They’re a unit. A partnership. A love story.
It hits me then, hard and fast. This is what I saw with Willa and her pack. This is what I felt, briefly, in the storm with Boone and Knox and Rhett.
Community. Belonging.
I look away, staring into the fire.
“Tell us what’s wrong,” Dot says, sitting back down in her chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I take another drink of wine. The alcohol hits my empty stomach, warming me from the inside out.
“It’s the ranch,” I say. It’s easier to talk about the business. It’s easier to talk about numbers than feelings. “I got a notice from the County. Anthony missed inspections. There are fines. Massive ones.”
I tell them about the eighteen thousand dollars. I tell them about the threat of condemnation. I tell them about the two-week deadline.
I conveniently skip the part about the meeting in the living room where the men offered to go into debt for me. I skip the part about the loan. And I definitely skip the part about the rain-soaked tree and the man who brought me to my knees with his mouth.
“The nerve of the County,” Pearl huffs. “Anthony’s body was barely cold before they started circling.”
“It’s not the County’s fault,” I say. “He missed the deadlines. He let it slide.”
“He was sick,” Dot says pragmatically. “It happens. But that’s a significant sum. Can you cover it?”
“I can,” I say. “I have assets. I can liquidate some things. It’s just... frustrating. Another mess he left behind.”
“Well, you’re not in it alone,” Pearl says, patting my knee. “You have resources. And you have us.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now,” Pearl stands up, “let’s get you settled. The guest house has a great heater. And there are fresh towels.”
She leads me out the back door, across a small flagstone path that connects the main house to a charming stone cottage. It’s small, just one room with a little bathroom and a kitchenette, but it’s perfect.
Pearl turns down the bed. “There are robes in the closet. Help yourself to whatever you need.”
“Pearl?” I ask as she turns to leave.
She pauses in the doorway. “Yes, sweetie?”
“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you know? That it’s real? That it’s worth it?”
Pearl smiles, a mysterious, knowing curve of her lips. “You stop fighting it, honey. You just let yourself be happy. It’s terrifying, but it’s the only way.”
She closes the door softly behind her.
I stand in the center of the room. Wellsy jumps onto the bed, circling three times before collapsing.
I take off my wet boots and my coat. I peel off my jeans—they are stiff and uncomfortable, the dried mud chafing my skin. I find a thick, white robe in the closet and pull it on.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The room is quiet. Too quiet.
My mind drifts back to the meadow. To the oak tree.
I think of Boone. The way he looked when he was on his knees in the mud for me. The way he commanded me to look at him. The way his fingers felt inside me.
It was the most intense sexual experience of my life. And it wasn’t just the physical act. It was the emotion behind it. The years of repression finally boiling over.
I press my hands to my face. I can still smell him. The rosemary and the mint. It’s clinging to my skin, buried in my hair.
