About half an hour later, we make it to the fork in the road. I’m familiar with this trail, familiar with the terrain and the view. Regret pinches at my chest. I’ve seen the wildflowers once or twice a week since they bloomed, but Juniper hasn’t, and they’re her favorite part of the ranch.
Even though I’ve seen the view before, I crest the ridge where the fields open up. The usual sea of green is infused with purples, pinks, and yellows, creating a stunning scene.
But it pales in comparison to the woman sitting amongst them, her head bent over a pad.
Something hot lances through my stomach. Not lust. More. The same feeling I had when I saw her painting, but heavier, poignant. Amplified by the way my heart threatens to beat through my ribcage.
One could compare Juniper Calhoun to a rose, a sunflower, or a daisy—any standard, beautiful flower—but they’d be wrong. She’s pretty like the wildflowers. Something unique that takes your breath away every time you look, something you spend your whole life wanting to see again. Something you want to take a picture of so you can remember it, even if it will never compare to the real thing.
Before I get close enough for her to hear me, I take out my phone and zoom in, getting a gorgeous shot of her I know I’ll look back on fondly. My camera roll mostly consists of horses or professional rodeo photos from when I was competing. Now, I wish Ihad more pictures of Juniper. Is it weird to want to capture moments with her when this is ending? Will she be weirded out if I start snapping shots of her?
A problem for another time.
Clicking my tongue and nudging my heels against her, Athena takes the small decline down and whinnies when she sees Daffodil tied to a tree. Juniper’s head whips up, and she blinks, like she’s trying to get her eyes to focus. When she sees me, her spine snaps straight, and she stands, dusting off the back of her dress.
Wait, why the hell is she in a dress?
I dismount Athena and tie her up next to Daffodil. By the time that’s done, Juniper has already made it to where I’m standing, a sheepish look on her face.
“What are you doing?” she asks, fiddling with the hem of her white dress.
I nearly groan at the way it clings to her chest before flaring out over her hips. There’s no way she comfortably rode here in that, nor is it safe for her to do so, but I won’t deny it’s doing things to me.
Shedoes things to me. Things I can’t afford to let surface, even if they’re right there, begging to be let out.
“Your mom said you forgot your lunch, and she was worried about you forgetting to drink water, so I brought you some.”
Her brows furrow, glancing back to her setup, where a smaller cooler and a large water bottle sit on a blanket amongst her art supplies. Heat flushes my cheeks.
Did Mrs. Calhoun do this on purpose?
“Thank you for bringing it. I probably could have brought more water.” She takes the items from me, our fingertips brushing.
The simple touch sends a rush of electricity through my veins, and I wonder if her touch will nevernotaffect me.
“Do you… um… do you want to stay? I mean, never mind. You probably have better things to do on your day off than sit and watch me paint.”
I step closer and use two fingers to tip her chin. “I’d love nothing more than to spend the day with you, sunshine.”
Unable to hold myself back, I press a quick kiss to her lips, brims of our hats brushing.
She blinks up at me through her dark lashes, a flush covering her cheeks, and the sweetest smile on her face. “Come on, then. But don’t make fun of me if my face gets all twisted. Mama says I look like I’ve smelled a skunk when I get in the painting zone.”
I don’t think there’s a single expression Juniper could make that wouldn’t be devastatingly beautiful, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I grab the cooler back from her and interlace our fingers. “I promise.”
Juniper wasn’t wrong that her face changes when she’s concentrating, but it’s adorable. I can’t look away, cataloguing every minuscule change from the way her eyebrows tilt down, to the lines crinkling her eyes when she scrunches her nose, and the way her tongue pokes out from between her lips when she’s thinking over something.
After her initial rough sketch—which is what she was working on when I arrived—she began covering the whole thing in light gray paint. She’s so in the zone, I didn’t dare interrupt and ask her why, but I’m curious. I would eagerly listen to her sweet voice explain every step of the process.
After about two hours of her adding layers of paint, waiting for them to dry, then adding more—all while chatting aimlessly and snacking in between—Juniper sets the canvas aside and stretches her arms above her head. “I forget how hard sitting on the ground can be. Let’s stretch our legs for a bit.”
I stand first, then help her up, pulling her in for another briefkiss. These casual touches out in the open are something I could get used to, but I know I can’t. We each grab an apple from the cooler and stroll through the field.
It’s like we’re in another world out here with the sun breaking through the clouds. Juniper looks ethereal in her white dress, surrounded by blooms of different colors.
An image of her in a different kind of white dress, looking up at me with sapphire eyes filled with tears of joy, flashes in my mind. The image is so vivid, so powerful, it threatens to send me to my knees.
Marriage isn’t something I’ve actively thought about. I figured when it was time to be done with the rodeo, I’d start thinking about settling down with someone nice, maybe have a few animals.
