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I smile up at Charlie. “Can we go slow?”
Those blue eyes stay locked on my face as he gives a curt nod. “I can do that.”
In silence, we trek side by side, the low elevation of the ranch giving way to jagged mountains and towering evergreens that seem to stretch up to the blue sky above. I adjust my sunglasses, courtesy of my gas station friend back in Winslow, and inhale a deep breath of fresh air, taking in the stunning Montana view.
But soon, my eyes stray to the man in front of me.
He’s lost in thought, walking with purpose. His boots crunch rock like he’s ready to take on the mountain and win.
His white T-shirt molds to his biceps and broad chest, the muscles in his back rippling as he walks. Beneath the cowboy hat, his full lips wear a frown through his close-cropped beard. Despite the sun burning brightly overhead, goosebumps break out over my arms. His beauty overwhelms all my senses. He smells of sweat and hay and black coffee and man.
I’ve traveled half across the world and found the best view in the world.
And it’s a cowboy named Charlie Montgomery.
Afraid I’ll get caught staring, my eyes dip toward the ground. I stop and gasp.
Charlie startles at the sound and puts his hand out as I sink to the ground. “Ruby?”
“Look,” I breathe, pointing at a cluster of purple flowers spread across the trail. “They’re wild violets.”
He gives me a look. “You’re a strange girl.” His eyes flicker over me—my lips, my legs—and his expression resets. “Stay that way,” he says, then steps over the patch of flowers and resumes hiking.
I smile and straighten up. Coming from Charlie, it’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.
We continue with the hike, falling into an easy silence for the long trek up. Fifteen minutes in, I realize Charlie’s switched places with me. He’s moved me to the inside wall of the mountain and he’s taken the cliff edge.
Heat blooms in my core. It’s a move both protective and caring and has my mind drifting back to yesterday.
I liked the side of Charlie Montgomery that came to apologize as much as I like the gruff cowboy who yelled at me out there in the pasture. Some might call it an overreaction, but I’m not sure. It told me he cared; it told me he worried, maybe more than he was trying to let on.
Yesterday, when he took me in his arms and held me on the couch, I could feel it. My heart. Beating fast. But not because of my arrythmia. Because of Charlie. He was kind and sweet, talking about flowers to distract me from what happened with my almost-flutter. Even if he didn’t know about it.
The icky feeling of guilt creeps across my skin. I hate lying to him about my condition, but I don’t want Charlie thinking I’m fragile like everyone else has in my life. It’s not an option.
I want to be normal, even if all I am is temporary.
I can’t let Charlie in. I can’t tell him the truth.
It wouldn’t be safe.
For either of us.
“Let’s stop here.” Charlie’s tall, broad body walks to a lookout point, moving with a smooth confidence that tells me he knows and loves the land.
Taking a second to clock my heartbeat, I breathe slow and steady.
Charlie extends a finger out at a waterfall diagonal from us. “That’s Crybaby Falls.”
“Why is it called that?”
He looks grim. “As the story goes, a wagon train came up here. Camped out at the falls. Two days in, they were hit by a huge storm. The ridge flooded, and the water swept one wagon over the edge of the falls. It was full of children.”
I gasp, stunned by its grandness, by the raging water cascading down the craggy rocks.
His gaze falls to my face. “People claim you can hear the babies crying at night.”
“It’s so Wild West,” I breathe, horrified. Stepping forward, I snap a photo of the falls from my phone and then check it on my camera.
