“I thought real men don’t get scared,” she whispers, blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes.
“I never said that.Iget scared all the time. I just fight through it. Real men get scared and do the thing.”
Her lips quirk up, and she slides a hand to my thigh. “Thanks for doing the thing.”
“Anytime.” I lean in close. “What can I get you?”
“Just you. Staying here with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere. By the way.”
“What should I call you? Honey or Wren?”
“My Aunt Birdie calls me her little wren. You can call me Wren or Honey.”
“I should have guessed your name was Honey.”
“Because I’m so sweet, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Do you know how many times someone’s said something similar? In fact, you mentioned it to me when we first met. You said I was sweet, like my name. And then you patted my head, like I was five years old.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. You weren’t so sweet when we met.”
She closes her eyes briefly, her lips turned up in a smile. “The first time we met.”
I quirk an eyebrow.
“I have another secret.” She studies my face for a reaction.
“Good,” I tell her. “I was getting bored just sitting here.”
“The riding camp I went to when I was fifteen was the Lucky Clover Ranch in the sweet little town of Bleville, Texas.”
I sit up straight. “Heard of it.”
“I remember the first time I saw a lanky, redhead counselor with cornflower blue eyes. I swear to you my legs went all weak. I had such a crush on him.” She smiles at me. “On you.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear and run a finger over her cheek. “Are you making all this up?”
“I rode Rose Red.” She smiles softly.
“I loved Rose Red. No woman could ever compete.”
“I can understand that. She was beautiful. And so gentle. The second time I got on Rose Red, you rode beside me. You told me I was getting the hang of things. I swear, you might havesaid you had fallen in love with me, and we were going to get married. I swoonedsohard. That’s when you said something about my name and how sweet I was. It was just a kind, passing comment with a pat on the head afterwards.” She smiles at the wall, then laughs. “Like I was two years old. That night we were sleeping outside, in our sleeping bags, under the stars, and there were two campfires. One for the counselors, farther away but close enough that you could keep an eye on us. You were kind of sitting away from everyone—even the counselors—in the dark. My friend said you looked sad and dared me to walk over and kiss you.” She smiles, her eyes distant. “And even though I wanted to throw up just thinking about doing it because I was so nervous, I wanted to show you that I wasn’t a baby. I walked over, plopped down on your lap, and I kissed you.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d remember you kissing me.”
“The kiss was a peck that, to me, felt monumental.” She smiles. “You called me Annie—one of the counselors, because it was so dark and I looked a little like her. I bolted out of there, mortified. The next day, I was riding next to you, and I was trying to work up the nerve to tell you it was me that kissed you, not Annie. But I wasn’t watching where we were going, and Rose Red walked under a big branch. I was knocked off Rose Red, and I fell and broke my jaw… And that was the last time I rode a horse.”
I cock my head. “Out of all the stories you’ve told me, that’s the most tragic—that you haven’t been on a horse since.”
“That’s sadder than you missing the opportunity to get to know me better?”
“Everything led to this.” I lean over and kiss her on the forehead.
She stares at me, her eyes tearing up. “It did,” she says softly.
