Page 16 of And Forever
It isn’t until Wilder’s hands squeeze just above the swell of my ass that I fall back into myself, abandoning the haze of doubt and hope I’ve disappeared into. We’ve given up the pretense of dancing, and we’re just two people in their own bubble on the outskirts of the dance floor. Wilder’s staring at me patiently, even as his fingers twitch where he holds me. I clear my throat, needing to trust my voice before I speak.
“I want to know you again,” I start, not missing the flash of relief that passes over his face and how his shoulders drop just a little. I tighten my grip on the back of his neck, pulling myself until I’m flush against him. My self-control slips a little at the contact, a hint of my feelings coming through when I sigh, “God, I’ve missed you too.”
Wilder presses a chaste kiss against my forehead, rough lips lingering with sweet understanding. There’s no expectation between us when he pulls back. I drag my hands along the ridges of his muscled arms until I can snake them around his waist. I hold him, turning my head until I can press against his chest. His heart thumps with a furious rhythm as he begins to sway us again.
I don’t know what’s next, but for the first time in years, Wilder McCoy doesn’t exist just in my past. He’s here, in my present.
“C’mon, Squish.” I reach out for Winona’s at the top of the front porch steps. My daughter automatically folds her tiny hand into mine, Meehaw swinging from her other hand as we start down the path to the stable.
“Can I ride, Mama?” She has a pink costume cowboy hat on, the ties secure under her chin, shadowing her face from the bright late-June sun. She looks so cute, and my heart swells when she wears her hat to match me.
“Yeah, we’ll take Vesper and Rooney to the ring, okay?” According to the schedule of activities today, the guests are up at the lake for a fishing lesson and afternoon hike with our activities staff. The ranch is a little quieter, making it easier to bring Winona and the horses out for some time together.
I bend down and hoist Winona up to my hip, picking up my pace as we near the door to the stable. It’s cooler here, and I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, but it doesn’t take much for me to recognize Wilder’s distinct form. He has Vesper in the aisle next to Rooney’s stall. The two horses are tacked up, their heads bowed toward each other, communicating in their own way, while Wilder’s fingers flick and fly through Vesper’s mane. His blue checked Western shirt is rolled to theelbows, showing off his muscles and tendons moving as he ties off a braid. His light-wash Wranglers are covered with a camel-colored set of worn chaps—the working kind, not full of fringe and flash like he wore in his rodeo days. He reaches into the snug back pocket to fish out a white lace ribbon before tying it off. The bow stands out against Vesper’s glossy ebony strands, and I can’t keep the smile from my face when Wilder steps back to check his work.
“Wildy!” Winona’s new name for her father alerts him to our presence. She wiggles out of my hold, making quick work to get to him. He turns, a bright flash of teeth before he scoops her up and launches her into the air for half a second. Winona’s laugh echoes off the barn walls when he catches her easily and pretends to munch on her stomach. Rooney and Vesper look on with amused disinterest as Winona’s laugh turns to sharp squeals of joy.
It’s been a few days since the season opener in the barn, and things have become easier between Wilder and me. At my insistence, he’s stopped going to dinner in the staff hall and comes to the cottage to eat with us. He helps put Winona to bed, and then we sit together with cups of decaf coffee and catch up on the years of our lives we’ve missed.
I’ve heard all about his seasonal work at the Carvers’ ranch over the last two summers, and the day Curtis turned up at Wilder’s place with the offer to come here. In return, I’ve shared more stories about Winona’s babyhood than I can count, and how Ada became my best friend.
“I’m going riding, Wildy!” Winona announces from Wilder’s hip, where she's been wrangled. Vesper turns toward the little girl, her great snout nudging sweetly. Winona rewards her with gentle pats and a kiss that has Wilder wrapping both arms around her to keep her from accidentally launching off him.
“Careful, Squish,” I caution after walking over to give Rooney some love. My horse whickers in agreement as I turn to my daughter. “Don’t fall out of Daddy’s arms.”
“Okay, Mama.” She settles back into Wilder’s strong hold but continues to pay attention to Vesper. The horse relishes the strokes of her tiny hands, and I smile at the care Winona gives her before flicking my eyes up to Wilder. He looks between our daughter and me with a dumbstruck sweetness that has me tilting my head in question.
“I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to being called that.” Wilder’s voice holds a certain level of awe I’ve come to associate with being a parent. He shakes his head in wonder and smiles at me. “Thank you for giving me this.”
It’s an unexpectedly emotional moment, and I can’t help but tear up at the sincerity laced in his words. I wrap a hand around Wilder’s forearm, the skin warm, and the muscle flexing under my touch as I hold his gaze. A crackle of the familiar electricity I always had with him zings between us at the contact. Wilder swallows thickly, and we automatically step closer to each other, drawn by that intangible connection that somehow survived both severance and distance. It feels so damn right to finally share these things with him. The urge to lean into his solid body, even with Winona in the middle, is strong.
Winona’s giggle keeps me from acting on my desire and prompts us to finish getting ready to take the horses out. She runs ahead of us on the first path as Wilder and I lead Vesper and Rooney along. Wilder’s hand brushes mine, bringing my attention to him. From under the shadow of a well-worn dusty blue baseball hat, he smiles.
“You don’t wear the Resistol anymore,” I blurt with little conversational grace. Wilder blinks at the abruptness of my statement, but it’s something I’ve noticed since his arrival. The black wool hat is gone, replaced by a rotation of baseball hats when he’s outside. It’s an unusual choice for a cowboy, especially since I can't think of a single day we spent together when he didn’t have it with him. Cowboys and their hats are woven together; symbiotic relationships that have myths, legends, and life experiences forged into a near-unbreakable partnership.Every rider I’ve ever known hates the day they have to get a new hat, and I’ve never known one to give theirs up voluntarily.
His eyes roll up to look at the underside of the brim before he clears his throat and hooks a hand behind his neck. For the briefest moment, he’s not twenty-seven, he’s the twenty-three-year-old cowboy who tried so hard to sweep me off my feet with that aw-shucks charm. I don’t hold back, reaching between us to thread my fingers through his and offer him a reassuring smile.
“You know what,” I say, my smile growing wider when he squeezes my hand. “I don’t need to know. This works for you, too, Cowboy.”
Our hands swinging, we reach the riding ring. With creatures big and small inside, Winona runs loose in the confined space, Vesper trailing slowly in her wake as Wilder secures the gate.
“How good is she on a horse, Charlie?” he asks as I hoist myself into Rooney’s saddle. I look over at my little girl making her way back to her favorite animal with both hands up. Vesper doesn’t hesitate to lower her nose to the toddler, eager for the affection Winona gives freely.
“She’s our kid.” I smile at him. “What do you think?”
Wilder considers as he joins Winona and Vesper at the center of the dirt corral. I encourage Rooney to follow, my horse moving with lazy elegance. I sense he wants to be let loose, but he dutifully follows my command. Wilder catches Winona around the waist as she attempts to run, a peal of laughter breaking out of her. He carefully situates her in the specialized saddle, the densely padded front and back helping her to stay upright and secure.
“Vessy, go!” Winona instructs from her perch. Wilder’s head whips to me, eyes wide in alarm. But I just shake my head with a small giggle when Vesper complies, her feet moving at a glacial pace in a sweeping arc around the ring. Wilder walks alongside her, a lead rope in his hand as Winona babbles happily abouthow fast her horse can go. Rooney gives a little shake of his head, drawing everyone’s attention. “Roo, go!”
He doesn’t respond until I give him a nudge with my heel. Then, in a streak of mottled red, Rooney takes off. Behind me, I can hear the gleeful shrieks of Winona and the deep whooping shouts of Wilder, and for a moment in the summer sun, I have everything I could ever want.
11
CHARLOTTE
EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — JULY
“You don’t listen toMurder, We Heardanymore?”
