Page 36 of His Texas Claim

“I’ll give you the grand tour once you’re naked and knocked up.”

Jesus.

He got the door open one-handed, kicked it shut behind us as Buck moved past us to find what I assumed must be his favorite spot somewhere in the living room. I could make out the vague shape of sparse furniture, a moonbeam coming through the window and lighting up a rack of antlers on the wall.

“Bedroom?” Stetson mumbled against me as he pushed me against the wall. “Or right here?”

“Bath,” I said. “We’re filthy.”

“Maybe I like you that way.” His nose dragged up my throat, his lips following in its wake. “Like you tastin’ like springwater and sunscreen.”

“Ah…so your type is bog witch?”

“Apparently my type is you.” He pulled back just far enough to look at me, one hand still braced against the wall by my head. “So…yeah, bog witch.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Already has.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, then reached out to tug my shirt off and leave it on the floor. Now that I was inside, off the trail, I was starting to feel the days of travel…the water, the sweat. I caught his wrists.

“Really,” I said. “Bath. I presume you’ve got one?”

His shoulders slumped and he smiled, then tilted his head. “This way.”

He led me down a short hall, boots discarded somewhere behind us, and flipped on a light in a bathroom that looked older than either of us. A clawfoot tub sat against the far wall, white enamel gone slightly yellow with age, a curtain rod bent into a half-circle around it and a faded floral shower curtain hanging from rings that didn’t quite match.

“Sorry for the…” he waved his hand at the room like that explained the need for an apology. “Don’t have a lot of women here.”

I shook my head. “No need to apologize—it’s quaint. Looks old?”

“Older than me. Adam and Peggy honeymooned here.”

I peered over at him. “Didn’t they live here?”

“Sure did.” He knelt by the tub to get the water running, testing the temperature with two fingers. “Never wanted anything else. This place…it runs through our blood. We don’t go far from Holt Creek. None of us. Keeps callin’ us home.”

He paused for a second. Then:

"You know how your frogs won't leave that one stretch of creek," he said. "Even though the whole world's out there. Even though nothin's stoppin' 'em." He shrugged, almost embarrassed by his own comparison. "That's us. That's every Holt that's ever been born here. Somethin' about this ground just decides you belong to it, and once it does, you don't really unelect yourself."

I didn’t want him to know, but it made me melt to hear him say that.

To compare himself to maybe the thing I cared most about in this whole world.

“That’s beautiful, Stetson.”

"Wasn't tryin' to be."

"I know. That's what makes it work." I undid my pants, shimmied out of them…kicked my shoes off along the way. Bra came off next, and Stetson didn’t even look, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. "Your dad's not part of that, is he. The pull."

"No." He said it simply, no anger behind it for once, just fact. "Arlo never belonged to this land. Just wanted to own it. Different thing entirely."

"What's the difference?"

“When you love something, you gotta accept it’s ungovernable.” He glanced back at me, and his eyes roamed over me…over the stitches on my ankle, the dried mud that had crept through the layers of clothing, short nails, no makeup, straggly hair. “Like a bog witch.”

I laughed softly, then grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet. I found the buttons on his shirt, undid them one by one…then shed his t-shirt, revealing that well-muscled chest, peppered with dark hair.