“You didn’t tell me it would be this sad,” I admit, finally looking up to meet his gaze.
“It’s part of the genre. It wouldn’t be so inspiring if there wasn’t tragedy mixed in.”
“Are you mansplaining the lore of western novels to me?”
His lips part, and I can see his urge to backtrack written all over his expression. “Oh. No, I just think?—”
“I’m kidding,” I admit with a smirk. “I know what you mean. But if the widow doesn’t get a happy ending, we have beef.”
Ledger’s eyes soften at the edge like he knows something I don’t. He’s probably read this multiple times and knows damn well how it’s going to end.
I grip the book tighter, loving the feeling of holding something old instead of new. Something someone else had enjoyed before me. There’s an energy to reading a book like this. Like the emotions of every reader before me seeped into each page and remain there for every future reader to feel along with them.
I want to know what happens next, and I want to know exactly why Ledger loves it enough to recommend it to me. Is there another character that he resonates with? Or does he see parts of himself in the unlucky cowboy in the first act?
Unable to quiet my thoughts for long enough to absorb any words on the page, I shut the book, holding my place with my index finger and thumb.
“Do you live alone?”
He adjusts his upper body, twisting so that he’s lying on his back again, this time placing the book on his chest with both hands behind his head. He might be relaxed, or he might be wishing I’d shut the hell up, I can’t put my finger on which.
“Yeah. For a couple years now.”
If he doesn’t want to talk about himself or his life, I understand. I don’t want to jump into some detailed conversation ifhedoesn’t want to. It doesn’t stop the wheels from spinning in my head, though. Does he like living alone? Does he wish he didn’t? Does he spend a lot of time here or is he usually out and about?
It’s second nature for me to want to learn about people everywhere I go. But my curiosity with Ledger feels more urgent. Desperate, even.
I don’t push the topic, and he doesn’t offer any additional explanation.
After I return to the book, I realize soon that Conagher is very much a love story. I read on as long as I can, until my eyes start to blink slower and the bend of my wrist loses its ability to hold the book upright. With the howling storm outside, the comforting fire, and a stranger reading his book ten feet away, I finally drift off to sleep.
Dreaming of the lonely drifter and the woman he swore to protect.
Chapter Eight
Izzy
In theory,a good night’s sleep would have suppressed an emotional hangover from yesterday’s roller coaster. I didn’t toss and turn much, but a full eight hours of shut-eye didn’t exactly do the trick like I’d hoped it would.
I’d barely opened my eyes when I woke up to the sound of Ledger stoking the fire. He was fully dressed, from his thick coat and heavy boots to his stark black hat. From my view behind him, I could see his long hair peeking out over the nape of his neck. I don’t know what made me sit up and turn to watch him walk away when he trudged out the door. But I stayed that way for several minutes, strangely attached to the idea of watching him walk back in again once he returned.
At the kitchen counter, I lift the blue and white speckled mug of coffee to my lips, blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a sip. Over the rim, my eyes land on the stainless-steel refrigerator. The doors are littered with candid pictures.
Taking the coffee with me, I pad softly to the fridge. Several of the photos are clearly at the same place—a cattle ranch, I think. I recognize Ledger’s facial features in the older couple standing in front of a barn. There’s one of a young girl in thesaddle, with Ledger standing next to the horse. One hand is in his pocket and the other is around the back of the girl’s saddle.
There are Christmas cards that are a few months old, a wedding invitation, and a scribbled hand-written grocery list. A gift receipt from a jewelry store hangs beneath a magnet. The same handwriting from the grocery list wrote “Mom—birthday” at the bottom of the receipt.
An incomplete puzzle of pieces of his life and personality start fitting together in my head, only making my curiosity about him more intense than it was before. The corner of my thumb finds its way between my teeth, and I continue staring at the clues to the answers that I want.
Jolting me from my thoughts, the front door swings open, letting in a rush of frigid air and bursts of swirling flakes of snow. Ledger slams the door shut behind him, and I jump on the spot, scurrying back to the counter and sitting on one of the bar stools.
I expect him to tell me that he’s fixed my car somehow and checked the roads to make sure I was safe to leave. But his brows are drawn together, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“You want the good news or the bad?”
“Bad,” I reply confidently. Always the bad first.
He kicks off his boots and places them neatly by the door, just like he did the day before. “You’re not getting out of here today.”
