Page 120 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Yet, something about the way Dalton’s expression shifted sent a ripple of unease through me. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he adjusted his gloves. “Uh, yeah. Think he’s back.”

Back . . .?

“Back?” My voice wavered.

Dalton shifted his boots against the dirt, kicking up a small cloud. “Yeah . . . from bein’ with his dad. Pretty sure he’s at the house now.”

Something was wrong, but I forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”

I turned on my heel, heading to my car parked beyond the barn. The house was only across the field, but my pulse was hammering—I needed to get there faster. I fumbled with the keys as I slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel as I started the engine.

Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones.

I sped down the dirt road faster than I should have. My hands trembled as I shifted the car into park and glanced toward the porch.

There he was.

Sitting in one of the rocking chairs, his hat resting beside him, elbows on his knees as he stared out at the horizon. From the car, I could tell something wasn’t right. Beau wasn’t the kind of person to sit around. He was never idle—always moving, always doing.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I opened the car door, the sound echoing against the quiet evening. Beau didn’t move. He didn’t even glance my way.

The ground crunched as I made my way toward him. Even when I stood beside him, he didn’t acknowledge me. His gaze remained fixed on the distant line where the sun was slowly dipping below the fields.

This was how I felt when I was overwhelmed—flooded with emotion, stuck in my own head. As much as my first instinct was to press him for answers, I did what Beau would’ve done for me.

I pulled the other rocking chair up beside him and sat down, my hands folding in my lap as I gazed out at the horizon.

We sat there in silence.

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the grass. The soft sounds of the ranch surrounded us—the distant neighs of the horses, the faint rustling of leaves, the hum of crickets beginning to wake as the sky faded from orange to dusky purple.

The stars began to prick through the deepening blue, one by one. Still, we didn’t speak.

I stayed. Because sometimes, words weren’t what you needed.

We sat like that for a long time, neither of us speaking until, finally, Beau shifted beside me.

“I,uh, it’s my mom’s anniversary,” he murmured.

My heart sank.

I knew that feeling.

April 21.

Every single year, it crept up on me. I remembered it more than my own birthday. Some dates carved themselves into your bones, impossible to forget.

Beau didn’t need my pity. I needed to feel his touch, to offer him something—anything—that might ease the ache sitting heavy in his chest.

I reached across the small space between our chairs and laid my hand out, palm up, open, waiting.

For a heartbeat, I wasn’t sure if he’d take it.

But his hand found mine. Warm and rough and steady. His thumb brushed slowly over my knuckles.

“I know,” I whispered, curling my fingers around his.

“Every year, Dad and I go out to her grave,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon. “We clean the headstone, leave flowers . . . sit for a while.” He paused, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. “But this year . . . this year was different. I told him I was done.”