Page 26 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

Tark must've heard me gasp, because he lifted his eyes, pinning me in place by the door. My lungs forgot what to do for a second, as if even breathing would send the wrong signal.

His grin came out lopsided, unfinished, like he hadn’t worn it for anyone but me. My chest clenched with something too big to hide. I didn’t want to want this so much.

“I, um, made this for you.” When he gestured to the pretty plate with a stack of oddly green muffins, plus a delicate teapot and two equally delicate cups. “I made it all. For you. I hope you like it.”

He looked like someone about to be judged, as if every bite I might take could tip the scale between yes and no.

My heart split wide open, and something inside me stirred that hadn’t shifted in years, something rusted shut from disuse.

Chapter 10

Tark

Gracie stood near the door, her soft smile stretching out toward me like sunlight over a frost-covered field. I clutched the edge of the table to keep from rising to my feet again. My instincts raged.

What was I supposed to do?

Should I stand, meet her halfway, offer her my hands, my strength, my everything?

Probably not.

I held myself still. Had I already done too much by bursting into her room uninvited, clutching a bag of muffins I’d made for her myself?

That smile, though. She didn’t look upset. Not one bit. If anything, seeing that look on her face gave me hope, fragile and trembling like the breath of a youngling sorhox.

Her steps were light as she crossed the room, the quiet squeak of her sneakers on the wooden floor holding a strange rhythm that soothed and unsettled me all at once. When she sat across from me, I swallowed hard, biting back all the words I didn’t know how to say. This was important. This moment. If I ruined it, she’d leave.

Sharga flapped his wings and squawked. I stood and gently lifted him off my shoulder, placing him on the counter where he could keep eating his muffin. He loved my cooking almost as much as… Well, I didn’t know yet if Gracie liked all my cooking. Just the meal I’d made last night.

Making sure I didn’t trip on the smooth floorboards—something that happened much too often, I washed my hands at the sink and moved back to the table to drop into my seat. Carefully, with the ease I’d use with a spooked mishra beast, I reached for a plate to serve her.

“These are dartling muffins,” I said, my voice rougher than I wanted it to be. “I made them fresh. Just for you. This morning. I got up early and…”

I was talking too much. My brother Greel said almost nothing, and when we were young, I’d struggled to fill the gaps, often saying too much and none of it with much of any meaning.Please, my parents would say. Just stop talking for one moment. They hadn’t been mean about it, but I took everything hard. That was my nature.

Maybe silence held its own value after all.

I plucked one of the muffins from the stack and placed it on the small, human plate in front of her. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I tried pouring her tea. A few drops landed on the table before I fixed my grip. “Would you… Would you like sorhox milk in this, or do you prefer the tea as it is?”

There wasn't even a hint of laughter in her expression, and that reassured me. “No milk, thanks. I like it black.”

I nodded, setting down the teapot with precise care. She lifted the cup, steam curling in lazy wisps toward her face. I felt something in me break when she closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma like it was something special.

MaybeIcould one day be equally special to her.

“And the muffins?” I asked, leaning forward. “Do they look acceptable?”

She tilted her head, examining the greenish pastry. Her delicate brows rose, one higher than the other, and she arched an intrigued look in my direction. “Do I want to know why they’re green?”

I straightened, folding my hands in my lap. “Dartlings grow deep below the soil in dark caves. They cling to the roots of the gnarling trees. The fruit pods absorb the light of bioluminescent moss that grows near the roots. It gives them their green hue and a tangy sweetness unlike anything else. But only those who are careful in their harvesting can gather dartlings ripe enough to use. The under-ripe ones are bitter, and the over-ripe ones turn to mush.”

Gracie lifted her muffin, eyeing it down her nose. “Sounds like a delicate balance.”

“Very much so. My brothers used to dare each other to eat the bitter ones as younglings. The face it causes is…” I paused, considering how best to describe it, and then settled on a word I’d heard humans use. “Memorable.”

That earned me her chime of laughter, and the sound burrowed into me, warm and bright as a hearth on a cold winter’s night. My fingers tightened in my lap. Please, may she always laugh with me and not at me.

She turned her attention back to the muffin, and I forced myself not to lean forward any further. Every muscle in me tensed, as though her opinion of the muffin would decide the fate of our bond.

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