Page 26

My parents aren’t poor by any means. They live in a large house and run a profitable ranch in one of the most expensive states in America, but their wealth pales in comparison to Elsie’s parents.

Growing up, I never knew much about my parents’ finances.

They’re down-to-earth and don’t spend their money extravagantly.

Elsie’s parents, however, live very differently.

I park my truck in front of their oversized house, and the two of us stare at it.

I remember the first time I picked Elsie up here.

We were sixteen, and I’d just used my entire savings from working at the ranch to buy this truck.

I’d followed the GPS on my phone and pulled into a U-shaped driveway, the first driveway I’d ever been on that wasn’t dirt or gravel, but inlaid stones.

In front of me was this sprawling house unlike any I’d ever seen in my small town.

It was modern, with sharp, clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains.

Stunning, but out of place in this rugged slice of Montana.

It was the kind of home that more and more rich out-of-towners would move here to build on land that they’d bought off struggling ranchers.

I didn’t like it then, and I’m not a fan now.

Beside me, Elsie sits with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

I used to think when she did that it was because she was unruffled or poised in the face of a challenge.

Now I wonder if she does it to keep her hands from shaking.

I’m starting to wonder how many tells she used to give me that I’ve missed, how many ways I’ve interpreted her incorrectly.

“You ready?” I ask.

Elsie squares her shoulders and lets out a breath through her nose. Now that I know what to look for, I’m surprised I didn’t see these little things for what they are—pushing nerves down, far beneath the surface.

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

My jaw tightens at the way her voice sounds, like she’s steeling herself. It’s what makes me blurt out, “Let’s make a signal.”

She rips her gaze away from the imposing house and finally looks at me, blue eyes confused but clear in the spring sunshine. “A signal?”

I nod, warring with the urge to turn around and drive home. But she’s right; we need to do this, even if I don’t like it. “For if we want to leave.”

“I’ll be fine, Beau,” she says, her voice unwavering.

I see a glimpse of the Elsie I’m more familiar with then, the one who doesn’t need help with anything.

“What if I’m not?” I ask.

She stares at me for a long moment, assessing. I wonder what she’s thinking in that brain of hers, and I hate that I can’t tell anymore. I hate that I’ve maybe never been able to tell, that what I thought all these years was actually wrong.

“You’ve never had a problem with them before,” she responds slowly, her eyes narrowed.

That’s not entirely true. Her parents have never been the biggest fans of me.

They always thought I wasn’t good enough for her, that I was going to hold her back from her dreams—or theirs.

Even when I left the only job I’d ever planned on having at my family’s ranch to follow her to Utah when she entered the dance academy there, they still thought I was going to distract her from her goals.

Maybe I did, but I still think dance shouldn’t have been the only thing in her life.

I think I was the first person to tell her that.

Still, despite their feelings about me, I’ve never had an issue being around them. I roll with their punches and let the not-so-subtle derogatory remarks they make about me, my family, and my family’s ranch slide right off my back, because I know their opinion of me doesn’t really matter.

So Elsie knows I’m trying to give her a way out now, and she doesn’t like it. I can see her deciphering my intentions and building her walls back up, brick by brick. I’m desperate to keep them down.

“Fine, no signal,” I say, “but I’m not making any promises to keep my mouth shut.”

Elsie’s eyes widen. Years ago, after the first time I watched Elsie perform live, I remember searching for her in the crowd of dancers being congratulated by their families on their performance and finding her with her mom, who was criticizing her for the way her foot turned out during one dance.

She was saying it looked sloppy and that she’d never get accepted by a company performing like that.

I may have been fine with her mom talking to me like I wasn’t worth a damn, but I wasn’t going to stand for her talking to Elsie like that.

I walked up to them and made some kind of comment of the sort, but Elsie told me to stop, that it was fine and her mom was right.

Later that night, with her flowers sitting in the middle of the bench seat between us in my truck, she told me that she appreciated what I was trying to do, but that it wasn’t necessary. That her mom was just helping.

I bit my tongue then, but I’m not feeling particularly like I want to anymore.

“Fine, let’s make a signal,” Elsie says with a sigh.

I should feel rewarded, but I hate the way this makes her sound tired, like I’m just another task she has to conquer today.

“What did you have in mind?”

The urge to put a smile on her face feels just as necessary as breathing. “I was thinking you could sit on my lap. Bounce around a little to really sell it, you know?”

She rolls her eyes, but I’m gratified when a laugh slips out of her mouth and her hands lose the death grip they have on each other.

“Oh, I know,” I say, letting a smile slip into my voice. “You could take your shirt off.”

“Come on, Beau,” Elsie says, and climbs out of the truck without waiting for me to turn it off.

I follow after her. When we get to the door, she turns to face me, her eyes alight in a way that feels like a punch straight to my gut. She’s so stunning it hurts.

“I’ll squeeze your hand three times if I want to leave.

” She holds my gaze as she says it, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.

That’s always been our signal, but it meant something different.

Those three squeezes stood for I love you , and we did them all the time.

Three squeezes to her hips as I’d pass her in the kitchen while she was making stir-fry for dinner.

Three squeezes of my hand when we’d attend a wedding and Elsie was feeling sentimental watching the couple exchange their vows.

Three squeezes to her thighs when I was between them, showing her how much I loved being there.

I clear my throat, feeling like my heart is stuck in it. “Three squeezes, it is.”

Elsie nods once, wiping away the last vestiges of vulnerability from her expression, and squares her shoulders before knocking on the front door.

A moment later, it swings open, and an older version of Elsie stands in the doorway, face sour. “You’re late.”

“Nice to see you too, Mother,” Elsie deadpans.

Diana Huntzberger rolls her eyes in the exact way that Elsie has perfected, her short blond bob tucked neatly behind her ears.

“Obviously, it’s nice to see you, Elsie.

” She pauses, then murmurs beneath her breath but purposefully loud enough for us to hear, “It would have just been nicer fifteen minutes ago.”

“There were cows in the road,” Elsie says, walking into the hall, me on her heels. This is a lie, but it’s better than telling her mom she was dry humping my leg while I licked her neck.

Diana’s brow wrinkles. “Why must there always be livestock in the roads here?”

“It’s Montana, ma’am,” I say.

Diana turns to me, looking like she’s just noticed me here. Elsie gives me a look, but I don’t miss the way her lips roll together to keep from laughing.

“Ranchers should really do a better job of keeping watch over their cattle,” Diana says pointedly. “Isn’t that why you all are always out mending fences all day?”

“That is one aspect of my job, yes.”

“Beau is a horse trainer, Mom,” Elsie says with a sigh, pressing two fingers to the space between her brows like a headache is already forming there. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

“Don’t worry, I can mend a fence with the best of them.”

“Yes, well,” Diana says, ignoring both of us, “let’s get out of the foyer. Your father is in the living room.”

Elsie and I follow her mother through the house, our boots echoing on the marble floors.

I always thought white marble floors in rural Montana were stupid, but I guess Diana and Elsie’s father, James, aren’t spending any time in the dirt.

Plus, they’re not the ones cleaning the floors.

That job belongs to the housekeeper who comes once a week.

We pass the expansive kitchen and end up in the sprawling living room that overlooks the mountains.

Even though the house is only on an acre of land, they still have stunning views.

I’m sure whatever small ranch home was here before they bought the land and tore it down to build this house was chosen specifically for this view.

“Elsie, you’re here!” James pushes up from where he was seated on the couch, setting his iPad in his place. I’m sure that, before we arrived, he was checking stock prices or reading the Wall Street Journal or whatever it is an investment banker does in his spare time.