Butterflies swoop through my belly. Why did my mouth just go so dry?
“I’ve been thinking,” he shoots me a sheepish look and rubs the back of his neck, “about changing things around here.” He shrugs with his whole torso, his arms spreading out. “I haven’tchanged anything,” his voice drops as if his words are fragile secrets.
Maybe they are.
“Ford,” I can’t help but reach for him, my hand landing on his arm, and he freezes, “this is your home. You can do whatever you want with your home. Decorate it however you want.”
As he looks into my eyes, I watch something crack inside him. His mouth snaps closed and he swallows hard before nodding slowly.
“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me,” the words are delicate. “I wasn’t sure, especially if mother tried to come back.”
Revulsion skitters up my spine and so many words want to come out. I don’t say a single one of them. And I have no idea where the grace comes from.
“Even if she comes back, you get to make this place yours. You live here. She doesn’t. Isn’t there a saying about that?” I tease him, hoping to break the tension, the thickness of it all.
Because everything in me wants to reach for him. But I’m not sure what happens then. With every secret he shares, with every peek I’m given into who he is, I feel even worse about keeping who I really am from him.
His lips curl into a smile and it feels like I can breathe. “You mean about possession being nine-tenths of the law?”
I tap his nose, unable to help myself, and his eyes cross for a second. “That’s the one I was thinking of. Got it in one.”
“I made a picnic.” He clears his throat and I think I see a little blush peeking out of the top of his beard. “There’s a spot close by with a nice view,” he offers.
“Well,” I clap my hands, “I do love a view, and I’d love to see some of your land.”
What I want to ask is if this is a special place to him, his place. Or is it just what he said—close with a nice view? I’m not sure I want to know the answer and just follow behind him after he pulls a basket out of a cabinet, and packs it up before heading toward the back door. When we step onto the back porch I freeze.
The land stretching out before me is better than I imagined. It’s peaceful. I can see the evidence of how the land is worked, but it only makes it mean more.
His legacy is one to be envied, but that doesn’t make it easy to bear.
“Shit, I almost forgot the blanket,” he mutters under his breath and I giggle.
Even though I can feel his eyes on me, I keep my eyes on the view. “I’m enjoying myself,” I indicate the splendor with a wave of my hand. “Go and grab it. I think I’ll be fine standing right here for a minute. Maybe even longer, if need be,” I tease him.
When I glance at him, there’s a look on his face that is a lot like awe. It makes me want to squirm.
I look back out at Sagebrush and feel something ease. He’s gone and back. It doesn’t take a minute even and he has his hat on his head this time. I chuckle as he grabs the blanket, basket and then my hand.
With him leading me I find I’m able to just look at what’s around me. I’m not worried about where he’s taking me. As someone who finds pride in being cautious, it’s an odd realization.
The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward, it feels easy. Simple.
After the blanket is spread out, he bows slightly and gestures toward it. Never one to be graceful when it counts, I kind of flop down and starfish on it for a moment before sitting up and crisscrossing my legs.
“While we’re eating, tell me about what you want to do to your home,” I keep my tone light and playful. Maybe if it’s a challenge, he’ll think about it differently.
He deserves a home that is his. That he can exist in and not feel like he’s wearing someone else’s clothes and living their life.
Ford’s chuckle is deep and rough as he shakes his head and sits, his long legs in front of him. He unpacks the basket quickly and then he’s serving me half an egg salad sandwich, a thermos of chicken noodle soup which I suspect is from a can, and an apple.
I smile and then he starts talking about his house. His words are small at first, measured. But I just nod and encourage him.
“Why are you doing that?” I point to his face and wiggle it around before taking the last bite of my sandwich. When he doesn’t say anything, I explain, “Why are you making that face when you mention the drawing room.”
“I think I hate that room the most,” he says it like he’s talking about the weather, and I find myself blinking at the man. “It feels like I could break something in there just by breathing, let alone sitting down,” he grumbles.
When I laugh, he joins me and the sound of them joining together slips under my ribs and wraps around my heart.
