Page 12 of Wicked Cowboy
Rhett wipes his cheek with his sleeve. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime.”
I glance up at them, amused. “Are you always this invested in each other’s love lives?”
“Yes,” they say in perfect unison.
I lose it, laughing so hard I nearly double over. Rhett’s shaking his head, muttering under his breath, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile.
Martha steps closer, patting his arm. “Don’t fight it, honey. Sometimes the storm brings what you didn’t know you needed.”
Rhett rolls his eyes. “You and your storms.”
“Careful,” she says. “Lightning strikes twice around here.”
Her gaze flicks knowingly between us before she heads inside. Luke follows, still smirking, leaving me and Rhett alone on the steps.
I look up at him. “You okay?”
He nods once, slowly. “Yeah. Just figuring things out.”
I fold my arms, trying to hide the smile that’s threatening to give me away. “Me too.”
The silence stretches, warm and comfortable. The air smells like sunshine and sawdust. I tilt my head toward him. “So, what’s next?”
“Lunch,” he says.
“Practical.”
“I’m always practical.”
“Sure you are,” I say, stepping past him into the house. “That’s what everyone says right before they do something reckless.”
Behind me, he laughs, quiet and low, and it chases me all the way up the stairs.
Chapter six
Rhett
By late afternoon, the ranch has shed its work clothes and pulled on a costume.
String lights bloom along the fence lines, jack-o’-lanterns grin from every porch rail, and the old cottonwoods wear garlands of paper bats that Luke swears make the property “festively haunted”.
The air smells like cider and woodsmoke. Somewhere, a fiddler’s warming up, and the squeal of kids filters through thedusk as the first trickle of townsfolk wanders in for TheBrush Creek Harvest Haunt.
We’ve run this thing for years, but it hasn’t felt like mine in a long time. Tonight, it feels like mine, and I think it has everything to do with her.
Frankie’s at the cider stand with Grandma, sleeves rolled and hair twisted up, laughing with a pack of little witches comparing fake warts. She wears a black sweater and a witch hat. The lantern beside her throws amber light across her freckles. When she looks up and finds me watching, my chest goes tight at the happiness in her eyes.
“Don’t stare,” Luke says from my elbow, like he’s been waiting for a chance to be annoying. He’s in a ridiculous cowboy-vampire hybrid getup. He’s wearing a hat, cape, and plastic fangs that he keeps clicking. “You’ll spook her.”
“I’m not staring.”
“Sure.” He hands me a coil of rope. “Hayride wagon’s ready. You’re driving first shift.”
“I drove last year.”
“And Grandma said you’ll smile more this time.” He grins. “Her words.”