But it’s coming.
Chapter twenty-three
Beau
So,”Isay,thesecond Lincoln swings down from his saddle. “We gonna talk about it?”
The words come out before I can second-guess them, hanging in the air between the four of us. Lincoln’s grip tightens on the reins where he holds Ranger, Jasper freezes mid-stride, and Lawson just sighs like he knew this was coming.
Because of course he did. We all did.
Jasper drags a gloved hand down his face. “I was hoping we were gonna pretend a little longer.”
“Nope,” I reply. “Ship sailed the second I just saw her look at all of us like that. And if we’re being honest, we all know that wasn’t the first time.”
Lawson’s jaw tics. “You talking about the fact that she just smiled at us like we’d come home from war instead of a day out in the fields?”
Lincoln huffs out a heavy breath that fogs the air between us. “Yeah. That.”
We all glance casually toward the guesthouse at the same damn time—because apparently none of us can help ourselves—and there she is.
Still sitting on the top porch step with her knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in that oversized blanket, looking like she’s the last warm thing left in Montana and the only thing the four of us want to cling to. A few stray snowflakes falling from the sky catch in her auburn hair, which now shines like a beacon around the snow-covered ranch, rather than blending into its surroundings like it did when she got here. Steam rises from the mug she holds in front of her, turning the tip of her nose pink as she watches us with that small, quiet smile that hits every one of us like a punch to the chest.
I swear to god she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
And damn, she looks so fucking beautiful. Soft. Peaceful. Like she belongs here more than most folks born and raised on this land.
Jasper shifts, scoffing low. “She shouldn’t look at us like that.”
“You usually love it when women look at you like that,” I jab at my best friend.
“I do. Especially her. And that’s the problem.”
“She looks at all of us like that,” Lawson mutters.
I lean against Duke, my chestnut morgan, and smirk. “Speak for yourselves. She looks at me like I hung the damn moon.”
And I fucking love every second of it.
Lincoln elbows me, half amused despite how hard he tries to hide it. “You’re impossible.”
“Incorrect. I’m charming. Hence my previous statement.”
“You’re so obnoxious sometimes,” Jasper mutters.
“Never said I wasn’t,” I shoot back, and he rolls his eyes before letting a chuckle slip free.
But even with the banter, the weight of the conversation settles between us. It’s heavy. I feel it in my ribs, in my throat, in theway none of us move far from our horses or appear to be in any rush to get them inside—it suddenly feels like the ground might shift if we so much as move a foot.
Because for all the jokes, all the innocent flirting, all the easy moments… none of this is simple.
Not with her past.
Not with the way she flinched if anyone moved too fast when she got here.
Not with the way she has slowly relaxed around us like a doe that has finally realized the wolves are no longer circling.
And damn if that doesn’t make me feel something fierce. Something protective. It makes me want to be careful. It makes me want her in ways that make my chest ache.
