She laughed—surprised, like she'd forgotten she'd asked. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I pushed her hair back. "Obviously yes. To letting you be whoever you are as long as I'm who you come home to.”
She kissed me again like she couldn't help herself—then she twined her fingers with mine.
“Sorry for the impromptu ask,” she mumbled. “I don't have a ring?—”
I was already propping myself on my elbow so I could reach up to take off my necklace. Daniela’s eyes widened and she went to sit up, but I was too fast, pressing the medal into her hand.
Closing her fingers over it.
“But Sawyer—” she said. “Your mom…”
“My mom would be thrilled for you to have it,” I said. “Marrying a good Catholic girl? She wouldn't believe it.”
She laughed. “I'm a horrible Catholic girl.”
I pulled her hand to my lips to brush a kiss to her knuckles. “You're perfect.”
She looked down at the medal in her palm.
The St. Christopher—patron of travelers. My mother had worn it her whole life, and I'd worn it since the day Uncle Adam had pressed it into my hand at the funeral, thirteen years old and not understanding yet what keeping it meant. I'd worn it through every job, every state, every long stretch of road between here and wherever the work was.
It had been around my neck in New Mexico when she'd first noticed it. I remembered her eyes on it at the bar, at the trailer, that first night.
She'd been paying attention even then.
"It's not a ring," I said.
"I don't care about a ring." Her fingers closed tighter around it. "I care about—" She stopped. Looked up at me. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I said. "I've never been more sure of anything."
She opened her hand and looked at it again, the little silver medal warm from my skin, the chain pooled around it. Then she held it out to me.
"Put it on me," she said.
I took it. She turned, gathering her hair up off her neck, holding it out of the way, and I reached around and fastened the clasp. She let her hair fall and touched the medal where it sat against her collarbone, just below the hollow of her throat.
She turned back around.
"I'm engaged,” she whispered.
"You are."
"To a horse trainer."
"Horse master," I said. "It's on the call sheet."
She laughed, surprised out of it, and the stillness broke into something warmer and she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to mine.
"To a horse master," she said. "On a ranch. In the Texas Hill Country."
"That okay with you?"
"It's more than okay with me." Her hand found my jaw. "It's everything I didn't know I was looking for…and everything I want to come home to.”
FIFTEEN
