for the day. We spoke little on the drive, both of us half-lost in our own heads, but it was a comfortable silence. The kind you only get with your mate, or someone you’ve spent a thousand hours beside on a tractor or in a foxhole.
Dairyville was still mostly asleep at seven. The bakery was just turning on its ‘Open’ sign as we passed, and the only movement on Main was a stray dog trotting down the sidewalk. The gallery stood out on the block; its fresh new facade and awning looked modern and inviting. I could see Lysander’s rental pulled in behind us, and park a few spots down. It idled there while we got out.
She bit her lip when I helped her out. “Stay until they get the signage up?”
