I heft the saddle onto Moose's broad back and cinch him up while he blows out a long horsey sigh like he knows I'm full of it.
"Don'tyoustart with me," I tell him.
He swings his head around and nudges my elbow.
"Yeah," I say. "I know."
I keep thinking about last night—kissing Lark against that tree as she ground her sweet body against me. I had to summon every ounce of control not to fuck her right then and there.
I adjust myself once again, knowing these next two days are going to be hell.
One of my own making.
Lark’s at the stables by six.
Light's coming up gold behind her, and she's up on the pretty little bay mare the wranglers picked out for her, sitting in the saddle as if she grew up there. She holds the reins loose, those hips rolling a little with the mare's movements. Two low ponytails peek out of her hat, making her look younger than she is, and she's laughing at something Lyla said, easy and bright.
I'm done for.
I’ve been done since the forge that first day. But after last night…holy hell, I’m a mess.
And now watching her sit a horse like that, a cowgirl through and through, it hits in a different place. Not only my groin, but something in my chest and deep in my gut.
Her eyes find me across the string of riders and she smiles, a little angel and devil combined.
The ride out is long and hot. We wind up into the hills, past the cedar brake, along the creek and then away from it, switchbacks and cattle trails and one stretch of flat pasture where Carl lets the group lope, and I hang toward the back of the line where I'm supposed to be.
Which means she's in front of me.
Which means for hours I watch her ride.
She rides with joy…heels down, shoulders back and relaxed, talking to the mare under her breath the way people who love horses do without thinking about it. When we lope across thepasture, her hat blows off and she catches it one-handed without breaking stride, laughing. I hear her yelleat my dust, babyto Lyla, and I nearly laugh out loud.
Trouble.Pure trouble.
The camp's in a meadow by a bend in the creek. Our tents go up fast. Cook has ridden ahead in the chuck wagon and has the coals spread and a pot of beans working and steaks ready for the grate.
The guests seem delighted by all of it.
I tend to the horses with the other wranglers, and I take my time, because the longer I'm out here with the horses, the less I'm over there looking at her.
When I finally circle back to the fire, I get a plate and plant myself on a log with Jim and Ford on the far side of the fire from the guests. On purpose.
Still, across the flames I can see her. She's sitting between her friends with her plate balanced on her knees. She's talking and eating, her mouth shiny from the grease of the steak. Damn, I’d love to kiss her lips like that…
She glances up.
Straight through the fire, straight at me, and I hold her eyes for a moment, then turn away first. I hate playing games, but feeling this way is all so new to me. I’m clueless.
Jim is watching me over the rim of his cup. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. Jim's been married twenty-six years and has the knowing look of a man who has seen a lot of men step in bear traps.
"Shut up, Jim."
"Didn't say a word."
"You were gonna."
He smiles into his coffee, then gets up, smacking me on the shoulder.