Page 9 of And Forever (The Riders and Rings Duology #2)

WILDER

EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — LATE MAY

“ T his is Meehaw. She’s my favorite.”

Winona holds up a well-loved stuffy that’s part cat, part blanket. I’ve never seen anything like it, but my daughter clearly adores it as she snuggles it under her chin.

My daughter.

The reality strikes me momentarily dumb again, so all I do is nod along to what she’s saying.

We’re sitting on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by toys and stuffed animals, all of whom I am being given a thorough introduction to.

But I fear I am only absorbing half of the information.

I can’t stop cataloging every single thing about this vivacious, beautiful creature in front of me.

Her ebony hair is in twin buns on the top of her head, sparkly ruby bows adding to the whimsy, and reminding me so much of the night I met Charlotte.

But it’s more than the physical similarities between mother and daughter that have me fascinated.

Winona is just as confident and independent.

She’s shown me around the cottage the pair live in, and told me more than a dozen stories about the “horsies” so I know which of them tries to sneak treats or likes extra hugs.

It’s a Saturday, and I’ve been at the cottage since lunchtime, Winona taking my presence in her stride.

It’s been two weeks since I learned of her existence, and Charlotte’s made an effort to bring Winona around places on the ranch I’ve been working at.

It’s presented us with an opportunity to get used to each other without any pressure or expectation.

While I have instantly fallen in love with Winona’s infectious energy, she’s taken a little longer to warm up to me being different than just another employee around the property.

It stings a little that she’s asked my name three times, and calls me “Wild,” but I can’t expect her to do more.

I haven’t earned that connection with her yet, but as she stands up with a tiara in her hand and deposits it lopsided on my head, I’m determined to do whatever it takes to make it real.

“Princess!” Winona declares before racing down the hall, calling for her mama.

It’s not more than thirty seconds later that I’m hauling myself off the floor, holding onto the crown with one hand, when Winona arrives back at her bedroom door, holding Charlotte’s hand.

Immediately, she bites her lip to keep from laughing. “See, Mama? So pretty!”

“Some of your best work, Squish.” Charlotte smiles warmly down at her.

The next second sees Winona running back out of the room, across the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

I quirk an eyebrow in question. “Potty training. She’s getting pretty good at doing it on her own.

The instances of Mama coming to the rescue are reducing. ”

Winona’s adorable singing voice comes from behind the closed door, a nonsensical string of lyrics and melody creating a soundtrack for her task. I start picking up toys to put them back where they came from. Charlotte lends a hand, setting Meehaw on Winona’s pillow, a clear place of honor.

We work in companionable silence, the two of us still adjusting to being in the same state, much less the same room.

There’s an awkwardness to our interactions, which I expected—we don’t know each other anymore, not really.

The pauses in the conversations we manage to have last longer; the topics superficial and stilted.

I struggle to find a way to bring back the sniping and bantering we built a love from.

The absence of our playful and pointed flirting creates an ache almost as strong as the lack of physical contact.

Charlotte keeps her distance, and I have exercised muscles I didn’t know I had to keep myself from touching her.

But my desire for her hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown now that I can see her daily.

Her jeans and button-down shirts cling and accentuate curves cultivated through motherhood, giving me tantalizing new areas of her to daydream about.

Of course, it’s more than just the outside that has me locked into everything she does.

Charlotte still carries herself with the same self-assuredness she had in our rodeo days, but with newfound skills created through raising our daughter.

Her confidence is almost overwhelming. On more than one occasion, I’ve spent a workday combating a semi when I’ve caught sight of her, or just spent time in her presence.

Especially when I catch her looking back at me, my barely veiled thoughts echoed in her eyes.

It feels like a small price to pay. One I will gladly keep offering tithes to until Charlotte decides what she wants. Because, for me, that choice was made the night I kissed her nearly four years ago.

I’ve just finished tucking a blue axolotl on a shelf when Charlotte is suddenly in my space.

The shock of it is like landing on my back off a bronc.

The air is sucked out of my lungs against my will, and my brain scrambles.

There’s a hint of her peach scent when I take a breath.

She’s not looking directly at me, and I’m secretly happy she can’t read the panic her proximity is giving me.

I forgot what it was like to have her close.

But my body hasn’t. A familiar heat spreads, and the first stirrings of arousal tingle up and down my spine.

My fingers itch to reach out and touch her.

Slide my hand into the back pocket of those jeans, which look painted on, and hold on tight to the swell of her ass.

Charlotte Stryker is still the most sexy woman in the world.

Her hand lifts, and I freeze. She pulls the plastic tiara free from my hair, a soft chuckle tumbling from her.

On her tiptoes, she stretches past me to put it on a shelf.

Her pink tongue pokes out between her lips as she balances, completely focused on her task.

And I’m completely focused on her .

As she drops back to her feet, her breasts brush against me, and an electric current shoots up my arm.

I sense the moment she realizes it, too.

It pulls and weaves between us until Charlotte shuffles half a step closer.

Her beautiful emerald eyes fly over my face, lingering where I know my lips are parted with anticipation.

Her pupils dilate. I slowly bend toward her, the possibility of rekindling this burning fire between us is too strong.

“I went pee!”

The tiny proclamation that comes from behind Charlotte has us jumping apart like a firecracker exploding.

Winona stands in the doorway, pants slightly askew and the hem of her dress tucked into them on one side, a proud smile on her face.

As much as I want to laugh, pride surges through me for Winona’s accomplishment.

It pairs oddly with the disappointment at the interruption it caused.

Without missing a beat, Charlotte scoops Winona into her arms, untucks the dress, and gives her a congratulatory hug. “Way to go, my girl! Did you remember to wash your hands?”

Winona’s eyes dart back and forth, as if she’s replaying her bathroom business. Uncertainly, she looks at Charlotte and ventures, “Yes?”

“Hmm,” Charlotte considers, then looks back at me over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

Any disappointment evaporates at the offering, and I cling to it for what it is: an opportunity to step in and parent.

My heart swells with affection, and I swallow against the way my throat wants to tighten.

It’s a delicate gift, and I can see the unavoidable concern in Charlotte’s face.

We might have let our bruises heal, but Winona is her entire world.

I won’t waste the opportunity to show her how badly I want her to be mine, too.

“I think I was getting ready to wash up myself, and I need someone to show me where to go.” I smile and flash a wink at my daughter. “Think you can help me?”

Winona thinks it over, her little face pinching before she nods. I extend my arms to her and wait. Charlotte sucks in a sharp breath but presses a kiss to her temple in encouragement. Slowly, Winona reaches out for me, climbing over into my arms and for the first time, I’m holding my daughter.

“How long will she sleep?” I ask as Charlotte comes back into the living room.

“Normally, it’s a couple of hours,” she answers, sinking into the opposite end of the plush couch and setting a white speaker on the coffee table. It’s mid-afternoon, and she’s just put Winona down for a nap. “But she’s had a lot of stimulation today, so she could go a little longer.”

She swipes a hand down her face, but it doesn’t hide the yawn. She shakes her head to clear the fatigue before looking over at me.

“You were really good with her.”

“Thank you.” It feels awkward to accept the compliment, so I tell her how I actually feel. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Charlie.”

“Yeah.” She leans against the back of the couch and turns her face toward me. There’s a gentle, understanding smile on her lips. “That just means you’re doing things right.”

“I’m not sure that’s very comforting. I really want to be a good dad.

” I look at my hands in my lap, as though I’m sharing some unspoken request to have all the answers delivered to me.

The universe knows I didn’t have the best example to follow.

From the corner of my eye, Charlotte’s hand sneaks across the couch and hovers above my wrist. She drops it gently, giving a kind and reassuring squeeze before withdrawing it.

I follow its path and give her my attention.

“You will be,” she says earnestly before correcting herself. “You are. ”

Charlotte yawns again, hunkering into the corner of the couch.

I can tell it’s a familiar routine for her, and I suddenly feel like I’m intruding.

I’ve observed over the last week that Charlotte balances parenting and professional obligations with all the skill of a trapeze artist. There’s a rhythm and balance she executes to ensure she doesn’t let things slip.

Depending on the task around the property, Winona goes with her.

On the days that Charlotte’s responsibilities take her off the ranch, my daughter follows Bex around the edges of the main house, laughing and playing.

My brain has throbbed just trying to figure it all out, so it isn’t a stretch to imagine that Charlotte likely survives in a near-constant state of exhaustion.

Winona’s naps on the weekends might be the only downtime she has.

“I should probably let you get some rest.”

“No, no, no. I’m good. Stay, will you?” Charlotte’s question stops me awkwardly in the middle of standing.

I look over my shoulder to gauge her sincerity.

When I see her smile and crinkled eyebrows, I drop back into my seat.

She gives a long sigh of relief, cheeks pinking.

“I spend a lot of time alone or surrounded by all things ‘kid.’ That includes my parents.” She gives a humorless laugh that dies off before she lets her voice soften. “I’m really glad you’re here. For Win.”

She adds the last sentence almost as an afterthought. Or maybe I just hope it is. It’s hard not to want her appreciation for my presence to extend beyond the parental. But that’s not a conversation for right now.

“She’s… she’s amazing, Charlie,” I sidestep, mirroring Charlotte’s relaxed pose. “I don’t have a lot for comparison, but everything about her feels like lightning in a bottle. ”

“You mean the endless energy? The running commentary?” Charlotte laughs genuinely this time. It’s exactly how I remember the sound. It wraps around me, and I can’t help but hope maybe this means we’ll be okay. Things between us might never be what they were, but we can do this.

We can talk about our child. We can raise her together. We can love each other through her.

“Has she always been like this? I’m trying to picture her as a baby,” I venture.

It feels a little dangerous to voice, but I’m desperate to know.

There’s an ache in my chest, but it doesn’t linger.

I don’t think it will ever get easier to only have second-hand knowledge of that time in their lives, but it doesn’t stop my craving for it.

Charlotte stands, crossing to a small bookshelf at the other side of the living room. She returns to the couch with a photo album, sits closer, and hands me the book. I cradle it reverently, opening the cover to the first page.

A picture of Winona, asleep and swaddled in a soft blue blanket, with a pale pink beanie on her head, looks back at me.

The annotation underneath gives her birthdate and other facts.

My fingers trace the outline of her face, dwarfed under my touch.

She’s beautiful and tiny and magical. I don’t know how else to describe it. I turn to Charlotte.

“Took her sweet time before she finally wanted to come out.” Charlotte’s hand follows the same path mine forged on the photograph. There’s a humorous reproach in her words, but it doesn’t match the adoration on her face as she continues, “Twenty-nine hours of labor.”

She pauses when she looks up at me. I give her a little nod, encouraging her to carry on. I can’t help the sigh when she slides a little closer and turns to the next page, picking up the story. I hang on her every word.

By the time we hear Winona’s voice through the monitor, the Winona in the photos is six months old.