“You okay?” he grunts.
“Not a fan of heights,” I confess, holding a hand to my chest. “For myself or anyone else.”
“How’d you manage all that flying you must’ve done as a touring act, then?”
The question feels remote, like it’s not meant for me. But for another time and place.
I smile sheepishly, confessing, “Sedation. There was a pill for everything back then.”
“Not so long ago,” he corrects, kicking the red dirt in front of him.
“I don’t want to go back.”
“I know,” he says with a nod. “Sounds like between the advocacy group and your parents, what you want is getting more likely with each passing day.”
“Most of it anyway,” I say in low tones, pushing sadness deep. “And things here at Lone Star, are they okay?”
He shrugs.
“I know there were concerns about the possible legal repercussions of helping me.”
He removes his Stetson, stabbing his fingers into his hair. “Par for the course. It’s why we have a legal team, Ms. Lowell.”
“And Maverick Holt? Is he okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Grayson stills, eyes narrowing like he’s reading me. “Fine.”
It’s already too late. I’ve said too much, so I keep going. “Is he here by chance?”
He replaces his cowboy hat, face unreadable.
Josie squeals, jumping down from the branch where she stands, nearly making me scream. My knees shake just watching her antics.
“You look pale all of a sudden, Ms. Lowell,” he observes with a chuckle.
Josie runs over, tugging on his sleeve. “Dad, are you going to tell her about the ranch or not?”
Our eyes meet, and he frowns. “The newbie’s out ranch shopping in Red Mesa. Good land there, no neighbors for miles. Abundant water rights. Peace. Quiet.”
My pulse pounds, though I try to play it cool.
Grayson frowns, adding, “If you happen to be in the area … that would be your choice.”
If Jack is okay with a detour. Not sure I’ll give him the choice.
I smile. “Then, I’d like to go.”
Back in his truck, country music’s the topic of conversation.
“You gonna start singing cowboy songs?” Jack asks.
I freeze, unsure of my answer. “Never got to choose what I sing,” I realize out loud. “Maybe it’s time to start.”
He nods, whistling along to the radio as the landscape shifts from golden fields to rusty rock formations. Every shape and size, like nature’s an abstract sculptor.
“Red Mesa,” he says. “Good ranch country.”
I nod, throat too thick to speak as I stare at the horizon, distance narrowing. Until I can almost feel my cowboy bodyguard.
