Page 38 of Destined for the Cowboy

It was the clear skies, Logan told himself as he rubbed at his eyes and sat up. The clear skies and the wonderful view of the stars, of their galaxy sweeping across the sky, looking like a wide brushstroke of stars and space dust.

It had nothing to do with the fact that just two weeks ago she had been lying here, on this very chaise, looking as he was now, at the wide, endless expanse.

And he knew it had reached her in the same way it did him. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Something about the way she’d been so rapt, or the way the starlight reflected in her eyes—

Okay, now you’ve slid into idiocy, Fox.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d planned it. He’d just come out here as he often did, to look, and a few times had dozed off.

And slept better than you have in weeks.

Yeah, there was that.

He shook off the swirling thoughts and got to his feet. He guessed that it was about five-thirty, going by the faint lightening of the sky in the east. He didn’t have anything on the schedule until a meeting out at the Rafferty place at ten, but he didn’t feel like trying to actually go to bed. He was too awake—and too restless—now.

He went inside, flipped on a light, and looked around the big room that was his home. And remembered Tris’s reaction to it, appreciation when he’d expected the opposite.

Privacy hasn’t been an issue since I moved into this place.

He nearly groaned aloud at his own ridiculousness, saying that to her. And yet…she hadn’t given him the look he’d expected, incredulous, disgusted, or anything like it. No, she’d related to it, about how her own single-room place had been worth the trade-off of not having a roommate.

He was beginning to think he should stop ever expecting the expected with her. Of course, he should probably make sure it was never an issue again, by simply staying away from her.

He’d done a little research, after that night she’d lain there looking at the sky with such obvious joy and awe. He’d already known the basics, and had purposely avoided learning any more. Until he felt he had to.

His computing out here was limited to a tablet and a fairly slow connection, but he’d gotten there. He’d found several articles about the high school remodel and addition, which linked him to articles about the brains behind it, the architect. David Carhart, who’d had not only a bachelor’s degree in architecture, but had also gone on for the master’s, which apparently totaled about seven years of formal schooling. While his own education had been in how to stay unnoticed and survive until they kicked him out of the system so he was on his own.

Not that he hadn’t had schooling, it just wasn’t that kind. Hard knocks and all that. Except for Bud Dailey. If the old man hadn’t taken him under his wing and taught him everything he knew about forging iron and steel, he didn’t know where he would have ended up.

I knew you had something special, that magic with horses, the first time I saw you with ol’ Rocky.

Logan smiled at the memory of the downright stubborn chestnut stallion. It had been during the one bright spot among the string of foster homes, on a small ranch outside of Whiskey River, just down the road a few miles from Last Stand. It hadbeen the only place where he’d felt a spark of interest, the only place he’d actually liked living.

He’d been nearing the end of that part of his life, in that system, nearly aged out.

And he was terrified.

He never would have admitted it. If there was anything he’d learned in all that time it was to keep his fears hidden. If that made him appear sullen, or stupid, then that’s just the way it was.

And then Bud Dailey had come into his life. The blacksmith who had come to shoe some horses at the ranch and had noticed his interest. He’d begun to teach, and Logan had learned quickly. It all made so much sense to him, and he was fascinated. But it wasn’t until Bud had asked him to help with the recalcitrant chestnut that he’d discovered that other talent.

And suddenly he had prospects. Bud had offered him work, and a place to stay in the small room behind his workshop. And Logan had learned. And he’d refined that knowledge in the military, a choice Bud had roundly approved. When he’d gotten out, he’d gone back to work with Bud. They reached the point that when Bud had finally wanted to retire, Logan had been able to step right into the business.

It had changed everything, his entire future. And he’d built a life he’d never expected to have, a life that suited him perfectly.

Or at least it had, until Trista Carhart disrupted everything.

He tried to put that disruption out of his head as he showered, put on clean clothes, then went out to the workshop to find something to do until he had to leave. Anything. When he found himself taking things off shelves and putting them right back where they’d been he gave up and went out to his truck, thinking he’d go into town and get a jolt of espresso or something overladen with caffeine.

He ended up getting to the Rafferty ranch a little early, but Maggie Rafferty, the matriarch of the Rafferty clan and possibly the most respected woman in Last Stand after the indomitable centenarian Minna Herdmann, welcomed him profusely. She walked him over to the smaller of their two barns, where her son, leather artist Rylan Rafferty lived and worked.

“Normally I’d have to call ahead and warn him,” she said with a delighted grin, “but Kaitlyn is out on an assignment this morning so he should be at least dressed.”

He knew Rylan had recently married his brilliant photographer girlfriend, Kaitlyn Miller, and Logan was secretly glad he wouldn’t be face-to-face with that kind of joy. It was too…something. Uncomfortable. Unsettling, maybe. And right now he was in no mood. He’d gotten enough of that around Jackson and Nic.

But what Rylan had wanted to see him about startled him out of his melancholy.

“I’ve always thought a custom belt should have a custom buckle.”

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