Page 23

Calving season is officially over, which means I can finally focus on horse training again.

Each of my family members has their own job here on the ranch.

Mom and Dad handle all the big-picture duties of owning and managing a ranch, although they have a lot more help now that they’ve officially made Morgan ranch manager.

Cooper is a ranch hand and basically floats wherever he’s needed day-to-day.

It works for him since he’s easily bored and needs variety, which can often be hard to come by on a ranch.

Cheyenne does horseback riding lessons part time and works part time in town, doing various jobs that she never keeps for long.

I spend most of my time training and rehabilitating horses.

We have additional ranch hands and a few seasonal workers, but during busy seasons, we all chip in wherever needed.

Now, I stop in front of Sugar’s stall, and she eyes me warily.

She’s warmed up to me a lot over the past few weeks, but every day, without fail, when I walk up to her stall, she looks at me with distrust. I don’t know everything that happened to her before she came here, but I want to kill the person who instilled this much distrust in a horse.

“Hey, Sugar, how you doing today?” I ask softly, extending my hand in her direction.

She huffs air through her nose, staring at my hand for a moment before coming close enough to sniff it.

When she does, I extend my other hand, holding out an apple chunk, which she hastily nibbles.

Sugar, true to her name, loves sugar. I tried rewarding her with carrots at first, but she quite literally turned her nose up at me, so I switched to apples early on.

She really loved it when I brought strawberries, but I have to give her those in moderation since they’re higher in sugar.

Today, we’re going to attempt riding, and if it goes well, Sugar is going to get all the damn strawberries she wants.

“You ready to go for a ride, girl?” I ask her.

She nuzzles my hand again, looking for more treats.

I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ll get more in a bit.”

I open the stall slowly to avoid startling her and keep one hand on her neck, moving up and down in slow motions as I hook the lead to her halter.

We’ve practiced this plenty of times now, even on days we don’t leave the stall.

I wanted her to get used to the sound and the feeling of it before we moved on.

With gentle movements, I lead her out of the stall. We’ve done this too. We’ve gone out into a round pen and a pasture, and I’ve led her on walks so she knows the way.

She’s calm as we head for the big barn doors.

“Good girl, Sugar,” I say softly, gratification swelling in my chest as she follows my lead. A month ago, she would hardly let me touch her, and now she trusts me enough to follow me out of the barn.

The sun is shining outside, the first somewhat warm day of spring, and I want to soak it in, feel it on my skin.

It’s a perfect day for riding. I lead Sugar to the tacking area and secure her to a post before taking time to brush her off.

I give her another treat before slowly beginning to saddle her up.

She’s still a little nervous about this part, but she’s gotten more comfortable each time we’ve done it.

I smooth a hand down her neck when her ears pin back, and I watch as she slowly settles before I continue.

It takes time and patience, but when I’m finished tightening the girth, adjusting the stirrups, and placing the bit in her mouth, I lead her out to an open pasture.

Her mane is long, but no longer tangled, and I let my hand drag down it as I say, “We’re going for a ride now, okay, Sugar? Just something slow and steady. Be gentle with me, and I’ll be gentle with you.”

I fit my boot into the stirrup and lift myself up and onto her back. Pride surges through me when she doesn’t even flinch. “Good girl,” I say, and have to keep from shouting. I squeeze my calves, urging her forward, and say, “Let’s go, Sugar.”

I’m riding a high after putting Sugar back in her stall and feeding her a handful of strawberries.

My hands are stained red, and I can feel the first slight sunburn of the season pinkening my nose.

I feel good for the first time in months.

Maybe that’s why I decide to hop in my truck and head home.

It’s not until I’m pulling into the driveway that I realize if Elsie says no to my idea, it’s going to put a damper on my good mood.

She’s sitting on the porch in jeans and a plain white tee, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her face turned to the sky, basking in the sunshine like a cat.

I want to stop and stare for a moment, soak in the sight of her the way she’s soaking in the sunshine, but when she hears me pull up, her eyes open and land squarely on me.

It makes my heartbeat pulse in my throat. My hands grow clammy on the steering wheel, the leather so worn it’s gone shiny and slick. When the actual hell did speaking to my own wife make me this nervous?

Her eyes trail me as I climb out of the truck and close the distance between us.

I can feel them like a touch, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end, reminding me of exactly how long it’s been since I’ve had her skin on mine.

Confusion is etched into the fine lines of her face as I climb the steps, and I realize I should probably say something, anything .

“Hey.”

I’m one eloquent motherfucker.

A smile tugs up one corner of Elsie’s lips, a lightning bolt straight to my center. In the warm light of the late morning, her eyes look even more blue, reflecting the color of the springtime sky.

“Hey,” she repeats. She’s still assessing me, although she looks less confused and more…happy. Like the sight of me on a random morning when I should be at the ranch is welcoming.

It makes me climb the last step, narrowing the distance between us. My hand grips the railing, digging into the chipping white paint, as I gather my courage. It shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t be this nervous.

“Let’s go on a picnic,” I finally manage to get out.

It’s something we used to do all the time in high school, when we were broke. A tradition we tried to keep up after moving to Utah, but it never felt quite the same as lying on a blanket at Lucky Stars under the wide Montana sky.

“A picnic,” she says, sounding like she’s mulling it over in her head.

I can’t help but smirk. “Blanket, preferably red check. Basket of food. Usually ends in sex.”

Her mouth falls open, and a laugh rockets out of me. “I was kidding about the sex.” I pause, tipping my head from side to side. “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to the sex part.”

She rolls her eyes, but something inside me loosens when I see her fighting a smile. “Sure, Beau. Let’s go for a picnic.”

“Look, you’ve already got the blanket. Get your shoes and let’s go.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies.

Well, that does something to me.

I force the thought away, watching as she heads into the house, the screen door swinging shut behind her. In the distance, birds chirp, and there’s the sound of a plane passing overhead. Wind rustling in the trees and the warmth of the sun beating on my back.

She returns a moment later, dressed in worn black boots and a jacket, a beanie stuffed into the pocket, precariously close to falling out. It may be the first warm day of the season, but that just means we don’t need coats to enjoy time lounging outside.

I want to take a long look at her, bask in the sight of her smiling as she heads right for me, but I head back down the stairs, Elsie on my heels, and open the truck door for her.

Her eyes catch on mine for a second before she climbs in, her shoulder brushing against mine.

It feels like I’m back in high school again, feeling her for the first time, too unsure to reach out and touch her the way I want.

I have to force myself not to physically react at the contact.

It’s been weeks since we’ve touched more than the occasional brush of skin.

Not since the night of the snowstorm, when I was sick and she climbed into that godforsaken guest bed to take care of me.

It was the first night I didn’t hate sleeping in there.

But the next morning, when I woke up, she was already gone, the shower in her bathroom running.

I considered bringing up the conversation we’d had in the dark, felt the words on the tip of my tongue, but I knew better than to push her when she was already vulnerable.

Elsie is like a frightened horse—I have to be gentle or I risk spooking her.

And I knew bringing up what she told me that night in my room would only spook her.

It’d halt all the progress we had made, even if it seemed like we’d taken a step forward only to halt again.

Luckily, despite spending a night in a snowdrift, my green ’96 Chevy Silverado made it out without a scratch.

I close the heavy door behind Elsie without risking another glance at her and run around the front before hopping in on the driver’s side.

I toss the blanket in the space behind the seat before cranking the engine.

We’re quiet, an easy silence filling the cab as I prop my hand on the back of her headrest and reverse out of the driveway. I turn left to head into town in search of food. Beside me, Elsie reaches for the AUX cord and turns on “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver.

A smile quirks my lips, and I look at her over the space between us. “‘Rocky Mountain High’ kinda day, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “I’m feeling on top of the world today. The sun is shining, and I officially drank an entire cup of coffee without barfing.”

“You think the morning sickness might be over?”

She groans and sinks down into the seat. “God, I hope so. Do you know how absolutely vile it is to throw up while brushing your teeth? Every single day?”