“Ah,” Crew says with a sigh. “Time for bed, Grace.”
Grace pouts, then lets her hand drop to her side. “Party pooper.”
“Afraid so.”
Then, almost as if on cue, a giant yawn escapes her mouth. She shudders toward the end of it, her eyes growing sleepy and weary in its wake. “Fine,” she relents.
“Go on,” Crew says softly.
Grace sighs, then bends down to pick up the lantern. With it in her hand, Crew is fully visible, and she takes a brief moment to study his face. That face—how she wishes she could stare at it for hours without interruption. Learn its peaks and valleys, its sharp and soft edges, and name the constellations of his freckles and moles until she’s invented a whole new star system. A thought crosses her mind, and damn Jameson and his Irish brashness—but it leaves her lips, too. As if her brain is now attached to her mouth with a liquor-soaked adhesive, one unable to operate without the other.
“I think you’re so beautiful,” she says dreamily. Dazedly.
And then, about two seconds later, clamps her mouth firmly shut.
But she doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t apologize. Because even if it is only whiskey-induced honesty, it’s honesty nonetheless.And frankly, she thinks, now resolute in her decision, Crew deserves to know. To hear it out loud. Even as he stands there, silent and still, she doesn’t concede.
Grace has felt many different kinds of touches in her life. Some—too many, perhaps—originated from anger. Roughness. A sense of urgency so intense it manifested itself into brutal physicality. Some of them were gentler, born out of love, like her mother’s lips on her forehead, or Maryann’s bony but reassuring embrace.
But she’s never felt a touch like Crew’s hand coming up to her face, never once experienced the contrasting, delicate caress of rough, work-torn fingertips. Never felt a shiver run down her spine like the one that does as he tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and then rubs his thumb softly over the apple of her cheek. A stuttered breath leaves her lips before she can stop it.
His face, lit harshly by the lantern, is all shadows and stark highlights. But it makes her ache, the way his eyes seem to be boring into her, like it has suddenly become his mission to peel back all her layers of protection and burrow himself into the depths of her soul. She feels exposed. Raw.
When his entire hand cups her cheek, only a whisper of a touch, Grace can’t help but lean into the warmth of his skin.
A quiet hum sounds in Crew’s throat.
“Good night, sweetheart.”
He leaves her then, turning away and walking toward his own tent.
But his touch stays—it lingers long after he’s gone.
It radiates, like a burning sun after weeks of cold.
Chapter 14
When Grace wakes the next morning, all she knows ispain.Throbbing, ceaseless, and sharp enough to yank her from a heavy, dreamless sleep. In the small confines of the tent, she sits up slowly, sucking in deep, hot air through her mouth. Aches have settled in various crevices of her body, each one more demanding and urgent than the next, all vying to be the center of her attention. The center of her universe.
Neck—from the ancient, pathetic lump of cotton disguised as a pillow.
Back—from the firm, uneven terrain beneath her bedroll.
But worst of all, head—from the copious,stupidamounts of liquor and beer she consumed the night before. It is the most blaring of all, so insistent and violent that there doesn’t seem to be a way out of it. This is the headache to end all headaches. She might have to call in sick. Do ranch hands get sick days? She might have to quit the job full stop and move into a dark, cold cave. A perfectly silent, neutral-smelling black hole.
But instead, she’s attacked by the sound of singing crickets, the smell of manure, and the thick, humid air that has already begun to warm to the point of discomfort. Summer heat sparesher not—it won’t even give her the luxury of waiting until dawn to begin its cook.
The headache becomes a stomachache—a stomachturn—quickly. Despite her deep breaths, she can feel all of last night’s mistakes bubbling up in her throat, threatening to out themselves all over the tent floor. She has to do something. Find water. Coffee helps, doesn’t it? And bread? Maybe there’s a leftover hot dog bun somewhere that can soak up the residual stream of alcohol still coursing through her veins. Whatever the case, she can’t sit in this tent, in this world of hurt and nausea, for another second.
Stumbling out past the unzipped flap, she’s relieved to see it’s still completely dark out. No inkling of the rising sun has yet begun to lighten the sky. Standing straight is a challenge—the soreness of her back and neck becoming more intense with each attempt at movement. She takes a moment to try to stretch, carefully rolling her head around until there’s a semblance of mobility, and then arching her back gently, hissing as hot pain shoots up her spine. It’s ridiculous, really—she’s slept in much worse conditions than a bedroll and a worn-down pillow. Damn Halcyon bunk beds have clearly made her soft.
A cooler sits about twenty feet away. Shiny red plastic salvation. There’s bound to be a couple of lukewarm bottles of water within, and, if she’s lucky, a hot dog bun or two that haven’t drowned in a pool of melted ice. She steps carefully in its direction, not wanting to overdo it and end up face down in the grassagain.Images of the night before creep into her head, but she shoves them away, not yet ready to remember in full detail. Not when projectile vomiting is still a very real, very likely possibility.
Just get to the cooler. Get to the hydration and carbohydrates.
But then her bare left foot collides with something on the ground, sending it toppling over. A loud rattling sound echoes from below.
“Shit,” she whispers, crouching down.
