Page 12 of And Forever (The Riders and Rings Duology #2)

WILDER

EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — JUNE

T he downtown of Evers Ridge is a perfect blend of tourist destination and sleepy country village.

There are modern conveniences—like a chain coffee shop and a pharmacy—but they blend seamlessly with the small businesses frequented by visitors and residents alike.

I usually only come to the feed store to retrieve orders, but today I’m also going into Wonderfully Western, the fancy clothing store, for a new shirt.

Arrowroot Hills officially opens for the season this weekend, and ranch tradition dictates there will be a barn dance.

The ranch has a beautiful old barn reserved on the property specifically for these types of occasions.

I’ve learned from Mitch that it’s perfect for weddings, parties, and sometimes it’s the location of the high school prom.

I’ve had a few employees give it a thorough cleaning, and I was finishing up securing the stage for the band when Bex showed up yesterday to check on the preparations.

She announced her expectation that all employees make an appearance, her green eyes boring into mine to emphasize that no one would be excused from the party.

I gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment before she left.

Charlotte’s mother knows me too well already.

Being a part of a crowd isn’t really for me anymore.

Since starting at the ranch, I’ve mostly kept to myself.

I join the other employees in the communal dining room, but it’s only out of necessity.

I swore off eating Cup O’Noodles over the sink alone years ago.

Then I go back to my bunkhouse for a shower and bed.

It’s only since learning about Winona that I don’t immediately hide in the eight-by-sixteen-foot outbuilding. Time with her and Charlotte is precious, and I take every opportunity I can to be around them.

Charlotte’s birthday was an exceptionally lucky experience.

I didn’t expect the front door to open and expose my secret delivery, but it worked out for me to spend an uninterrupted morning with my daughter.

Ada’s presence was a silent support: she was there to help with things I’m still learning, but she faded into the background to let me parent.

I’m not sure she knows how important that was to me.

Eating pancakes, watching cartoons, and helping with all the mundane tasks made me feel needed.

Important . It was the briefest glimpse into fatherhood, and I relished every second of it, even if I hated leaving when Charlotte came home.

I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, especially on her birthday. Things between us are good. We see each other almost every day, and topics of discussion like the weather, chores, and Winona are all safe. Superficial and stilted at times, but safe nonetheless.

It’s been difficult to know when—or if— I should try to push things forward.

The moment she connected the braids in Winona’s hair to the ones I had practiced in Rooney’s mane had the part of me that’s still hopelessly in love with her roaring with pride.

Her eyes were glassy, but she smiled. When I took the chance to brush a kiss to her cheek, I felt the flush of heat from the blush setting in there when I pulled back.

The most adorable sigh escaped her, and she subconsciously leaned forward after me.

It all felt so right .

Now, as I enter the store packed with shirts, bedazzled jeans, and boots that would be ruined the minute they touch dirt, I can’t help but think of Charlotte.

Undoubtedly, she’ll be at the party, and I don’t feel uncertain about what I want with her.

Not anymore. Showing up in a new, clean shirt won’t exactly broadcast “I love you, be with me forever,” but it can’t hurt.

My fingers trace over the display of Western shirts, catching on the tags and groaning at the ridiculous prices. If the cost wasn’t off-putting enough, every shirt has a pattern more visually assaulting than the last.

“You know, if you don’t want to pay a small fortune, Threads over on Second probably has what you’re looking for.” As if conjured up by my thoughts, Charlotte stands across the clothing rack wearing a smile.

“Are you saying I can’t pull off purple rhinestones and a matching fringe?” Smirking back, I lift an atrocious button-down and wave it at her. Charlotte’s head tips back as she laughs. The full, joyful sound hits me square in the chest, and I join with a soft chuckle.

“I always thought a chocolate brown was more of your color. It brings out the blue of your eyes.” Charlotte’s whole body jolts and stills, like she can’t believe she just admitted that out loud, but she giggles to cover it up.

“At least, that’s what all of your fans used to say as they tripped over themselves to get to you. ”

“They tripped because they bought their boots in their shoe size, so they didn’t fit right.” I do my best impression of a baby giraffe, walking like I’m going to fall as I round the rack toward her. “That’s what happens when you only dress the part. I liked cowgirls who wanted their boots dirty.”

The confession sits between us, light but true, as we both glance down at our dust-covered footwear.

Charlotte hums for a beat before her arm loops around mine, and she pulls me from the store.

I try not to stiffen at her touch, even if I’m giddy from the contact.

We hit the sunny sidewalk together, then she guides us to cross the street, heading toward Second Avenue, before dropping her hold.

I try not to miss the connection too much, but this is our most normal conversation that hasn’t revolved around our daughter, so I take a casual approach.

“What are you doing in town today?” I pull down on the bill of my baseball cap.

“We have a raffle at the kick-off party.” Charlotte lifts the bags she has in her other hand. “Mom sent me to pick out the prizes. You coming tonight?”

“Bex made it clear it wasn’t optional.” I grimace.

Charlotte’s eyebrows lift in silent question, probably thinking of how many times I would drag her to an event like this after a rodeo.

“I don’t really like these kinds of things anymore.

It’s a lot of noise. A lot of people. It’s a lot of… memories.”

“It is,” she acknowledges, slowing our pace. “But maybe this is the chance to build new ones? At least, it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

The barn is nearly overflowing with people.

It’s an all-ages event, so there are children playing bean bag toss in the corner and parents keeping a keen watch from the bar at the back of the room.

This barn is the largest on the property, and has a loft that covers half the space.

The crew put out tables and catering up there before the guests arrived, so that people had somewhere to sit and eat away from the hustle and bustle of the dancefloor.

Twinkle lights crisscross the rafters, dosing the space in a healthy, warm glow accented by the LEDs the band brought with their setup.

The five-man group is on a stage halfway down the south wall, playing a mix of old and new country.

The official start of summer doesn’t happen until next week, but the level of revelry here might as well signal the first night of the season.

I tug at the collar of my brown shirt as I step through the open double doors.

Coupled with the smaller doors and windows open throughout, they keep the barn from becoming too warm with the mix of bodies dancing and entertaining themselves.

It’s a loud, energetic crowd of the season’s first guests, friends and neighbors of the Strykers, and various employees I’ve come to know over the last couple of months.

I send polite nods and smiles to people as I head to the stairs leading to the loft, a singular goal in mind: be seen and then pass the evening as far removed from the hubbub as I can get away with.

I make it up the stairs and secure a bottle of water before finding an empty table in the far corner that overlooks the dance floor.

I can be seen from below, but it’s the farthest seat from the food and the stairs, a place the enthusiastic attendees will likely avoid.

I twist the folding chair to put my back to guests at the other tables, content to watch the line dancing for an hour and then head to my bunkhouse.

“This seat taken, Cowboy?”

I whip my head around to face the owner of the voice so fast I feel a twinge in my neck.

But it’s worth it to hear that nickname again.

To see Charlotte in a pair of denim cut-off shorts and a plum checkered button-down tucked into the waistband, showing off a small belt buckle.

It has two horses in motion on it. The textured waves in her hair give it a wind-tousled look, and her eyes pop with a liner that matches the deep color of her shirt.

Her lips are painted a glossy pink, making the plump pout all the more tempting when she curls them up in a sassy smirk.

Her well-worn, dusty caramel boots complete the outfit.

I stand and pull out the chair she’s indicating, nudging it into place once she sits.

Charlotte puts a can of soda and a basket of fries on the table.

She plucks a salty morsel from the pile before munching happily.

She extracts another, lifting it to me in offering.

I snag the long, skinny shoestring and hum appreciatively when the crispy exterior gives way to the soft potatoey goodness inside.

“You picked a good spot,” Charlotte begins as she leans forward to cross her arms on the balcony.

I swipe another fry, grunting in acknowledgment as I shove it into my mouth without her seeing.

She glances over her shoulder, taking a brief stock of the fries before looking at me.

“I’ll be able to tell my Mom that I socialized without being mixed up in all of that .

” she waves a hand to the party below. “She has it in her head that I ‘need a little fun.’”

“Do you?” I can’t help but ask. She settles back in her chair, thinking. I steal a few more fries while I wait, grinning when she picks up the basket and hugs it close, wise to my thievery. I can’t help but laugh. “Guess that’s my answer.”

Charlotte considers her possessiveness, her shoulders relaxing infinitesimally before she giggles.

Her head falls back, onyx waves glossy in the light as she shakes her head, loosening up.

When she turns back to me, she releases her death grip on the fried potatoes and puts them back between us.

She pushes out a long exhale, then flashes me a broad smile.

It’s a little fake, but the effort behind it is genuine.

“There she is,” I tease, picking up a handful of fries and devouring them in two bites. “Ready to kick ass again.”

I lick my lips, absorbing the salt left behind, and try to ignore the way Charlotte’s eyes lock on the motion of my tongue.

Her expanding pupil slowly blots out the green.

It isn’t the first time I’ve seen her look at me like this, but it is the first time that I think she might act on it.

The scrape of chairs against the wood floor behind us makes Charlotte blink and throw a quick look over her shoulder.

“God, Cherie, who knew that booking this place was going to be an absolute stroke of genius,” a high-pitched, feminine voice finishes on a squeal. “No one knows what happened to the guy, but now he’s here? Talk about finally getting an ungettable scoop!”

“Arya, do not get us kicked out of here because you think you can get Wilder McCoy to agree to an impromptu interview. You’re not even an actual journalist—I love you, but a vacation blog isn’t exactly The Times .

Plus, I was on the waitlist for almost two years to get our cabin, please don’t fuck it up. ”

Charlotte stills, even as her face darkens. The smile falls away, and her brows narrow. I resist shifting in my chair. Even if I want to run out of the barn, I know not to draw the attention my way.

“But it’s Wilder McCoy ,” the one with the squealy voice—Ariya—pleads. “Don’t you want to know what happened to him?”

“No, it’s none of my business.” I relax a little when the other one—Cherie—acts like the voice of reason. Though my relief is short-lived.

“Ugh, fine,” Ariya whines back. “Maybe I’ll just find out if he’s as good of a ride as the rumors say.”

The innuendo is clear, although I can’t see the woman’s face.

Charlotte pushes her chair back before rounding the small table.

Just like so many years ago, she reaches for my arm and hauls me to my feet.

There’s no horse to jump on the back of, but she rescues me all the same.

The two women behind us blink in shock, and a cocky smile crawls across my face at their clear discomfort.

I lift a finger to my brow in a small salute of greeting.

“Ladies,” I purr, holding back a laugh when Charlotte’s fingers curl tighter around my hand, her annoyance hidden behind a steely mask.

“He rides better than ever,” she spits, slowing her pace just enough to see how her barb lands. “Always leaves me saddle sore.”

I can’t help but hold my side to try and keep the laughter in as we make our way to the stairs leading to the barn floor.