Page 7 of Forever To Me

"I’m pretty happy with this." He smiles as he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

I take a deep breath and look up. He seems so beautiful, sweet, kind, and considerate. All things women want in a man. Where did he even come from?

I think about how avoiding people has been my mission lately. But being with him tonight is what I need. I needed this even just for one night.

Chapter 4

Walker

Iwasn’t lying when I said I’ve never taken a woman home from my bar. Mixing work with pleasure has never been my style. Sure, I’ve had a few one-night stands over the years, less than I can count on one hand—but only when I’ve been out of town for meetings. None of them came close to what had just happened with her.

Red isn’t just a one-night stand. She’s a fucking sensation. The way her body responds to mine, and her touch turns me to fire—she’s indescribable. Like fireworks lighting up the sky on the Fourth of July. Like a natural high that no substance could ever match. What happened between us wasn’t just fun. It was unforgettable.

She was this gorgeous siren in my bar that I couldn’t take my eyes off all night. And what would the chance be that she’s staying at the Dogwood of all places? The motel run by Maggie, who is like a mother to me and a grandmother to my daughter, Makayla, affectionately known as Mack. That’s why I have to get the hell out of here. I can’t let Maggie see my truck parked here at her motel. She’ll have so many questions that I won’t give her answers to. And the shit she’ll give me will be annoying.The shit she already gives me is annoying. I don’t need to add this to it as well. We have a unique relationship as it is with our constant jabs and sparring. But deep down, she’s family to me. She’s all I’ve got. Maggie isn’t originally from here, and has family in another state, so she kind of became a transplant like me and made her own family here locally.

I quietly slide out of bed, sliding my boxers and jeans on as quietly as possible, tucking my feet into my boots, and grabbing my shirt from the floor. I see her red lace panties and snag them, tucking them in my pocket. This was a night I’ll never forget. As much as I’ll think about her and this night, I have a lot on my plate right now and doubt that a woman as incredible as her will stick around in a small town in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming.

She’s like a dream lying there, her red wavy hair fanned out over her pillow in the moonlight shining in from the window, her perfectly plump lips parted slightly. She sleeps so peacefully after the orgasms I gave her.

I resist kissing those lips, even though I want to taste her.

I freeze when my eyes land on a battered guitar case leaning against the corner next to a small duffel bag with clothes spilling out. The sight knocks the breath out of me.

I glance back at her, surprise flickering through me. But then it’s something else—something deeper. I can’t stop staring, the pull toward her undeniable, like gravity itself.

I can’t help but wonder about the guitar. Does she play for fun? Does she perform? Musicians aren’t exactly common in this town, and another female musician is the last thing I need in my life.

She mentioned loving music—casually, like it was nothing—when I traced the lyrics inked on her thigh.

The lyrics I wrote. A song I poured my soul into years ago,now permanently etched on her skin. She has no idea. She can’t. There’s no way.

When my fingers followed those words, something in me twisted, a long-buried piece of my past clawing its way to the surface. But there’s no way she knows. I’ve spent years making sure of that, burying that part of myself so deep it’s practically a ghost.

If I could ever imagine myself having a woman to call mine, it would be someone like her. Sassy, confident, and sexy. But there was a vulnerability to her, too, that is just as alluring.

This night has been nothing short of a dream. A dream that, unfortunately, has to stay just a dream. Because someone as beautiful as Red is just passing through Bridger Falls. She doesn’t strike me as the type who would ever stay far from the nearest city in rural Wyoming. Which makes me wonder why she’s even here. Sadly, I’ll never get to find out. I have to go. It’s better this way. I try to convince myself of this, anyway.

It takes everything to pull open that door and get in my truck. The loneliness that lives in me makes me want to crawl back into that warm bed with her. And take her to breakfast in the morning. Get to know her more. Ask her why that song means so much to her that she’d mark it on her body forever. Hear her laugh as many times as I can before she leaves. Because she’ll leave. Everyone leaves eventually.

I reluctantly go to my truck but look back a few times, still trying to process everything that happened tonight. I’ve never met anyone like her. Had a connection with anyone like this before. It feels surreal.

The streets of Bridger Falls are quiet this late at night, the kind of stillness that only happens in a town where folks turn in early, where the only things stirring after dark were the occasional ranch truck rumbling down Main Street and the soft glowof porch lights left on out of habit. It’s peaceful and calming here.

As I drive, the truck’s tires hum over the cracked pavement, past the familiar landmarks of home. The Bridger Falls Feed and Supply sign sways slightly in the night breeze, its weathered wood a testament to years of Wyoming wind and sun. Across the street, the Harvest & Honey diner sits dark, its navy-and-white-checkered curtains drawn for the night, but come dawn, the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls will pull customers in for their daily treats.

The town square is empty now, the string lights hanging between the buildings swaying gently, casting a soft shimmer against the storefronts—the bank, the general store, the Boots and Bangs salon—all standing in quiet patience for morning foot traffic.

The last set of streetlights faded in my rear-view mirror as I cross the town’s edge, the landscape opening into rolling pastures and thick clusters of pine. Out here, there are no sidewalks, no streetlights, just dark, open land stretching for miles beneath a sky full of stars.

My turnoff comes twenty minutes later, a narrow dirt road marked by a simple wooden post with my mailbox, half-covered in creeping sage. My truck rumbles onto the gravel, the tires crunching against the earth as I start down the long driveway, lined on either side by weathered wooden fencing.

My land sprawls wide, acres of open pasture rolling out under the moonlight, framed by thick pines that offered a natural border against the world. The lake shimmers in the distance, a silver ribbon reflecting the sky, its glassy surface untouched by anything but the occasional ripple from a late-night breeze.

And then, my home comes into view.

With its rustic timber beams and high-pitched roof, thehouse stands proud against the Wyoming range, its windows glowing faintly from the few lights I’d left on. The wraparound porch stretches wide with deep-seated rocking chairs arranged neatly beneath the eaves, waiting for the kind of slow mornings I rarely have time for.

Not far from the main house sits the barn, its silhouette strong and familiar, the scent of hay and leather always lingering in the air. The paddocks stretch beyond, fenced and ready, even though the horses are still settled in.

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