Page 16 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks,” Tripp calls me out.

My lips press together, and I shift my hips back and forth in the saddle. It’s an unfamiliar position for me to be in, and I was scared to take him up on the invitation. I still am—and I don’t just mean learning to ride a horse.

He grabs the horn of his saddle, and his long leg swoops over the top of his horse before he settles in a spot that feels right. Unlike mine, his posture is natural and relaxed.

“I just texted you yesterday,” I defend myself with narrowed eyes.

He smiles and adjusts the reins in his hands. “Texting doesn’t count. I’m a needy friend.”

I want to smile so big that my face splits in two. I want to scream that I don’t mind when he’s needy and begs me to hang out with him until I give in.

“I was waiting until you broke in this new bridle,” I lie. He bought one for me when I admitted that I wanted to learn more about riding horses.

“Mhm. Sure.”

I roll my eyes. The truth is that I wanted to spend time with him since getting home from the baseball game two weeks ago, and that terrified me. Avoiding it seemed safe.

I hold my breath and widen my eyes when Tripp and his horse move toward the fence on the side of the barn. My horse follows them at a slow pace like he’s done this a few thousand times before.

We’re side by side when both horses stop under a shade tree. Tripp nods proudly, and I try not to squeal with excitement.

“So? What do you think? Last time you were here, it was dark out.”

I look out at the ranch. “I think it’s paradise on earth. And a little dusty.”

He doesn’t respond, but I catch his soft laugh.

My gaze turns back toward him, and he seems deep in thought.

I don’t look away from his side profile when he leans forward on the horn of his saddle and continues gazing out to the pasture that’s peppered with bright, yellow buttercups.

He’s in his element, and it’s impossible to ignore how satisfied he seems right now.

I like the friendly texts we’ve been exchanging. But this is better. So much better.

“It probably sounds crazy to most people,” he says. “But I could be dirt poor and live out of a broken-down shack with two potatoes and a gallon of milk for the week. As long as I had my horse, I’d still be happy.”

Something about the way he said it—so plainspoken and sure—makes me pause.

Most people, including me, talk about happiness as if it’s something they’ll earn once everything in their life is perfect: the house, the job, the bank account.

But Tripp stripped that all down to bare bones with no hesitation.

I believe what he said, and I admire his simple contentment.

That kind of outlook doesn’t come easily.

He was either raised to think that way or clawed his way to that perspective after life gutted him one too many times.

Either way, I don’t think Tripp chases after shiny objects to feel fulfilled.

What he said means that he doesn’t take the little things for granted, and he and I have that in common.

In contrast to the fear I feel sitting atop a horse for the first time, it makes me want to trust him.

“That surprises me about you,” I admit.

His head swivels in my direction. “What, you thought I was shallower than that?”

Despite some of the things I’ve heard about Tripp, I knew from our trip to the city a few weeks ago that he isn’t a shallow guy.

He played catch with those kids in the outfield for an hour, at least. After that, I think I already knew he prioritized things that make his heart happy instead of materialistic things.

“No,” I correct him. “I meant the last part of what you said. I know you work on this ranch, but I guess I didn’t really peg you for a bonafide cowboy attached to his horse over everything else. Shouldn’t you have a handlebar mustache or something?”

“ Jesus ,” he scoffs playfully. “Should I pack a dip in my lip and spit into a brass jug on the floor while I get to work on growing more classic cowboy facial hair?”

“You know what I mean,” I say with a small laugh. “I know stereotypes are dumb. But you’re different from how I pictured a cowboy.”

His slow grin makes me blush. “You don’t like how I look, Mace?”

Mace.

I giggle. Fucking giggle at the shortened version of my name like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard it. It’s not—but he said it like he couldn’t help but throw it in. Not to ruffle my feathers. Almost like he wanted to make damn sure whatever I decide to say next won’t be a lie.

“Fishing for compliments now?” I roll my eyes and run my thumb over the smooth edges of the reins in my hands.

“Always. Just tell me I’m pretty,” he teases. “You know you want to.”

I tilt my head and study him. No cowboy hat today. Instead, his sporty ball cap is turned backward. My line of sight falls to the tiny glint of a gold chain tucked into his faded, cutoff t-shirt. Then lower, over his jeans with holes in the knees.

His boots are on, but the rest of him could have fooled me into thinking he worked anywhere but a ranch his entire adult life. He’s an enigma—so uniquely different in the way he dresses and carries himself, but still deeply ingrained in the lifestyle here.

“Sure, you’re pretty. Pretty lucky I don’t have good enough balance to shove you off your horse with a swift kick.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. One hand is braced on the back of his saddle, and he lifts his hips to reposition his body again.

“Maybe I don’t look the part,” he admits. “But it’d take a hell of a lot more than a kick to knock me off my horse. Even then, I’d jump right back on. That cowboy enough for ya?”

I nod. “Okay, I think I get it now. It’s all in the mindset.”

“You’re catching on.”

Regal, his chestnut mare, shakes her head to shoo away the fly that’s trying to land on her nose. Her long, dark mane tosses back and forth three times, and she lets out a dramatic huff through her nostrils.

I laugh and resist the urge to reach over and pat her neck. She’s standing close to the horse that I’m perched on, but I know for sure I’d slip right out of this saddle and straight to the ground if I stretch my arm out and lean over.

“She has a lot of personality,” I say with a smile. The horse beneath me shifts his weight, making my hips slide back and forth in the saddle that doesn’t quite fit me. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The reins tighten in my hands, and I can’t help but hold my breath once again. Tripp leans over and covers my clenched fists with his palm for three seconds.

“Yes. Bob is a gentle horse. You’ll be fine, and you don’t need a death grip.”

I slowly loosen my fingers around the leather. Bob may not be crazy, as far as I’ve seen, but I’ve never done this before. When Tripp’s index finger draws my attention, I turn my body to look down to where he’s pointing.

“See that? His back leg is bent.”

I study the way Bob’s leg is cocked enough to make his hip lean to one side. On the ground, his hoof is resting lightly forward on its toe. It’s almost lazy—not the position you’d see if he were tense or ready to bolt. His tail hangs easy and unbothered.

“That means he’s relaxed. So, you can be relaxed, too.”

I straighten my posture again. “Okay. Now, where are we headed?”

Tripp barely lifts his reins and softly drags his heel back an inch. Regal plants her back feet and effortlessly pivots to change directions. They start at a slow walk to the west.

“Just lightly move the reins to the side,” Tripp calls over his shoulder. “Bob will do the rest.”

I follow his instructions and beam as we somehow end up right behind them in a few seconds.

It’s wild, feeling the powerful breaths beneath me each time my horse takes a step.

Sure, we’re still within a stone’s throw of the barn.

But I’m riding a damn horse right now. I don’t care that we’ve barely covered the distance of five parking spots.

“I’m doing it!”

Regal continues along the fence line while Tripp peeks over his shoulder with raised brows. “You’re a natural.”

I wouldn’t go that far. It’s difficult to fight my impulse to tense up, but I focus on copying the way Tripp sits loose in his saddle. Studying turns to staring at the ripples under his shirt each time his back muscles move. I clear my throat and roll my shoulders.

Eventually, we catch up and are right next to Tripp and Regal.

“Gage and Blythe’s house is just down that ditch road and through the trees,” he says, pointing to the side.

I nod, taking advantage of my now-slowed heart rate to survey the ranch some more.

It’s extremely well taken care of. The land stretches out like an old photograph with its short spring grass rolling into the horizon, a scattering of mature shade trees, and weathered fence posts.

A big, simple life unfolding in every direction.

“You’re lucky.”

He laughs, but it’s quiet, and he shakes his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever considered myself lucky before.”

There’s a reverence in Tripp’s eyes as he surveys the pasture on either side of us, but I don’t miss the way his cadence shifts. As an outsider, it’s clear as day to me that he has a lot going for him and has made a good life for himself here.

His reaction tells me there’s more to it, though. He may not give away the reason he doesn’t count himself lucky so easily. But that’s okay—revealing deep parts of myself feels like staring into the sun for me, too. I get it.

I bravely put the reins in one hand and gesture to the land in front of us with the other.

“Well, you live and work at such a beautiful place with people you love, don’t you?

You’re good at what you do, and even better, you enjoy it.

Put all those things together—it makes you a very rich man, and I don’t mean the amount of money you have. ”