I shake my head, as if I can physically dislodge the memory, and start walking toward the main house. The place has changed so much. The paddocks that once stretched out to the east are gone, the ghosts of fence posts the only evidence they ever existed.
And the house... my heart aches at the sight of it. The extension my grandfather built for my parents, the one with the big bay window and the separate entrance, is gone. In its place is a raw, scarred patch of wood and new paint, a brutal reminder of what’s been lost.
The front door creaks open under my hand. I expect to be hit with a wall of dust, the scent of decay and neglect. But I’m not. It’s clean. Well-maintained. Someone has been taking care of this place. The thought is both a comfort and an annoyance.
I walk through the quiet house, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Furniture is draped in white sheets, like sleeping giants in the dim light. I head down the hall, my hand trailing along the wall, until I reach the door to my old bedroom. My hand rests on the cool metal of the doorknob, a knot of anticipation in my stomach. My sanctuary. The one place that was truly mine.
I turn the handle and push the door open.
And stop.
My room is gone. The space where my bed used to be, where I had posters on the walls and a collection of river rocks on my windowsill, is now filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves. They’re laden with cans of paint, coils of rope, toolboxes, and old ranch equipment. My sanctuary has been turned into a storage closet.
A sigh escapes me, long and weary. Now where the hell am I supposed to sleep?
I walk back to the living room, my shoulders slumped. I eye the sofa, a big, overstated thing in a hideous floral pattern that my grandmother loved. With a grunt of effort, I push it away from the wall, creating a small space for my bag and myself. It’ll have to do. I need a shower. I need to sleep. I can figure out the rest tomorrow.
I pull the plush white robe from my bag, the one I bought in a moment of optimism in Denver, and quickly undress, folding my suit and placing it carefully on a chair. Old habits die hard. Wrapped in the soft cotton, I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the cool floor.
I turn the faucet handle. Nothing. I try the other one. Still nothing. I twist them both, harder this time, the muscles in my forearm straining. The only response is a series of dry, hollow clunks from within the walls.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my head falling forward against the cool tile of the wall.
Of course. Why would anything be easy?
An image flashes in my mind—a man, naked and dripping, his face red and blotchy from pepper spray. Knox. His outdoor shower. The cabins have no lights on, and I didn’t see any trucks when I pulled in.
They’re probably out.
I could just run over there, take a quick shower, and be back before anyone knows I’m gone. It’s a risk, but the thought of going to bed gritty and tired after the day I’ve had is unbearable.
Mind made up, I tie the robe tighter around my waist and step back out into the night. The grass is cool and damp under my feet as I make my way toward the cluster of cabins in the distance.
The shower is just as I remember it from earlier – three walls of weathered wood, open to the sky. It feels strangely intimate, a private stage under the vast, star-dusted ceiling of Wyoming. Asmall, battered radio sits on a nearby shelf, and I fiddle with the dial until a classic rock station, faint and full of static, begins to play.
His things are here. A bottle of all-in-one wash, a bar of soap, a towel hanging on a hook. I pick up the bottle of wash, my fingers tracing the worn label. On impulse, I unscrew the cap and lift it to my nose.
The scent hits me instantly. Whiskey, black tea, and ginger. It’s warm and spicy and masculine, and it’s so distinctlyhimthat it sends an unwanted jolt through me. I remember the way he smelled earlier, the way his scent cut through the chemical burn of the pepper spray. I quickly screw the cap back on, my heart beating a little faster than it should.
This is a mistake.
I’m just here to shower. And then I’m gone.
I drop the robe on a dry rock, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my skin. I turn the water on, the spray instantly hot, a welcome luxury. I step under the stream, closing my eyes as the water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the day. The music from the radio, the scent of his soap, the feel of the water... it’s all too much. It’s overwhelming.
I try to focus on the practicalities. I need to wash my hair. I need to use his soap. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. A part of me, a part I thought was long dead, is enjoying this. The recklessness of it. The intimacy of it. The forbidden nature of it.
I am in his shower. Using his soap. Surrounded by his scent.
And I hate that a small, treacherous part of me doesn’t want to leave.
Boone
The beer is a temporary fix for just how shitty the day has been.
The Salt Lick is packed, the air thick with the smell of fried food, spilled whiskey, and too many bodies in a confined space. The band on stage is butchering a classic country song, but no one seems to care.
Knox is on his third beer, his usual easygoing charm replaced by a restless energy. He keeps running a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing under the table.
