Julep was my mother.
Our fathers didn’t know each other before they married Ava and Julep. Their friendship came after, if I can call it that. They inherited the ranch when our mothers died, which makes them more like business partners. And co-parents, I guess, since they raised the four of us together.
I hit the hall to Conor’s bedroom, passing her dad’s office and bedroom. Both empty. He must’ve left the house before I woke, because I haven’t seen him.
The door to Conor’s room hangs open. Since our dads aren’t home, I don’t hesitate to enter. The sound of water in pipes draws me toward her bathroom door.
I step over her square toe boots and trail fingers along the guitar on her bed, surrounded by an explosion of color on the canvas covered walls. She collects impressionist paintings of horses, and I’ve indulged her over the years, buying up artwork to add to her room.
At the bathroom door, I touch my forehead to the wood. Then my palm. My breath. Tim McGraw croons Highway Don’t Care from within, accompanied by Conor’s velvety hum.
Is she already in the shower?
Three days ago, I would’ve walked in without knocking. But now… Would she hide her body from me? Intimacy between us is understandably on hold, but I don’t want to put space between us.
For the first time in my life, I don’t know how to proceed with her.
With a heavy exhale, I raise my fist and knock. “Conor?”
The door cracks open, releasing a cloud of steam. The song plays from her phone on the counter. The shower sputters behind her, and she peers up at me, hair still dry and a towel wrapped around her body.
I wait for her to open the door wider. She doesn’t.
“What are you doing?” She clutches the towel against her chest. “Your dad…”
“I’m sorry about earlier. He’s…” Stressed out? Worried? A crusty, uptight asshole? I refuse to make excuses for him. “He’s not here.”
She pinches her lips and doesn’t open the door.
“Just wanted to check on you.” I trace the slender shape of her face and slide my thumb across her bottom lip. “I have to head out to the field.”
“Wish I could help.” Her mouth moves against my touch, tightening my groin.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“’kay.”
Leaving her alone goes against every instinct inside me. I lean down and steal a quick kiss from her lips. Then I force my boots to move, out of her room, out of the house, and straight into the toils of raising cattle.
For the next eight hours, I submerge myself in backbreaking chores, repairing irrigation ditches, moving cattle from pasture to pasture, and tending to haying equipment.
When the sun finally sags behind the ridge, thoughts of seeing Conor rejuvenates fatigued muscles.
Barnabe’s arched neck bobs gracefully with his ambling gait as I guide him along the fence line, looking for holes where cattle can escape or predators can enter.
Jarret rides alongside me, listening to my recap of the conversation I had with Dad this morning.
“The house isn’t too small.” He wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his bandaged hand. “Maybe he’s going to put a padlock on her door or hang security cameras or some shit.”
“What the fuck for?”
“To keep you from populating the house with Holsten babies.”
“That’s horse shit.” I clench my hands around Barnabe’s reins. “It’ll be a long damn time before we can even think about sex.”
“I know that. You know that. But he’s had a rude awakening. He knows why you were in the ravine that night, and Dalton’s too distracted with Lorne to keep his daughter out of your bed. Dad knows it’s only a matter of time before you sneak off with her again.”
“He can’t keep us apart.” Conviction hardens my voice, sharp and solid.
“As long as you’re under his roof, he’ll try.”
And he’ll fail. She needs time, but the moment she doesn’t, the very second she’s ready to finish what we started, I’ll be on her, in her, devouring her little sounds as I sink between her legs.
My shirt clings to my chest with sweat. I lift the Stetson from my head and run a rag over my damp hair as the sound of an approaching horse reaches my ears.
I turn Barnabe toward the noise, eyes on the horizon, expecting one of the ranch hands.
Ketchup bursts over the hill, racing toward me at a full gallop with Conor in the saddle. Unruly locks of red whip around Conor’s face, and she hugs in tight, increasing speed. What the fuck is she doing?
“She’s not supposed to be in the saddle.” Jarret dismounts and steps forward.
“No, she’s fucking not.” I join him on the ground, muscles tensing to punish her forty ways to Sunday.
Ketchup pulls up beside me, and I grab the bridle near her snorting snout, holding her still.