"Another mandatory activity?" I ask.
He looks down at me, lashes dark in the gold light. I want to run my fingers through the scruff on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Just wanted a s’more.”
I smile. “Me too.” I realize I’m doing the hair thing I was just teased about, and force my hand to my lap. “So, what's out here?"
"Cedar brake straight ahead," he says. "Creek runs past that stand of oaks yonder, cuts through the property and back out. Prickly pear all along the fence line. Good deer country."
"You know every inch of this land, huh."
"Pretty close."
"That's nice," I say, gazing off into the trees. "Knowing a place like that."
"Never knew any other way to live." He’s quiet for a beat, then gestures with his chin, at the hills rolling off into dusk. "Born under this sky."
I look up when he does, and the first stars are coming out. A smear of pink changes to purple right above the tree line. "That's sweet, Garrett."
"It's home."
When I glance back at him, he’s already staring at me, and he quickly turns away as if caught.
The wind picks up.
It isn't cold exactly—it's May in Texas and the day's heat is still hanging in the air— but the breeze skims over my shoulders and my bare arms, and I shiver.
My flannel is tied around my waist, but I’d have to stand up to get it.
Without a word Garrett shrugs out of his jacket and settles it around my shoulders.
It’s warm and smells of smoke and coal and musk. I close my eyes and try not to inhale too loudly.
"Thanks," I manage.
"Ain’t nothin’," he says, his voice low. And I let my right hand settle onto his thigh. Just above his knee. The muscle flexes immediately, but he doesn’t move or push my hand off.
The wagon hits another rut, and all of us lurch for a second. He puts his arm around my shoulders to steady me, our bodies pressed together at the side.
He dips his head, his mouth down beside my ear.
"You're trouble, aren't you?"
I tip my face up and grin.
"The best kind," I murmur.
His thigh flexes under my hand, as he shakes his head.
The bonfire site is a clearing with a ring of stones and log benches, and the band is already set up—a guy with a guitar, a girl with a mandolin, a fire crackling in the pit. Somebody's passing sticks around for s'mores. Lucinda is already there pointing out stars to a little boy in enormous boots.
I give Garrett his jacket back as we climb down from the wagon, then peel away from him with a wave. I give Laurel and Lyla the evil eye as we head toward the campfire, but soon we’re laughing, toasting marshmallows, and stuffing s’mores in our mouths.
Lively music is playing, kids are dancing, people are chatting away, and I catch Garrett’s eye as he talks to Carl and a couple of the wranglers, drinking a beer.
After a while, I drift around the circle watching the sparks in the fire, and when I come up behind the log where Garrett is sitting, I drag my fingertips slowly across his shoulders as I pass.
He barely moves, but I see his head tilt.