Page 31 of Holden: Bucked By Love (Crawford Ridge Ranch #1)

Holden

Mason asked when we're doing our next Buck-It List item.

Leni

It's almost been an entire week, I can see how he's worried about it. (insert sarcasm)

He's watching me send these texts. It's creepy.

Leni

Oooh, cute, our baby is now our chaperone.

Something I didn't see coming.

Leni

I'm not sure Mason will be happy about the next item.

What is it?

Leni

Skinny dipping. Maple Pond.

His face turned red, he pretended to throw up, and now he's lying on the ground with fake convulsions.

Leni

ha ha ha

Wait, he's alive. He won't make eye contact with me, but says we have to keep our promises.

Leni

Is he going to require picture proof this time?

Oh my gosh, Leni, you just killed our son.

Leni

ha ha ha.

He says no pictures, he'll have to take our word for it.

Leni

So . . .

So . . .

Leni

It feels weird to invite my husband skinny dipping. Isn't that supposed to be a spontaneous thing?

We're adults. We practically have to schedule in our showers.

Leni

Guess we can kill two birds then. Skinny dipping can be my shower. I'll bring the nature-approved soap.

I don't love my son reading these texts over my shoulder.

Leni

Awkward

Mason says we have to do this tonight because he can't bear to worry over when our naked bodies will be in the pond. Like ripping off a band aid.

You free later?

Leni

Considering it's nearly 90 degrees today with no clouds at all and I've been stuck walking the property with your mom all day for wedding sights? Yes.

I'll meet you there after my yoga? Nine?

Is it dark by nine?

Leni

Doubtful.

I'd prefer it be dark.

Mason just fake vomited again.

Leni

Ha ha. Doesn't want his parents to scare the community?

Dark seems smart. Later then? Ten?

Ten is fine. Mason says he'll babysit Josi.

Leni

So his parents can go skinny dipping?

He'd like to pretend we're going for pizza.

Leni

Deal. Pizza at ten at Maple Pond. I'll bring towels.

See you there. (No actual pizza is coming.)

I tuck my phone back into my shirt pocket and laugh at my son who is lying on the seat of our UTV, gazing up at the sky, probably wondering why he mentioned the Buck-It List at all.

It can't be easy at twelve to be trying to match-make your parents.

I imagine how I'd have felt if I was setting up a skin-only swimming adventure for my parents, and feel like flopping down next to him.

"You okay, Mace?" I ask, tugging off my hat and running my fingers through my hair as I lean against the frame.

"I want to be," he groans. "But this is gross, Dad. Why did you guys put that on your list?" He tilts his head to look at me, his dark eyes accusing. "I would never want to do that."

I fight back a smirk and stick my hat back on my head. "Bucket lists are supposed to be things you wouldn't normally do."

He sighs. "Oh, right."

Mason has been helping me this afternoon with some fence lines that were sagging and needed to be tightened.

Because tools were required, we'd opted to take the UTV out for the repairs, and I'd let Mason drive a bit on the flat, straight areas.

It's been nice. He talked my ear off about swimming and a video game he likes, and how Leni has seemed happier recently.

I was happy to hear anything and everything he wanted to share.

Now, we're sweaty and tired and ready to pack up our tools and make our way back to the barn.

He insisted on wearing a team jersey and basketball shorts, and they're filthy and have a few nicks in them where they caught on the barbed wire.

He played it cool, but I think he'll wear better clothes next time.

"Think Grandma has any ice-cream sandwiches left?" Mason asks, already bouncing back from the horrors of this conversation.

I smile and stand up, heading toward where the tools are sitting next to the post we just finished working on. "I'm sure she does, buddy."

Mason helps me clean up, and as we head back down the rutted paths to the homestead my mind is completely on Leni.

Ten o'clock is pretty late for me to be going anywhere but to bed, but I'm oddly excited about meeting up with my wife for some out-of-character, possibly scandalous behavior.

It makes me think of young Leni who always wanted to push the envelope just far enough for a rush, but never far enough for actual trouble.

Man, she made me laugh. She drew me out and showed me a more fun side of living. I smile to myself and Mason kicks at my boot with his sneaker.

"I hope you aren't smiling because you're thinking about tonight," he mutters.

My smile grows. "I'm thinking about how much I like ice-cream sandwiches."

He rolls his eyes. "Right."

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," I tease him, reaching out to poke at his skinny rib cage.

When we've navigated the bumpier road and gotten onto a smooth, straight shot back to the main barn, I trade places with Mason and let him drive the UTV the last mile.

It's slow going, but I don't encourage him to go any faster.

There will be plenty of time for that in his life—especially if he's anything like his uncle Landry.

I watch him from the corner of my eye—because if he knows I'm looking he'll get weird about it—and catalogue the changes in him.

Next month he'll be thirteen and heading into eighth grade.

He's gotten leaner, losing the last of his childish roundness, and his nose and jaw are sharper.

He's all arms and legs, and I'm sure a growth spurt is coming based on the fact that he keeps tripping on everything and doesn't seem to know where his body is located in space.

At one point today I had to tell him he was standing on my foot .

We park behind the barn and unload the tools before we enter the barn and walk through the darker interior to the tool storage area.

It's cooler out of the sun, and I'm grateful for the break.

When we come out of the storage area we notice that Walker is in the barn, looking over a gelding we recently purchased from a neighbor.

His hat is hanging off a stall post, his long blond hair pulled back into a queue with a bit of twine as he crouches down to inspect a front hoof.

"Walker!" Mason shouts, running toward him in gangly enthusiasm.

The gelding starts at the sudden sound and movement, tossing his head and snorting, and Walker is jostled a little. He puts the hoof down and stands, his big body unfolding as he does. He doesn't even frown as he looks at his nephew.

"Hey, Mace," Walker greets with his regular good cheer, putting his hands on his waist and flashing his white teeth.

My brother's self-grooming habits are an endless source of amusement to me. I've never seen such silky hair anywhere else. Ranch colors are brown and green, yellow and more brown. Walker is blues and whites and stands out big-time.

I, as always, pop the bubble when it becomes clear Walker isn't going to say anything.

"Mason, you can't come barreling in when Walker is working with a new animal. We don't know his temperament yet, and he could have been spooked and hurt your uncle."

Mason's joyous look fizzles and he hangs his dark head. "Sorry."

"No problem." Walker closes the pace between them and slaps a hand on Mason's thin shoulders. I'm honestly impressed that Mason doesn't drop to the floor. "Live and learn, buddy. "

I raise an eyebrow at my brother and shake my head, but he ignores me and moves back a few steps to skim his hands over the head of the gelding.

His hands are gentle and his voice calm as he chats with the horse.

He squats down and his jeans get pulled tight enough that I'm preparing for a show I did not sign up for.

"Dude, buy bigger clothes," I say. "Leave something to the imagination."

Walker looks over his shoulder. "They don't make them bigger than Goliath."

"Goliath?" Mason falls into the trap.

"Yeah," Walker looks back to the horse. "There's small, medium, large, extra-large, manly, superhuman, The Hulk, and then Goliath." He turns his head and flexes one arm, his muscles bunching up into little mountains. "Goliath."

I scoff and roll my eyes as Walker winks at my son and Mason laughs.

"What's his name?" Mason asks.

Walker stands back up and scratches the gelding's cheek. "I'm thinking Sir Loin."

Mason's face squishes up in thought as I sigh and roll my eyes. "No."

Walker moves to rub the horse on his big shoulder and nods at me. "It fits. We have beef cattle, he'll hopefully be working the herd, he's kind of regal. Sir Loin."

Mason, getting it now, laughs as the gelding, who seems to understand we're talking about him, stomps his front hoof against the floor.

"You don't like that huh? Thunder Hooves it is," Walker says with a nod that has some of his hair coming loose.

I swear Mason's eyes about fall out of his head as he blinks and then laughs again, this time louder .

I shake my head, even as a smile tugs at my mouth. "We are not having a horse named Thunder Hooves on our ranch."

"Why not?" Walker asks.

"Didn't he already have a name?" I ask in response. "The previous owners had him for a few years. They must have called him something."

Walker sniffs and pulls a face. "Bob. They named this beautiful, spirited creature Bob."

Mason stops laughing. "That's terrible."

Walker points at Mace. "It's a tragedy, buddy. Can you imagine coming home after a great day out herding cattle, checking fences, and watching the sun rise and fall, and your partner's like, ' Nice job today, Bob. High-five, Bob. You really showed those cows who's in charge, Bob .'"

Mason nods solemnly as the three of us look at the chestnut quarter horse. I can't disagree. He's too handsome to be a Bob, but still, there's such a thing as melodrama, and Walker is dipping his toes in it.

"What about Robert?" Mason asks, and I hear Walker snort down a laugh that matches mine.