Heat sizzles beneath the mark on my chest. Pulsing, aching. Like the faint lightning that fractures the sky at the horizon line.
“Any of you bastards still exist?” I whisper to the storm, hand brushing over my beard.
Soft fingers replace my rough ones, a gentle touch so close I could almost revel in it. And the whispery snip of scissors.
Would it be so bad if I asked for one more shave and cut? If I gave her one more show?
Yes.
But when sleep comes again, I’m wrapped in human arms, heartbeat steady and strong beneath my ear, soft flesh pressed against my hardness. It could be home. If a man like me were allowed such a thing.
“Tomorrow, Tempest.” Those are the last words I remember.
“Thank you for the bouquet,”Eliza says, cheeks glowing as we ride in the cool of the evening.
I shrug. “Nothing special. Just local wildflowers.” I left them in a Mason jar on the kitchen table. A way of thanking her and saying goodbye.
“Mariposa lilies, Sierra primrose, lupine, the red ones. What did you call them again?”
“Castilleja. But I’ve heard red paintbrush, too.”
“Never would’ve taken you for a man who appreciates wildflowers,” she says, voice too gentle. The kind of gentle I could settle into and never leave.
“Had a sweetheart once… in my youth,” I say, though I can’t fathom why. “Back when flowers had their own language.”
Eliza’s eyes narrow. Her cheeks flush scarlet. “That the reason you stay… so guarded?”
I cock my head. “You jealous, boss?”
“No,” she says too quickly.
I let out a low chuckle. “Marjoram Ashby. Used to carry her likeness in a locket. Heard she moved on…” I can’t findthe words to explain. “After… married and had a family. Never looked back.”
“She broke your heart then?” Eliza asks flatly.
“Did something fierce. Time heals all wounds, though.”
She grimaces, looking away and blinking too hard.
“A schoolboy’s crush. I see that now.” Because ofher.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Seems I do.” It comes out too gruff and serious. Maybe because she makes me want to smile like a fool and puts butterflies in my gut.
An awkward silence settles between us, the crunch of horse hooves over gravel the only sound.
“The language of flowers… what do you mean?” she asks after a long pause.
“Been a while,” I excuse, shifting in the saddle. “But if I remember right, white means purity and pink gentleness, admiration.”
“Like the lilies and primroses.”
I nod once. “Purple means royalty.”
She huffs a laugh. “Hardly fitting. Lupines are pretty, though.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, removing my hat and ruffling my hair. “Wakefields have been royalty around these parts long as I can remember.”
