About the way she makes me want things I thought I'd buried with my past.
The clinic's van appears at the end of the long driveway, dust trailing behind it like a golden ribbon in the morning light. I'm walking toward the main gate before I realize I'm moving, drawn by something stronger than courtesy or simple obligation.
Lucy parks near the barn and climbs out, wearing dark jeans and a soft yellow sweater that makes her skin glow like honey in the Montana sun. Her hair is loose today, catching the breeze that carries the scent of new grass, andwhen she sees me approaching, her smile is like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwell," she says, all mock formality and barely contained mischief. "I believe I have something that belongs to you."
Before I can answer, the van's side door slides open and Dusty bounds out like he's been shot from a cannon, all black and white fur and pure joy.
The sight of him hits me harder than I expected. Healthy. Alert. Whole.
A week ago, I thought I might lose him to whoever put that knife in his side. Now he's racing across the gravel like nothing ever happened, like he hasn't spent seven days recovering from surgery that could have gone either way.
"Good boy," I breathe, dropping to one knee as he reaches me. His tail is going like a metronome set to pure happiness, and when I run my hands over his sides, checking the surgical sites with gentle fingers, he tries to lick my face off. "Look at you, boy. Look at you."
"Colt did amazing work," Lucy says, coming to stand beside us. "The incisions are barely visible, and his range of motion is perfect. Physically, he's one hundred percent."
"And mentally?"
Lucy tilts her head, considering the question with the seriousness it deserves. "Hard to say. He's been fine at the clinic, but this place is close to whatever happened tohim. Sometimes places hold memories, even for animals. Sometimes the body heals long before the heart does."
I look up at her, struck by the weight in her voice. Like she knows something about places that hold painful memories, about hearts that take longer to heal than bodies.
"Best way to find out is to see how he reacts to the herd," I say, standing and brushing dust from my knees. "You want to come with us? Since you've been taking care of him, he might feel braver with you around."
"Are you sure? I don't want to intrude on—"
"You're not intruding." The words come out more forceful than I intended, brooking no argument. "I'd like you to stay."
Her smile blooms across her face like sunrise, bright enough to make my chest tight. "Okay. I'd like that too."
I lead her toward the barn where my Polaris is parked, Dusty trotting beside us like he's giving her the grand tour of his domain. The four-wheeler is built for ranch work rather than comfort, all function and no frills, covered in honest dirt from checking fence lines and hauling feed. But with the prospect of Lucy's arms around me, it suddenly seems like the finest luxury vehicle ever made.
"Hop on," I tell her, swinging my leg over the worn seat.
She climbs on behind me, and the moment her body settles against my back, every rational thought in my head evaporates like morning mist. She's warm and soft andsmells like vanilla and late spring flowers, and when she wraps her arms around my waist for balance, her hands resting just above my belt buckle, I have to grip the handlebars to keep from doing something that would end my reputation as a gentleman.
Dusty jumps onto the rear rack without hesitation, reclaiming his familiar perch like he never left.
"Hold tight," I manage, my voice rougher than a gravel road.
The engine rumbles to life beneath us, and I feel Lucy's arms tighten around me as we start moving.
The trail to the back pasture winds through stands of lodgepole pine and across open meadow where early wildflowers are just starting to show, but all I can focus on is the way she feels pressed against me. The soft curve of her body, the way her breath catches when we hit a bump, the way her fingers curl slightly against my shirt.
It's been two years since I've been this close to a woman. Two years since I've wanted to be. And having Lucy Reid wrapped around me like this, trusting me to keep her safe while she holds on tight, feels like coming back to life after a long, cold winter that I wasn't sure would ever end.
The back pasture opens up before us like a painting of everything Montana should be. Rolling green hills dotted with Black Angus cattle and their spring calves, the kind of view that usually centers me, connects me to something larger.
Today, all I can think about is the woman behind me and the way her breath catches in wonder, the soft sound of amazement she makes when a particularly bold calf comes trotting toward us with the fearless curiosity of the very young.
I cut the engine near the weathered fence line, and Lucy slides off the Polaris with natural grace, her cheeks flushed rose from the mountain wind. Her hair is mussed from the ride, and there's something so alive about her in this moment that it makes my chest ache.
Dusty doesn't waste time. The moment his paws hit the ground, he's working the herd with the fluid intelligence that makes border collies worth their weight in gold. Within minutes, he's organized a scattered group of yearlings into a neat cluster, moving with purpose and precision, his tail wagging with the deep satisfaction of a job well done.
"He's incredible," Lucy breathes, watching him work with something approaching reverence. "It's like he was born for this."
"He was. Fourth generation of working dogs on this ranch." I lean against the fence post, weathered cedar rough under my forearms, unable to take my eyes off her face as she watches Dusty move the cattle. "His great-grandfather helped my grandfather build this herd from nothing."
