Page 146 of Westin

I jerk my head. “Let’s go then.”

We stick to the edge of the pasture, keeping far enough away we’re not visible from the house. Then, we dip below the hill and ride down the deepest point of the valley. At the bottom sits the willow tree, the overgrown cemetery underneath.

She slides to the ground, tucking Gracey’s reins back. I dismount and go after her, but she’s already through the gate when I catch up.

“No one took care of it but me,” she says, an edge of frustration to her voice.

Her grandmother’s grave is overgrown. She drops to her knees and starts tearing up the grass. I kneel down and join her. Overhead, the sun is getting hotter. We work silently, pulling back the long grass. I take a jackknife from my pocket and let her use it to cut it away.

When we’re done, her parents and her grandmother’s graves are exposed.

She rises, dusting off her dirty hands. I slip my arm around her waist and pull her against my side.

“They’re proud of you, darling,” I say. “You’re a strong woman.”

She sniffs. “You better not make me cry, Westin.”

I lean in and kiss the top of her head. We stand together for a long time, on the patch of earth she cleared. When this farm is ours, I’ll come out here every morning and cut it back for her if that’s what she wants.

“Nana used to hum this song to me before bed. She’d brush my hair and hum it. I never knew the words.” Hoarsely, she hums a few bars. “It’s a hymn, I think.”

I nod. “I know that one.”

She glances at me, smiling. “You going to tell me you’re a church-going man now?”

“I went when I was a kid,” I say. “My mother thought she was going to raise a gentleman.”

Her brow arches. “And she didn’t?”

“Not with the man she picked to be my father,” I say.

The mood goes from nostalgic to having an edge of tension. The conversation we had the other night hangs over us.

“I get the feeling he did a number on you,” she says quietly.

I don’t answer. The pain I carry from the start of my life isn’t violent, not in the way not the way she experienced it with Thomas. It’s complex, and falling for her has made me realize I’m the result of generations of toxicity in the veins of the man who raised me.

Here I am, at the end of it, trying to sort myself out so I don’t hurt the woman I love.

Trying to be a whole man, not just a gunslinger.

The sun climbs higher. Cicadas start to buzz. She keeps rubbing her fingers, trying to get the grass stain off them. They go faster until I catch them in mine.

“It’s alright, darling,” I say. “Let’s get you home.”

She nods, and I lead her from the cemetery. She goes to Gracey and waits while I latch the gate and go to help her on. I mount Rocky and look up to find her holding out my hat.

“You wear it, gunslinger,” she says, smiling.

When she calls me that, it doesn’t hurt. I fit the hat on my head. The horses prance, ready for a chance to tear through the fields.

“Let’s go, darling,” I say.

“Race you back.”

The wind tosses her hair and her dark eyes glitter. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond; she just digs her heels in, and Gracey takes to the field. Rocky goes without urging, eating up the distance.

Neither of us care if we can be seen from the house anymore. We race through the field that will belong to her someday, sooner rather than later. The ground is hard, the rainy season is over, and nothing trips up the horses. We fly, not urging them, just letting them run.

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