Page 66 of The Cowboy and the Stray

“Comfy?” he said.

I tried to sound casual. “Sure. I’ve always wanted to ride a horse with zero dignity.”

He nudged Brimstone forward with his heels. The horse moved off at a walk, and I realized this was happening. I was riding double, perched in front of a ranch boss who looked like he belonged on a romance cover, except he actually did ranch work.

Dusk stretched the shadows out, and everything had that fuzzy blue look. The dust kicked up by Brimstone’s hooves hung in a low cloud, and every once in a while, a cricket nailed me right in the face.

We went east, toward the creek that cut through the far edge of the property. Neither of us talked for a while. I was too busy thinking about where to put my hands and not accidentally leaning back into him. Calder didn’t seem to notice, just steered Brimstone along the path.

After about five minutes, he said, “You can hang on, you know. I don’t bite.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I’m just trying not to slide off.”

He reached around and caught my hand, moving it to the horn. “You won’t.”

It was so easy for him. I wondered if this was what he did to all the girls, charming them with his stoic cowboy act. Maybe he was as nervous as I was. But if so, he hid it better.

The path dipped toward the creek, and the trees got thicker. At one point, an owl started up, and it made me jump. Calder kept one hand on the reins and the other resting easy on his thigh, right next to my butt. Every bump in the trail sent me sliding a millimeter closer to him. Eventually, I stopped fighting it and got close. And holy crow, by the feel of things, Calder was enjoying the journey and having me so close.

We followed the creek for a bit, then he guided Brimstone into a clearing I hadn’t seen before. It was small, just a bowl of grass and wildflowers ringed by mesquite and cedar. A couple of white tail deer spooked at our arrival and bounded off, but otherwise, it was just us and the bugs.

He brought Brimstone to a stop and slid down first, landing with barely a sound. Then he reached up and offered both hands. I was determined to make the dismount look cool, but as soon as I swung my leg over, I lost my balance and nearly went face-first into him. He caught me at the waist and steadied me.

We stood there, inches apart. I realized I was holding onto his shirt. He didn’t seem to mind.

He turned and let Brimstone graze loose, then flopped down onto the grass like a guy who had all the time in the world. I copied him, picking a spot nearby but not too close.

It was quiet except for frogs and the rustle of the creek. The sky had gone from blue to deep purple, with one star showing above the trees. I picked a blade of grass and tried to whistle through it but failed miserably. Calder watched me, maybe amused, maybe just patient.

Finally, he said, “This was my mom’s favorite place.”

I looked over. He was lying flat on his back, arms behind his head, boots crossed. “She used to bring Sloane and me out here. Wouldn’t let us talk for an hour. Called it ‘listening time.’”

I pictured it. Sloane, little and probably furious, Calder even quieter than now. I tried to imagine his mom, but all I had were guesses.

“Did you hate it?” I asked.

He smiled at the sky. “At first. Then later I understood.”

I waited for more, but he didn’t say anything. I was starting to see a trend.

“Bet you memorized every bird call out here.” I said stretched out on my side.

He shrugged. “Mostly the crows. But you learn to pick up the rest.”

It didn’t feel like a date, or at least not any date I’d ever been on. We were supposed to be checking fences, but we hadn't gone near a fence yet. There was no pressure to talk or perform, just sitting in the grass while the world went on. I picked at the wildflowers, found a sprig of purple clover, and tucked it behind my ear.

Calder rolled up on his elbow and looked at me. “That stuff’ll stain.”

I pretended to swoon. “You mean I’ll have a purple cheek? The horror.”

He grinned, then scanned the ground until he found a different plant. Tiny white flowers, with thin, sharp leaves. He snapped off a stem and tossed it to me.

“Try that one.”

I sniffed it. “Smells like licorice.”

“Yarrow,” he said. “My great-grandmother used it for everything. Tea, soup, even wounds. Supposed to stop bleeding.”