I quickly scan my surroundings. There are enough people, TSA employees, and police officers around that I feel relatively safe. So I nod.
The man pulls out his phone, and after tapping it a few times, he shows me a picture of him and what looks like a slightly younger Josephine than the one I met the other day. My eyes find the man’s face again, and he’s still smiling at me. But it’s not the type of unnerving smile I’ve become so accustomed to from men around me. No. His smile is warm. Gentle. Soft. So damn soft. “I just wanted to prove to you that I knew Joe. After… after everything that happened, I didn’t want you to doubt who I was.” A flash of sadness crosses his face before he pockets his phone and holds out his hand. “I’m Beau. Beau Saint John.”
Thank god.
His hand finds mine—rough, warm, steady. There’s a strength to his hold, but not too much. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use, as to not scare me away. We shake once, maybe twice. Honestly I can’t be sure. But what I do know is that neither of us lets go right away. His gaze catches mine, sharp and unflinching, the kind of look that could peel you open without uttering a single word. I know I should look away—look anywhere else—but I can’t. Something about him holds me exactly where I am.
He towers at least a foot over me, built like someone who clearly spends his days outside. There’s a strength about him that’s hard to miss, but nothing threatening. If anything, there’s a quiet calm in him, the kind I instantly decide I need more of in my life.Calm.He looks a few years younger than me—mid-to-late twenties, maybe—but there’s an ease and a confidence in the way he carries himself that makes him feel older somehow. His eyes are a clear blue, like the sky just before a cold front rolls in. And when he smiles at me, his dimples are almost enough to make my jaw fall open.
A sharp whistle slices through the air, and the moment is over as fast as it began as cops shout for people to move along. Dropping my hand, Beau’s smile doesn’t waver, but something unreadable passes behind his eyes.
“Should we get going?” he says, voice low and easy.
All I can seem to do is nod.
“Here, let me grab your bag.”
Without a thought, he takes it from my hand and I watch as he crosses the pavement, sunlight catching on the curve of his forearms, muscles shifting under the thin white cotton of his shirt. His jeans, worn and snug, move with him. And his Texas Longhorns cap—backward of course—holds his golden hair back as a few strands at the nape of his neck catch in the breeze.
There’s something about the way he moves, graceful and unhurried, that almost sets me on edge. Because there is nothing, absolutely nothing about my life, specifically the people in it, that can be described as those two things as of late.
And as he tosses my bag into the back of his charcoal-colored Jeep, I realize that nothing could have quite prepared me forthiswelcome to Montana. Realizing I still haven’t moved a muscle, Beau calls out, “Coming, Darlin’?”
Chapter two
Beau
ThedrivefromBillingsInternational to the ranch usually takes just under an hour. But today… today it feels like it takes both an eternity and no time at all. Having this woman in my truck is messing with my sense of time. Every time I find myself looking over at her, it’s almost as if time stands still, and yet, when she looks back at me, it doesn’t feel nearly long enough.
I tried engaging in light conversation when she first got into the truck, but, despite the way she breathed a sigh of relief when I showed her the picture of me and Joe outside of the airport, I can tell she isn’t quite comfortable around me. Not that I blame her.
Jasper and Lawson gave Lincoln and me a quick rundown of thesituationand everything Abigail has been through. The longer I listened, the harder I clenched my fists. I saw red. And I don’t even know the woman. Not that it matters. No woman—noperson—deserves to go through what she went through, and I know we don’t even know the half of it.
When it was clear Abigail would much rather look at the Montana landscape than pretend to feel comfortable, I left her to it. I’m more than familiar with what it feels like to want nothing more than to go unseen. I don’t mind the silence, though. It allows me to hear the small gasp fall from her lips each mile we pass. It’s as if she’s seeing what true beauty looks like for the first time.
And she’d be right.
Everyone has their favorite time of year in Montana. For some, the prospects of summer make their heart sing. Swimming in the creeks and lakes, the bright sun warming your skin well into the evening, the sight of lush greenery as far as the eyes can see, and night after night of rodeo lights. For others, spring is their favorite time of year here. It’s a sign of new life. Colorful wildflowers blossoming in the fields, calves and other livestock taking their first breaths, and cool, crisp water filling streams as it melts from the mountains’ caps. And for a select few, winter is when they feel most at home here. Waking up to fresh blankets of snow that, when untouched, it looks as if God himself reached down and blanketed the valleys in white silk.
But for me, it’s fall. I love nothing more than feeling the crispness of the air wash over my skin as autumn settles around us, as if the land itself is taking one final, deep breath before winter. It’s like rolling valleys and mountains are painted in the most beautiful watercolor tones—faded sage, burnt orange, and gold all accompany the wide blue sky. There’s a stillness this time of year. When all that’s heard is the crunch of branches and leaves as animals prepare for the changing season, the rivers run low, and the horizon continues to glow earlier and earlier.
Fall feels like peace.
I soak in every second of it. I let each ray of sun seep deep into my bones, because before long, those feelings of warmth will befew and far between. Hell, it’s why I avoid wearing a jacket as long as possible.
Which is currently serving me well because the cab of my truck currently feels like it’s the dead of summer. Because as Abigail stares out the window, admiring Montana for everything she is, I keep catching myself staring at her. The sight of her fills me with a gentle warmth I can’t quite place.
Much like the world around me, Abigail feels like autumn. Its essence captured in a single frame. Her hair spills in waves of copper and strawberry blonde past her shoulders, like October sunlight is woven in the strands, each lock holding the warmth of a fading day. Freckles dust constellations across her porcelain cheeks, making her look wild and natural. And her eyes, my god, those eyes. When they met mine outside of the airport, I couldn’t look away. The perfect mix of green, blue, and brown holds the same quiet fire that I see in the rest of her. Not loud, not demanding, but steady. Unwavering. Like the way this land holds its secrets.
There’s an untamed elegance about her. A balance of wildness and grace. She’s not the kind of beauty that’s shouted from the mountaintops. She’s the kind that lingers. The kind that slips beneath your skin, keeping you warm for months on end. Impossible to forget. Even bundled up in her leggings, sweatshirt, open flannel, and tennis shoes, her small frame looks like it belongs at the edge of a meadow, the wind combing through her hair, surrounded by fall’s beauty. Because that’s what she is.
Warm. Untamed. Unforgettable.
I don’t know anything about her. But I know that much.
And that’s enough for me to want to protect her.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I turn on my blinker and take the exit toward Roundup.
