"Lark."
"—and if Carl says no, I'll work at the damn feed store in Saddlehorn, I'll clean stalls, I'll?—"
"Darlin'."
She stops.
I cross the space and pull her into my arms.
Her face presses against my chest and I bury my nose in the top of her head, breathing her in.
"I thought I imagined it," I say into her hair. "Woke up this morning and the bed was empty and I thought I'd dreamed it all. You. Us. Thought my head had finally cracked."
"Garrett—"
"You make me feel whole again, Lark. Like the world has color and taste and sound again.” My voice gets real rough. “I’m scared, too. I've been terrified since the minute you walked in here on day one."
She tips her face up.
Her eyes are swimming and I kiss her.
Every other time I've kissed this woman, something in me has been burning. Under the tree, in the creek, up in my loft—my whole body lit up like the forge at noon. This kiss one is quiet, slow, and precious.
Her hands come up to my face, thumbs in my scruff, and I’m holding her tight against me.
This kiss ishome.
She pulls back, still stroking my face.
"I'm sorry for leaving," she whispers. "I'll apologize for as long as it takes."
"One time's enough, darlin'."
Her mouth twitches. "What if I want to apologize with my tongue?—"
"Maybe I was a little hasty,” I say, and chuckle.
She laughs, jumping up and into my arms…exactly where she belongs.
EPILOGUE - LARK
Istill can't get over the way the light falls on this place at golden hour.
The fence line runs west along a stretch of scrubby pasture they call the long forty, and I'm riding it slowly on a bay gelding named Chief, looking for busted wire and loose staples. My shirt is one of those Wild Vista Ranch button-downs. My braid is hanging down my back, since my hair has gotten so long there’s not much else I can do with it.
Chief is half-asleep under me. He's the oldest in the string and he knows this fence better than I do. So I drop the reins and let him plod, while I raise my face up into the sun and close my eyes.
The old Lark wouldn’t recognize me.
Past-Lark would take one look at this—a woman on a horse at the end of a shift, on the same ranch she was on last month, and the month before that, with a braid past her shoulders and a ring of keys on her belt for the gate, the tack room, and the little cabin in the oaks—and assume somebody had kidnapped the real Lark and stuffed this imposter into her boots.
But god help me, I’ve never been happier in my life.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I fish it out one-handed. There’s a voicemail from Lyla. I thumb it on and hold it up to my ear because Chief is not going anywhere in a hurry.
"Larkie," comes her voice, and I wince and love it at the same time. "Guess who got a temp job. It’s not forever, but it’s with therapy horses, and it’ll hold me over until I can find something more permanent. Anyway—I'm coming to see y'all next month, and I don't care if I have to sleep in a stall. Kiss your giant for me!"
I chuckle. Good for her.