Page 23 of Hit the Road, Cowboy

Scrambling from the bed, I hurry around the house and gather up my clothes before darting into the bathroom. I shut the door and turn on the light. My hair is tousled, and there’s a hickey right above my left breast. Warmth moves through me like a soft rush of water. I touch my skin, remembering all the kisses he pressed to it. In the harsh yellow light over the sink, I feel a bit silly for falling into his arms so fast. At the end of the summer, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be another notch in his bedpost. My brows furrow so deep, it hurts. I hate that thought, but I don’t know why.

Knock, knock.

I pull open the door. He’s standing there in his sweats, looking chiseled and sleepy and incredibly sexy, like he just stepped out of a perfume advertisement.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.

He shakes his head, slipping in and closing the door. He clears his throat, still half asleep, and slides his arm around my waist, nuzzling against my neck.

“You feel nice,” he mumbles. “Let’s go back to bed.”

It’s hard to think when he’s all over me, but I manage to push him back.

“No, I have to go,” I say firmly.

He sighs, hands on his hips. “Alright. I’ll come with you.”

“I have to ride the fenceline this morning,” I say. “It’ll take at least three hours.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s see how much of a cowboy you really are.”

He laughs, and I pull my clothes on while he disappears into the bedroom to get dressed. We’re both silent as we slide out the back screen door. The sun is barely up, and there’s a hint of coolness in the air. He’s on my heels as I make a wide circle, keeping behind the trees to the barn. He steps in and slides the door back, and I get to admire the way his biceps ripple. The automatic lights flicker on.

“We’ve got a pair of geldings in the middle here,” I say, walking up ahead. “We can take those.”

He goes to the gate, using the same approach he used with Rosie. His gelding is a bulky, older horse I grew up riding named Samson. Mine is his almost identical twin, Gabe, who my father rode a lot in the last decade. He hasn’t gotten a chance to get out as much, so he’s throwing his head as I open the gates.

I saddle up Gabe. From the corner of my eye, I watch Coen do the same with Samson. I’m impressed he remembers every step. Once we’re mounted, I grab the saddle bag hanging behind the door, and we head out into the yard, still cast in gray light from the sun behind the mountains.

“This way,” I say, jerking my head to the right.

We head through the yard and past the barn, where the wranglers will be up and getting in the saddle themselves soon. The closest point of the fenceline is directly west. If we keep to the trail I’ve battered down over years of checking the fence lines, we’ll get there in less than five minutes.

Neither of us talk for a while. I look over, and he’s riding easily, hands relaxed on the saddle.

He’s thinking hard, muscle tight in his jaw.