And he should be.
So I hope to hell he’s watching.
“That pasture over there?” I nod toward the fenced-off stretch of land. “That’s where we keep the cattle once winter hits. Grass holds better in that spot—keeps the herd fed when the snow piles up.”
Hudson squints at it, thoughtful. “You’ve got a lot of cows.”
I huff out a laugh. “It’s a ranch, kid.”
He grins. “Yeah, but like…alotof cows.”
We keep riding. The land stretches wide around us, the quiet kind that gets into your bloodstream if you let it. Just the rustle of wind through the trees, hooves hitting packed earth, the occasional snort from the horses.
I start pointing things out—casual, easy. Tell him about the time Wren got thrown and came back cussing like a trucker with a broken wrist. About the tree house Ridge and I built that nearly flattened both of us. About summers spent out here, just me and a saddle and more space than I knew what to do with.
By the time we hit the creek, Hudson’s cheeks are flushed and his hair’sa mess, windblown and sticking up in every direction. He’s still holding onto the horn like it’s his lifeline, but the grin stretched across his face damn near knocks the air out of me. Springsteen lowers his head to drink, and I glance back to see Lark riding up, easy and steady like she never left this land.
“This here’s Sugarwater Creek,” I say, nodding to the slow-moving water.
Hudson frowns. “Why’s it called that?”
Before I can answer, Lark pulls up beside me, brushing a strand of hair out of her face like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
“Because the horses always loved drinking from it,” she says. “We used to joke there was sugar in the water.”
The way she says it—soft, automatic—it hits me in the chest. Like she’s still got all those summers stored somewhere in the back of her mind, same as I do.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye. The way the light hits her braid. The way she keeps stroking Ellie’s neck without thinking. It’s the same image I’ve had in my head for twelve years—her in the saddle, this exact spot. And damn if it doesn’t feel like the clock rewound and dumped me back to seventeen again.
She turns, catches me staring. “What?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I blink. “Thought I saw a bug in your hair.”
She reaches up, fingers running through her braid, eyes narrowing. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Maybe.”
She gives me that look—the one she used to give me when I’d toss frogs in her backpack just to get a rise out of her. “You’re insufferable.”
Hudson perks up like he just heard a new curse word. “What’s insufferable mean?”
Lark smirks. “It means he’s a pain in the ass.”
Hudson gasps, delighted. “Mom! You can’t say that!”
She shrugs. “I can. You can’t.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s solid parenting.”
Hudson’s still watching us, studying the way we talk, like he’s trying to do the math on whatever this is between me and his mom. “You two were good friends, huh?”
My grip tightens slightly on the reins. I glance at Lark. She pauses, just long enough that I notice it. Her lips press together, and when her eyes meet mine—green today, clear and sharp—they hold a flicker of something I can’t name.
Something between a yes and a maybe and a whole damn mess of things left unsaid.
I clear my throat. “We were.”
Hudson tilts his head. “Are you still?”
