Page 61 of Cowboy Mountain Man

I laugh.

He smiles. “And when you’re ready,” he says, “a key.”

I reach into his front pocket. His eyebrows lift. “The one you keep handing me when I go out to the truck?”

“Yes.”

I pull it free. The brass key rests warm in my palm. “I think I’m ready for this part.”

He looks at it, then at me. “You sure?”

“No.”

His expression shifts.

I put my hand against his chest. “I’m sure I want you. I’m sure I want to come back. Everything else, we’ll have to figure out.”

He covers my hand. “We can do that.”

I believe him because I believe in us. I rise onto my toes. He bends before I have to ask. The kiss is slow and warm and interrupted by somebody clearing her throat.

We pull apart.

Mrs. Bell’s daughter stands in the doorway. She looks at Harlan’s hand on my waist. The key in mine. Then smiles. “I was going to ask whether you’d found anything worth keeping.”

I look up at him. “Yes,” I say. “I did.”

Six weeks later, Harlan’s cabin has three new things. A desk beneath the east window. A coffee maker with settings he considers unnecessary. And me.

Not every night. Not yet.

But enough that my sweaters occupy a shelf in his closet and my muddy boots sit beside his by the door.

I still have my apartment. The lease ends in January. We’ll decide what happens then. For now, I’m finishing two days of cataloging at a historic inn forty minutes away, which means I can come home every evening.

Home. The word still catches me sometimes.

Tonight, I find Harlan on the porch repairing a lantern. My lantern. I bought it at an antique shop in town because the green glass made me happy.

He looked at it, looked at me, and asked whether I’d developed an attachment to fire hazards. I told him this one would stay upright. He’s been working on the wick mechanism ever since.

“You know,” I say, climbing the steps, “people do sell lamps.”

He looks up. “People sell coffee, too. You brought enough equipment to open a business.”

“That coffee maker is an investment in your future happiness.”

He stands and takes my bag. “How was work?”

“Let’s see. Twenty-seven guest-room chairs. Two antique washstands. One owner who thinks every piece of furniture was personally touched by Abraham Lincoln.”

“Was it?”

“I’m going to need a larger invoice if he wants me to prove it.”

Harlan kisses me. I lean into him, letting the day fall away. When he lifts his head, he studies my face. “Tired?”

“A little.”