Page 55 of Saddles and Snowstorms
“Maybe I can pick you up then,” he offered, his fingers trailing over my waist.
The blaring horn outside shattered the moment again. This time, Lucas’s voice carried clearly through the window: “Rowan! You in there or did Brooks bury you in the snow?”
Brooks rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Your rescue party’s getting impatient.”
“Let them wait,” I murmured, stealing one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. “I should go before they come barging in.”
“Probably for the best,” Brooks agreed, following me through the house with a slight limp. His hand never left the small of my back, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to break contact until absolutely necessary.
At the front door, I paused, suddenly unsure. The real world waited outside—judgments, questions, complications. As if reading my thoughts, Brooks squeezed my shoulder gently.
“Hey,” he said softly. “One step at a time, remember?”
I nodded, drawing strength from his steady gaze. “One step at a time.”
With a deep breath, I opened the door to find Lucas and Beau standing near my snow-covered truck, shovels in hand.Lucas’s eyebrows shot up when he saw Brooks standing behind me, his hand still resting possessively on my lower back.
“Well, well,” Lucas drawled, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Looks like someone had a cozy blizzard.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks but refused to look away. “Thanks for coming to dig me out.”
Beau, ever the more tactful of the two, simply nodded. “No problem. Glad to see you both weathered the storm alright.” His eyes flicked briefly to Brooks’s hand on my back, but he made no comment.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Brooks said gruffly, his Texas drawl more pronounced than usual as he pulled away from me. “I’m gonna finish my coffee.”
I stepped outside, the door shutting behind me. There was a sense of loss as Brooks retreated back into his cabin. As soon as he was gone, I turned around and burned Lucas a dirty look.
“What?!” he shrugged. “Y’all look good together.”
Walking down the porch, I headed over, keeping my voice low so Brooks couldn’t hear me from inside. “Do me a favor, Lucas,” I said firmly. “Don’tcall attention to it right now, okay? We’re keeping this quiet for now.”
He nodded, a sheepish grin filling his face. “Sorry. I… I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright. We just need some time to figure it all out.”
“No problem,” Beau added, patting Lucas on the shoulder. “We know what that’s like, don’t we Lucas?”
“Yeah…” He looked up at me, wincing. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”
“I know. It’s alright.” I reached out, taking the shovel from him. “Now you can make it up to me by helping me dig out my truck.”
Chapter 20
Brooks
Ispent most of my day hobbling around the farm trying to catch up with three days of lost chores. Of course, I waited until Lucas and Beau had left before I went outside. After Lucas pointed out my hand on Rowan’s waist, I couldn’t bear the thought of facing them. I didn’t want to answer questions or explain myself and Ireallydidn’t want to fall under their discerning gazes. Besides, I really didn’t want them to see the hickeys on my neck either. That would be a dead giveaway.
The guesses and the knowing in their eyes, that was the part I didn’t like. The idea of someone assuming intimate details of my life made my skin crawl. I couldn’t really say why, only that I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. Giving Rowan a chance was hard enough, but the idea of allowing other people in so quickly, especially without my say so… I just wasn’t ready for that yet.
The worst part was that I did want to talk about it. There was this bundle of emotions tangled up in my chest—excitement, fear, confusion—and nowhere for them to go. Each time I thought about Rowan, about his lips on my neck and his hands on my body, my heart would start racing all over again.
I found myself standing in the middle of the barn, pitchfork in hand, staring off into nothing. The horses nickered softly, probably wonderingwhy I’d stopped mid-task. The sun slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams.
“You’re a damn fool,” I muttered to myself, jabbing the pitchfork into fresh hay.
By late afternoon, I’d managed to clean the stalls, check the fence line on the south pasture, and repair one of the barn doors. My leg ached something fierce, but the physical labor felt good—grounding. It gave me something to focus on besides green eyes and gentle hands.
When I finally headed back to the house, the sun was setting, painting the prairie in shades of amber and gold. I paused on the porch, taking in the view. This land had been in my family for generations and since I was the only one left, it felt more important than ever to care for it. However, there were moments when it felt like a prison. And is that really how my parents would’ve wanted me to live my life? Enslaved to a piece of land that kept me from having any happiness at all?
