Dom peers over, straightening up after only a second. "It's a cricket."
I shudder. They're harmless, but the way they jump unnerves me.
Dom unrolls a handful of toilet paper, using it to urge the insect down further in the bowl, and once it's in the water, Dom flushes. "Safe to use," he says, gesturing at the toilet before stepping from the bathroom and closing the door behind him. As if it never happened.
My bladder yells at me, and I lock the door since Dom is awake out there. I double-check the toilet, just in case the cricket had a buddy. It's clear, and when I finish up and wash my hands, I slink out of the bathroom hoping Dom is one of those people who fall back to sleep the second their head hits the pillow.
No such luck.
"Don't say a word," I mutter. I'm so embarrassed. I want to crawl into the nearest abandoned copper mine and die there.
"Wasn't planning to," Dom answers. His voice sounds rich, and I know it's because he's holding back laughter.
After a few minutes, I say, "Thank you."
"For what?" Dom asks.
In the darkness, a smile spreads across my face.
CHAPTER 31
Dominic
Cecily lookslike a dream atop a horse. Like a modern, western version of Xena the Warrior Princess. I might, and I stressmight, have had a thing for Xena when I was younger. Those after-school re-runs were something to behold. Was it Xena's powerful thighs, or her villain redemption arc that spoke to me? Not sure, but it had me feeling things.
Today I am wearing compression underwear underneath the jeans required for the trail ride. They won't stop me from having another unfortunate situation in Cecily's presence, but they might give me a fighting chance. I'm going to need it, after our middle-of-the-night cricket fiasco. Cecily didn't realize how much her shirt had ridden up, how the fabric had gathered at her hips and lifted the hem. I didn't see what a bikini bottom hides, but knowing it was right there, not covered by fabric or a sheet? The memory played on a loop in my mind, unsettling me enough that it took an hour for me to fall back to sleep. I'm convinced that woman might be the death of me.
She was awake and in the bathroom before me, emerging wearing skin-tight blue jeans tucked into tan and turquoise cowgirl boots, tan tank top knotted at her lower back. And thebraid, tossed over her shoulder. May the good Lord help me when she brushes out that braid. Help me, or knock me dead.
Quint the cowboy is not a grizzled old fart. He's not a young stud either, much to Kerrigan's chagrin. Ranging somewhere from forty to fifty-five (hard to tell with the cowboy hat and sunglasses), Quint wears the typical cowboy getup: jeans, boots, and a button-up long sleeve shirt. And, most notably, a simple gold wedding band.
We ride in a line through the desert, with me bringing up the rear and Cecily directly in front of me. Before we climbed on our horses, we stood in a semi-circle and listened to Quint's lecture on what to do and what not to do. I overheard Kerrigan say to Cecily, "Isn't it weird to see Mom in this setting?"
"Like putting an alien in Sweet Nothings," Cecily agreed.
Kerrigan had looked at her with surprise, and Cecily said, "Stop it, Kerr. I can talk about home."
"Not fondly," Kerrigan countered.
"Get on your damn horse," Cecily responded, and that was that.
Surreptitiously, I typed the name of Cecily's hometown and Sweet Nothings into the internet search bar on my phone. Turns out it's simply the name of a bakery in Olive Township.
I am, by nature, curious, but there was something else driving me, a desire to glimpse anything having to do with Cecily. I want to know her. Her backstory. I'm learning her preferences by being around her, but I want more.
The sun, heavy in the east, peeks over the tops of the mountains ahead and sends a glow around Cecily. Her braid shines in the sun, a loose tendril floating in the slight breeze. Her posture is relaxed, hands loosely holding the reins. Surrounded by outstanding desert scenery, yet Cecily is the most breathtaking view of all. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I snap a photo of her. I'll send it to her later.
The trail is a wide swath of dirt, flanked by cacti that look menacing despite the bright flowers unfurling from them. In the distance, a large bird of prey swoops and soars.
Quint talks loudly to the group, but I can't hear most of what he's saying. That's just as well, because I don't care. Between the desert landscape and Cecily, there's too much beauty around me to pay attention to much else.
Eventually we arrive at The Outpost, the building where the ranch serves the sunrise breakfast. Ophelia and Rainbow are already there, having been driven over by a ranch vehicle. The Outpost is an ivory stucco building with a decidedly Spanish feel. A splintered wagon wheel leans against one wall, prickly pear cactus growing around it. Written on the wall in bright orange-red lettering are the words The Outpost. An honest-to-God hitching post runs half the length of the front porch, and Quint shows us how to safely tie up the horses. The entrance to the place appears to be nothing more than antique saloon doors, and when I push through, I find there's a proper door on tracks that has been rolled open.
"This place is so cool," Cecily says. Her touch runs over my shoulder, trailing down my arm. It's not as if she has never touched me, but this time feels different. Slower, lingering. Affectionate.
It's not, though. Ophelia's looking on. The rest of her family, too.
A long picnic table occupies a majority of the open room, candelabras much like the one at dinner last night hanging above the table in three foot intervals. Behind the table is an open style kitchen, men and women walking quickly back-and-forth.
