Page 85 of Ride Me Reckless

Colt didn’t say a word, just nodded once. Solid. Quiet.

Mama’s shoulders sagged a little. Her eyes filled again. “My house is gone, isn’t it?”

I reached for her hand, squeezed it, then looked at Colt.

“Tell her the truth.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and gentle, the way he spoke to horses when they were spooked. “Yes, ma’am. It was a total loss. But you’re here. You’re safe. And we’re gonna take care of you. All of us.”

Mama nodded, slowly. A tear slipped down one cheek, and she brushed it away without a word.

Then, after a long pause, she lifted her chin.

“Well,” she sighed, “I could use some sweet tea.”

I stood at the counter, pouring the boiling water through the loose tea leaves and over the sugar like Mama always used to do. Colt hovered nearby, pretending to organize something on the kitchen island, but I could feel his eyes on me. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

The house felt warm, not just from the heat of the water, but from Mama’s presence in it. She was humming faintly from her seat at the table, the same tune she used to sing when folding laundry or shelling peas. I hadn't heard it in years, and it almost broke me in two.

I turned to open the fridge to get some ice when I felt her behind me.

Her hand settled on my stomach, gentle and certain.

I froze.

“Well,” Mama said, her voice dry but amused, “did you forget to tell me something, sweetheart?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I fumbled for words, completely caught off guard. “Mama, I—I didn’t know how to?—”

Her gaze drifted to my left hand. Bare. Her brow furrowed. “And when exactly is that cowboy planning to marry you?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, utterly flustered.

“We’re… sort of engaged,” I said, lamely.

Mama didn’t look convinced.

Then Colt disappeared down the hallway without a word.

“Mama, I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure you’d—” I stopped, swallowing the rest of the sentence. Because what I meant was: I wasn’t sure you’d remember. And if you did, I wasn’t sure you’d approve.

Colt came back holding a small box. The leather was cracked along the edges like he’d carried it for a long time. He walked straight up to me, knelt on one knee in front of the sink, and looked up with that crooked, hopeful smile that used to undo me back when we were just kids.

“Figured it was time I made it official,” he said.

I opened the box.

Inside was a simple, delicate ring—just a small diamond set in a band that was clearly chosen with care. Not flashy. Not trendy. Just right.

My throat tightened.

“You had this?” I whispered, blinking down at him.

He nodded. “Had it for years. I bought it soon after you moved in but kept putting off closing the deal. After you left, I kept hoping that maybe I’d get the chance to use it someday.”

I burst into tears.

“Yes,” I managed, choking on the word. “Of course, yes.”