As I watch the man climb into my bed, I’m hit once again with the conviction that this is it. It really is. No more first dates. No more trying to find someone to build a life with.
I have that person. And we’ve already built a life.
It’s all the years we’ve traveled together. All the truths we’ve shared. It’s riding horses through the Montana wilderness and sitting quietly inside while Lawson reads a book. It’s pages and pages of memories we’ve written, each one part of a bigger whole.
Lawson looks over when I open the top drawer of my dresser. I root through my selection of socks, finding the old pair I never wear anymore. Unfolding them carefully, I pull the small ceramic thimble from within.
I can hear Lawson’s breath catch. The thimble was his mother’s once upon a time. There are flowers hand-painted on the surface, small and delicate. The entire thimble is delicate, one tiny chip in its edge the only thing marring its otherwise perfect visage.
“You kept it,” Lawson says, his voice rife with emotion.
“Of course I did. You gave it to me, didn’t you?”
I set the thimble atop the dresser, a tiny piece of my heart I was always afraid to show. Not anymore.
“You remember my promise?” I ask.
Lawson swallows hard as I approach the bed. “We’ll always be together.”
“That’s right,” I tell him, one knee atop the mattress as I lean close, Lawson’s face inches from mine. “The two of us.”
Lawson tugs me down until there’s no space between us. His lips meet mine, the answer there clear as day.
Forever.
Chapter 31
Lawson
“Well, this is a disaster.”
“It’s fine,” Jackson counters flatly.
Marigold Darling gives her second-oldest son alook. “The floor is covered in half an inch of standing milk, Jackson. Tell me how that’sfine.”
Jackson unbends to his full height, a mop held in one hand. “We’re handling it,” he answers, waving to the many employees and family members inside the milking barn who are helping clean up the mess made from a burst milk line. “You gonna help, or are you here to tell me I’m doing it wrong?”
Our mom clucks her tongue. “Somebody’s gotta keep everyone in line. Hank! What on Earth are you doing with that shovel?”
As our mom stomps off, her boots splashing through the mess, Jackson shakes his head, grumbling aboutthat ridiculous woman. Seeing as it’s Saturday, I was free to lend a hand when I showed up at the ranch with the intent to tell my family I’m moving out. Technically, I’ve been living at Oakley’s for afew weeks now, ever since the aftermath of the crash. But a good many of my possessions are still here, and it’s about time I face my family to get them.
That’ll have to wait, though. Seeing as we have a milking barn to set to rights.
Colton passes by with a long-handled squeegee, he and a few of the ranchers herding the milk toward a drain at the edge of the room. Remi, like Jackson, is getting the excess with a mop. I’ve got bucket duty. Same as Ash.
“You didn’t have to help with this,” I tell the man. He’s the ranch cook, after all. His duties certainly don’t include…whatever this is.
He lifts one blonde eyebrow, amusement lacing his tone. “Neither did you. But it’s what we do, isn’t it? Help out family.”
I guess I can’t argue with that.
“Cowabunga,” Colton calls, practically running past with his squeegee held out in front of him, trying his best, I think, to make a wave. “Cow-abunga. Get it?”
“My God,” Jackson grumbles, shaking the resulting milk splatter off his muck boots. “Are you a goddamn child? Slow down.”
“Hey, Jackson,” Colton says.
The moment Jackson lifts his head, Colton splashes milk his way.
