Page 9 of Stirring Spurs (Rainbow Ranch #1)

WYLIE

My damn finger is on Boone Adams’ face.

If all the late-night bathroom hallway stalking didn’t clue the cookie in that I’m sweet on him, this oughtta drive the point home.

I lift my gaze to check his expression as a slight tremor in my hand betrays my hesitation, but Boone leans ever so slightly into my touch. He’s so damn sweet.

Noodles grunts, and I pull my hand into my lap.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

“Mr. Ander… Wylie.” He reaches for my hand, but I pick up a sandwich, avoiding his touch.

Boone licks his lips as his chest expands with a deep breath.

“Is he okay?” He nods towards Noodles.

“Yeah. Grunting means he’s relaxed is all. Wouldn’t be surprised if he closed his eyes and took a nap.”

“Good day for a nap.” Boone removes his hat and leans back against the tree. The brim isn’t as large as mine, but no way can he rest his head with it on.

“Not eating?” I ask.

I take a bite of the sandwich and a moan escapes my lips.

“Not hungry yet. But glad you’re enjoying it.”

“The bread. It’s tangy. Earthy. But there’s a subtle sweetness.”

“That’s sourdough. I’m glad someone appreciates all the time and effort that goes into it.”

“And this egg salad… fuck me.”

This elicits a laugh from Boone.

“Sorry,” I mumble, holding my hand over my mouth.

“Don’t apologize for enjoying my food.” He hands me a napkin. “Ever.”

A sliver of sunlight pierces the shade of the tree, highlighting the sparkle in his green eyes, and I’m so tempted to touch him again.

“What’s in this?” I ask, covering my full mouth trying not to appear like an uncouth swine.

“Eggs. Mayo. Diced onion… Dijon. A few secret ingredients…”

He leans forward and glances around.

“Promise not to tell?”

Who the fuck am I telling about his egg salad? Jesse James?

I nod.

“A little lemon juice. Dill and chives. Some people add dill, but it’s the dill and the chives that creates that explosion in your mouth.”

A chuckle escapes my very full mouth, and I grab the napkin in my lap and blanket my lips. Is this guy for real? Explosion in his mouth? Is he trying to yank my chain?

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. You’re just…” I don’t say how damn cute he is, how I want to smash my face into his—I shake my head .

Boone grabs a water from the cooler, twists the cap off and takes a long swig.

“So, Mr. Anderson,” he says, that dimple making a cameo as I try to focus on finishing my sandwich. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like here with our family. But where’s yours?”

“Back in Wyoming. What’s left of 'em, anyway.”

“What happened?” Boone’s voice comes out softer. Lower.

The snowstorm. Pop. Luke. It all roars in my head like the wild winds on the open plains, and I close my eyes, trying to push it away.

“Nothing… haven’t talked to them in a spell.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Our eyes meet, and Boone gives this half smile, like he understands without me having to spill it.

“He favors you.” He glances over to Noodles, who’s nibbling on the grass. “Hasn’t been out of his stall much since he threw Beau.”

“He just needed the right person.”

“You.”

“Maybe. We’ll see, I s’pose.”

“Do you think he’ll let you ride him?”

We’re both watching Noodles. He’s lowered his head, and the muscles in his legs are twitching. He’s ready to sleep.

Even though Boone’s eyes are on the horse, I shrug.

“Don’t know. Hope so. Sometimes horses need time.”

“We all do,” Boone says.

"What about you? You like to ride?"

Boone’s eyebrows shoot up, like I asked him to rope a bull with one hand and chug a bottle of whiskey with the other. I can’t figure out what’s running through his head.

“Horses,” I say. “All your siblings seem fond of 'em.”

“Well, sadly, the equine gene skipped me. Pa used to joke that Beau got all the horse skills in the womb.”

My lips crack into a grin thinking of the two of them knocking knees inside their Ma’s belly.

“I tried riding when we were kids. The horses never took to me like they did with Beau. And I was always hanging around Ma’s ankles, trying to help in the kitchen.

Beau and Pa. Boone and Ma. That’s how it always was.

When Billie and Benny came along, they both were inclined to be out with Pa and Beau. ”

“What happened to 'em? Your folks?” I ask, and the moment the words escape my mouth, a wince overtakes my face. This is why I don’t talk too much. Always saying ignorant things.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to pry.”

“No, I asked about your family.” Boone takes my empty plate and places it in a tub inside his wagon.

“It was a car accident. Seven years ago. They were on their way back from a weekend in Tulsa—celebrating their anniversary. We all chipped in for the hotel and a fancy dinner out. I can still hear Ma complaining about it for weeks before. Nothing to wear, she said. And why spend all that money on a place to stay and food when we’ve got everything we need right here?

It was classic Ma, always looking for an excuse to make things harder than they had to be. ”

Boone lets out a bitter puff of air, like a quiet snort, almost like what Noodles does when he’s frustrated.

“Anyway, after the wreck... it’s just been us.

We’ve run the ranch on our own ever since.

But we’ve got each other. And honestly, it’s not only the Adams siblings anymore.

We’ve built something more. We’ve built a family here.

Even if it’s not how I thought things would turn out, it’s a good thing.

A damn good thing, all things considered. ”

Well, I’ll be damned. This guy’s something else.

Been through all that and still wears a grin like the sun’s always shinin' on him. Doesn’t seem like anything would rattle him.

Like he’s made of somethin' tougher than leather. Hell, I wish I had a speck of the gumption and spirit he’s got.

But I don’t. Truth be told, I’m a whole lotta things, but brave isn’t one of 'em.

I ran. Took off when the shit hit the fan and hid my tail instead of standin' tall. Guess I’m not half the man Boone Adams is—or deserves. But damn, I sure wish I were.

My head shakes the slightest bit.

“Don’t mean to rain on the rodeo,” he says. “Better have dessert before Beau returns.”

He reaches into the wagon, pulling an aluminum foil-covered plate out.

“Cake.” Boone raises his eyebrows. “A prairie dog pup told me you like it.”

“That so?”

“Yup. I brought you a few pieces. Eat what you like. We can wrap and save the rest.”

He peels the foil back, and the plate overflows with cake. Five or six pieces. It’s hard to make out with the icing piled high.

“Vanilla cake. White icing.” He holds the plate up, and the sugary smell makes my mouth water. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Fuck, Boone. This all for me?”

He nods, the familiar dimple making another appearance as he carefully plates a piece and hands me a fork with a smile.

His eyes linger on me, watching intently as I take the first bite.

I make a point of savoring it, exaggerating my pleasure just enough for him to notice, my expression giving away how good it is.

As I pull the fork away, I deliberately leave a small dab of icing on my lower lip, a playful little tease, hoping it’ll catch his eye.

I pause before taking another bite. Boone cocks his head, giving me a shit-eating grin as he stares.

“What? Something on my face?” I ask.

He leans in, his fingers brushing lightly over my lower lip as he swipes the icing, bringing it toward his mouth. But before he can taste it, I catch his wrist, guiding his finger to my lips. Without a pause, I take it into my mouth, gently sucking the sweet icing off, my gaze never leaving his.

The silence is broken only by the faint chirping of birds in the distance. Boone leans in closer, his finger still in my mouth, the space between us narrowing.

Noodles suddenly blows air through his nostrils, stomping his feet, making the ground shake.

Boone pulls his finger away, grinning. “I thought he was ready for a nap,” he says with a laugh.

“Me too.” I stand and walk toward Noodles.

His ears are slightly forward, twitching with curiosity. The muscles on his back seem tense, and he shifts his weight from one hoof to another. Carefully, I step closer, and his nostrils flare, inhaling deeply. There’s a scent in the air—something he knows or wants, but what?

“Good boy,” I whisper. “You hungry?”

I bend over and pick up the cake, removing the fork and placing it on the ground.

Noodles’ large, soft eyes narrow, his gaze flicking from my face to the cake in my hands.

He takes a tentative step back, unsure, but as he sniffs the air again, his tail swishes. The way he’s studying the cake in my hand, I’d say he’s concentrating. The temptation is there, but uncertainty lingers—like he wants me closer but isn’t sure the risk is worth it.

I pause at his hesitation, waiting for a sign.

“Cake?” Boone whispers from the grass at the base of the tree. “He can’t want my cake.”

I hold the plate up slowly, not wanting to scare Noodles. He watches, his muscles taut with caution. But the smell of Boone’s sweet confection is undeniable now, and the horse’s resolve weakens.

“Is it safe?” Boone asks.

I give a nod.

“Vanilla’s good. Usually, too much sugar isn’t the best choice, and chocolate’s off limits, but if Noodles is hankerin' for a taste, I’m not about to stand in his way.”

He edges a little closer, his nostrils twitching, smelling as his ears flick back and forth.

Then, just as he’s about to reach the cake, Noodles stops, sniffs again, and takes a small step back.

“It’s okay, boy.”

I lift the plate, and slowly, his lips curl up. His tongue flicks out, teasing the icing.

As he keeps licking, I inch the plate closer, and after a few more swipes, he takes a dainty bite, leaving half the slice untouched. He chews, swallows, and lets out a satisfied nicker.

“He likes it.” Boone’s voice cuts through the quiet, sudden like a rogue tumbleweed in a calm breeze. I didn’t see him get up or cross over, but here he is, standing right behind me.

Noodles turns his head, content with his taste, giving me a look like he knows he’s just had the best treat of his life.

“He does,” I say, turning toward Boone. “Hard not to. Sweetest cake baked by the sweetest cookie.”

Boone flashes a smile, stepping closer, but the sound of Beau’s boots crunching on the gravel signals the end of my lunch break.

“Well, I’d best get back to the kitchen,” he says, tipping his chin toward the house. “Dinner won’t cook itself.”

I grab my hat from the wagon’s handle, settle it on my head, and give him a small nod, tipping the brim.

I want to thank him for everything—lunch, the company, the cake—but all I can muster is, “Much obliged.”

“My pleasure.”

Boone Adams gives me a wink. With a squeal of the wagon’s wheels, he begins hauling it back toward the house, his boots stirring up a cloud of dust. I watch him go, my chest tight, like something’s caught in there—stuck between a knot and a flutter.

It’s an unsettling feeling, the kind that doesn’t sit right… but I hope it never leaves.