Page 62 of Cowboy Mountain Man

“Hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good.” He leads me inside. There’s a pot of chili on the stove and cornbread warming beside it. “Rusty Lantern,” he says pointing at the pot.

The best chili spot in town. Okay, maybe the Eastern Seaboard.

“Oh,” I moan in anticipation. “You’re spoiling me now.”

“Always,” he says with a quiet grin.

Heat curls low. Not just because he’s handsome. Honestly, he’s adorable. But because every word of it is true. He spoils the hell out of me, and I love it.

The repaired lantern sits in the center of the table, its green glass casting soft patterns across the wood.

I stop. “You finished it.”

“Works.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He watches me rather than the lantern. “Yes.”

My stomach does the same ridiculous thing it did the first time he took my hand outside the truck. Apparently, that’s going to continue. I can live with it.

After dinner, we take wild strawberry tea onto the porch. The rain has stayed away all day. The last leaves cling to the trees, and the air smells of cold earth and wood smoke.

June leans over the paddock fence when she sees us. I set down my tea and head for the fence, giving her the apple slices I brought out.

“You’re spoiling her,” Harlan says.

“She had a difficult week.”

“That was six weeks ago.”

“Recovery isn’t linear.”

He looks at me. I look at him. Then he takes the empty bowl from my hand and sets it aside. “How’s yours?”

I know what he means. Sometimes, a truck slowing outside still makes me stop or a branch touching the roof. He never tells me I should be over it.

“I had a good day,” I say.

His hand closes around mine. “Good.”

We head back to the porch, sitting together on the bench with a blanket over our legs. He bought the bench last week. The old chair only seated one. I suspect this is the kind of man he is. He listens, then quietly makes room.

I rest my head against his shoulder. The uninjured one. Old habit.

Inside, the lantern glows through the window. My desk waits beneath the east window with tomorrow’s notes. My boots stand by the door.

Harlan’s thumb moves over the ring he gave me yesterday. Nothing dramatic. A small silver band with a little green stone.

He asked me beside the barn while I was feeding June. I said yes with apple juice on my fingers. Then cried all over his shirt.

He handled it well. Mostly by kissing me.

“You’re looking at it again,” he says.