“So you would say they’re friends—MooDonna and Maybelline?”
Nat’s brows disappeared under his damp ball cap. “Maybelline?”
“Yeah. Mae. Maybelline. Have you seen these eyelashes? She could do a killer falsies commercial that would put any Hollywood actress to shame.”
Nat chuckled. Tried not to, but did, anyway. He stroked Mae a bit, determined she was calm—and that J was right, the old girl did have long eyelashes—then settled before her with a first aid kit he kept in Poe’s saddlebag. The affinity January had for livestock was staggering.
“Another week here and you’ll be naming hens after Victoria’s Secret models.”
“Already done.”
Nat stopped digging for medical scissors long enough to shoot January a look.
“Kidding. Though the tan one with the white feathers where a bikini top would go? She looks a little like Gisele Bündchen. Strong chin, that one.” January rubbed Mae’s jaw. “Isn’t protectiveness a desirable trait in herds?”
“Most of the time.”
“And wouldn’t you say that MooDonna exhibited such a trait toward her injured companion?”
“I suppose.”
“Then you might want to apologize for calling her a pain in the ass. And the s-word.”
“Steak?”
January shushed him and gave Mae an affectionate stroke behind the ears. “Later, of course. After you tell her she’ll be a permanent part of the Meier clan.”
Nat cut his eyes toward January again. He wondered if she realized how much that stupid-ass promise was going to cost him.
She flashed a smile, innocent and killer, all in one.
“What can I do t
o help?” She scratched the tuft of hair on Mae’s forehead.
The donkey blinked under heavy lids.
“Just do what you’re doing. Keep her calm.”
“She likes singing.”
“Don’t do that. Please.”
“The goats in New Zealand loved my singing. They followed me everywhere.”
“Are you sure they weren’t running away, Shrimp Mama?”
January kicked him somewhere near the kidneys. Reflexes like Mae.
Tension that Nat had stockpiled in his chest collapsed on a laugh. “I distinctly remember you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“You didn’t seem to mind much when we were parked by the lake, and I danced in the bed of your truck and sang ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams.’”
“You were wearing two of my bandanas as a shirt. I’m pretty sure you could have yodeled until my windshield broke and I wouldn’t have minded.”
Nat held her gaze, a litmus test of sorts to gauge her interest in a repeat of one of the most memorable nights their last summer together. They had taken a rowboat under the trestle. He told her he loved her for the first time, that he would wait for her to come back, as long as it took, and she accused him of being sweet simply because she had yet to see the image of her true love on the banks. That night wasn’t just about hormones. That night was different. Mona had left town. They had all night, and he used every moment of it as a slow crawl into awareness, adoration, permanence.
She didn’t look away.