Page 58 of Ride Me Reckless
Colt stood there, leaning heavier on one side, but grinning like a man who hadn’t just staged a hospital escape.
“Come on in. Millie just pulled cornbread from the oven, and I swore I smelled butter beans.”
I laughed and stepped inside. “You do know how to tempt a girl.”
The air inside smelled like slow-cooked roast and sage. The walls were a soft cream, the floors dark hardwood, and overhead beams gave the place a timeless, grounded feel. Everything was warm and quiet, from the low hum of something classical playing in the background to the faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen. Millie, no doubt.
“Did you decorate all this yourself?” I asked, running my fingers along the curve of a carved banister that led to the upstairs loft.
He nodded, easing himself down onto the arm of the leather couch. It took many months. “Obviously, I had help with the structure, but I picked everything out. Every door frame, light fixture, and wood plank. You like it?”
“I love it,” I said honestly. “It feels like you. Solid. Lived in. Not trying too hard, but somehow perfect.”
He flashed me a crooked smile. “Well, I’ll take that.”
I moved farther in, trailing my hand along the back of the couch. A framed photo on the mantel caught my eye—Colt as a boy, wild-haired and barefoot, sitting on the back of a steer like he belonged there.
“Hard to imagine you not wanting to ride again,” I teased, nodding toward it.
“Harder to imagine my spine surviving it,” he said. “Which is why I struck a deal with Art Whitson this morning. Gonna consult on cattle for his bull riding program. Still get the dust without the damage.”
“You better not try to get back in the chute.”
He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor. I like walking too much these days.”
I laughed, but something inside me softened too. The man had finally figured out how to keep his boots in the dirt without breaking his own back in the process.
“You want the tour again?” he asked, rising slower than he used to. “Last time, you looked like you were seeing through a fog.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’d like that.”
This time, I was ready to actually see it—not just the house but also the man who built it.
Millie had set the table with quiet grace, like she’d been doing it for decades. The roast sat in the center, nestled in its pot with carrots and potatoes, steam curling into the air like an invitation to let go. A basket of golden and warm cornbread rested nearby, along with a small dish of honey butter that looked like it had been whipped by hand.
Colt waited until she stepped back into the kitchen, then gave me a look. “Go ahead. I know you skipped lunch.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I spooned a little of everything onto my plate and took a bite of the roast. It melted in my mouth, rich and tender. Millie really was magic.
“This is…” I started.
“Yeah,” he said with a lazy smile. “Millie doesn’t miss.”
We ate quietly for a few moments. Not the awkward kind of quiet, but the kind that settles in when you don’t feel the need to fill every second with noise. I glanced up once and found Colt watching me—not in that old, fiery way, but in something softer. Curious, grounded. Present.
He reached for a slice of cornbread, then leaned back in his chair, wincing just a little as his back adjusted.
“You think you’ll rebuild your mother’s house?” he asked.
I wiped my fingers on my napkin and leaned back. The question had been floating in my mind for days, bumping up against all the others for which I didn’t have answers.
“I haven’t called the insurance company yet,” I admitted. “Feels like as soon as I do, it’s real. But… yeah. I hope we can rebuild. Something more modern. Safer for her. New wiring and safe stairs. Maybe something smaller, with a decent porch and no damn carpet.”
He smiled, and for a moment, I could almost see the blueprint forming in his mind.
