With that, she tugs the reins, and Ringo starts moving, Hudson looking back at Lark one last time before they take off.
I watch them go, my jaw still clenched. Then, slowly, I turn to Lark. Her lips are already pressed into a thin line.
“Well,” I mutter. “This should be fun.”
Chapter 8
LARK
Me:I have to share a horse with Boone. A HORSE. Do you think it’s too late for me to run and join a cult?
Miller:Not if you move fast. The good ones always have a sign-on bonus.
Me:What kind of bonus?
Miller:Mostly eternal damnation. Maybe a robe.
Me:I do love a good robe.
Miller:Finally, we’ve found your calling.
Of course the universe is screwing with me.
Because what else would you call this? Me. Boone. One saddle.
I can practically hear fate laughing in the distance as I glance over at him. He’s got his arms crossed tight over his chest, muscles straining against the flannel like they’re two seconds from mutiny. Jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed. Looking like he’d rather be dragged behind a horse than ride one with me.
Excellent.
I let out a slow breath and turn my attention to Springsteen, brushing my hand along the white patch between his eyes. “You’re not gonna make this harder than it already is, right?” I murmur, stroking his nose. “Be a gentleman for me.”
He flicks an ear, snorts like he’s weighing his options, and I smile, scratching behind it. “I’ll owe you. Big time.”
And then I feel it—Boone’s eyes on me. That heavy kind of stare that sticks to your skin and makes everything too warm. I don’t look at him right away. I’m not sure I want to know what’s behind that stare.
Instead, I reach for the saddle horn, slide my boot into the stirrup, and swing myself up like I’ve done it a hundred times. Which I have. Just…never like this.
Once I’m settled, I reach up and pull the tie from my braid. It’s been pulling all damn day, giving me a headache, and I’m over it. My hair falls loose, a little wild, a little wind-tangled. Whatever. I can finally breathe again.
But that stare? Still there. Heavier now.
I look down at him, arching a brow. “Well? You coming or not?”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me like I’ve grown a second head. Or maybe like I’m something he forgot he used to want.
Then—just when I’m about to say screw it—he smirks, slow and cocky, and in one smooth motion, swings up behind me.
Shit.
I forgot how small this space is when you have to share.
His chest presses against my back, broad and warm, solid as hell. One of his thighs slots tight behind mine, and his arm brushes against my waist as he cages me in and takes the reins.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
The heat of him seeps into me, quiet and unrelenting. Like he’s not even trying but still somehow managing to unravel every nerve ending I’ve spent years stitching back together.
Stupid, stupid idea.
