I break the moment before I do something stupid. “Go on. Join the guys for a drink. I’ll finish up.”
She hesitates for half a second, then nods and slips out of the kitchen, but not before dragging her fingers along the back of my shoulder.
And once the kitchen is empty, the warmth of her touch lingers.
She’s everywhere now.
Every part of her lingers.
Her scent.
Her laugh.
Her beauty.
The pain of her past.
And the hope for her future.
She’s fucking everywhere. And I don’t think I want to escape it.
Chapter twenty-two
Abigail
two weeks before christmas
Snowcoverseveryinchof the ranch now, turning the world into a quiet, glittering landscape. It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever seen—crisp, untouched, pure. It’s peaceful in a way that sinks straight into my bones.
I sit on the swept porch steps of the guesthouse, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a hot cup of coffee, watching the boys ride in from checking fences.
Lawson is first—he always is—tall in the saddle, posture easy but capable, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His eyes find me instantly, bright as the winter sun. He lifts a gloved hand in a slow wave, and I lift mine back. Warmth blooming low and persistent beneath my ribs.
Jasper rides in next. Eyes scanning the property like he’s guarding something priceless. Like he’s guardingus.But as soon as his gaze lands on me, a subtle shift softens him. It’s not much, but enough to warm a part of me that’s rapidly growing hard to ignore when I look at him.
Beau follows after him, loose in the saddle, and I can hear him humming some tune from here. One that’s probably annoyedLawson for the last thirty minutes, I’m sure. I watch as he tosses out a comment that makes Lawson shake his head while Jasper barks out a laugh.
And then there’s Lincoln.
He rode with them today, forgoing sitting in his office. But something tells me by the look on his face that he doesn’t mind this option. Lincoln looks settled as Ranger steps slow and steady through the snow beneath them. In just one day, he looks like this land has smoothed out everything tight inside of him. His shoulders are relaxed, his jaw has unclenched, and his breath billows in a relaxed pattern as it puffs out into the cold December air.
He looks at me last, before lifting his chin in a small, warm acknowledgement and gives me a faint smile that feels far more intimate than it has any right to.
One by one, they dismount, boots crunching against the frostbitten ground. The horses snort softly, steam curling from their nostrils while the guys talk, their voices low and familiar. The deep timbre of their voices is starting to resemble something that feels like home.
As I watch them, I can’t help but think about, probably for the dozenth time, how different each of them are. Even Lawson and Lincoln.
And yet, none of them feel wrong.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and exhale, watching my breath fog into the quiet air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and something is changing—in them, in me, in the invisible threads being woven tighter between all of us.
I don’t want to leave, and they haven’t asked me to.
A delirious, reckless part of me is starting to believe that they want me here just as much as I want to stay.
There’s no name for what’s growing between all of us.
Not yet.
