“I think everyone needs someone, Cody.”
I want to say something profound or revelatory—to ask the hard question.Do you need me, Carli? Do you feel this tug between us?Most of all, I want to assure her:You have me. You’ve always had me.
But I don’t.
Instead, I walk her most of the way to her truck and then I stand in the driveway while she backs down it, pivots and drives off, dust lifting and settling behind her tires.
I stand there a moment longer than makes sense, hands on my hips, breathing the cool afternoon air that tastes a little like we’re expecting rain.
I stare after her, even after she’s long out of sight, telling myself it’s enough—working alongside her, living just down the road. But days like today leave a hollowness in the spaces she so easily filled, making me wonder if we could have more and whether the price we’d pay for finding out would be too high.
Chapter 5
Carli
Cowgirl is a spirit, a special brand of courage.
~ Dale Evans
My body issore in the best of ways. I rub my cold fingers together in front of the vent heater in my truck and smile the rest of the way down the familiar two-lane road between the Lawsons’ ranch and ours. Maybe I should feel more frustrated or wrung out having been so close to Cody—yet no closer to anything meaningful between us. Instead, I’m content—dangerously so. Contentment leads to hope—a hope I can’t afford to entertain.
The ride out to the pasture on the UTV was the closest I’ve been to Cody in a while, unless you count the frosting explosion—which I totally count and recount with equal amounts of mortification and private delight. My chest buzzes with warmth. And it’s not just the way he looked at me when we were wrangling Hoss. Working alongside the restof the Lawson brothers and ranch hands has a certain rightness to it that few other experiences can match.
Our main house sits broad and wide at the end of the driveway, a landmark and a refuge. I park next to my dad’s truck and hop out. The porch swing sways in what I think is a breeze until I step up and see Mom’s welcoming smile, soft and gentle. She’s curled up with a blanket and a book.
I’m still in my clothes from this morning, dirt under my nails, the smell of cattle clinging to me. My boots hit the porch floorboards and she looks up.
“I should shower,” I say, looking down at myself and back at Mom.
She’s slow to answer—her steady, peaceful presence never hurried. Boone and Lottie, our Aussies, lounge at her feet. Boone stands and trots over to me. I run my hands over his silky hair. Lottie lies dutifully in her favorite place on earth. Mom pats the bench next to her.
“I’m gross,” I warn her as I move to accept her silent invitation. “I probably smell like a bull. And I’m caked with dust.”
“Like I’d care,” Mom says softly. “You’re talking to the wife of a hog farmer.”
Her voice is subdued, a combination of peacefulness and possibly weariness.
I sit on the swing, careful not to send it rocking. Mom lifts the blanket, draping it over both our laps, and I lean my head on her shoulder.
She wraps her arm behind me and strokes my hair like she did when I was little.
“You do stink,” she says with a soft laugh.
“Thanks. And to think, I was over there flirting with the Lawson boys.”
“Were you now?”
“Not really. Unless you call wrangling cattle flirting.”
“Not much in this world would be sexier to a rancher than a woman who can move his herd.”
“That’s just weird, Mom.”
“Maybe.”
I almost spill it all. Almost. The way Cody looked at me—familiar and proud—still managed to send goosebumps racing across my skin. All my feelings for him press just behind my lips, tempting me to expose my secret. But Mom and I are joking. If I ever were to actually flirt with a Lawson boy, she would not be this chill about it. The longing for him threatens to swallow me whole this afternoon. We shared easy touches, glances, laughter—like empty promises of a future we could share if only life hadn’t given us the hands we were dealt.
A breeze blows through and I snuggle close to my mom. The smell of damp pasture and woodsmoke filters through the air.
