Page 23 of Untaming the Cowboy
“We’re almost there,aren’t we, sugar? I can smell the lemon from here.”
Cookie took the hill in an easy climb, her stride smoothing beneath Dahlia as hooves skimmed the south pasture. The prairie opened wide, green and gold under a mid-morning sun. Miles from the house, her mind hadn’t left the kitchen. Hadn’t left him.
One question about the Marines and Luc had gone still. His whole frame stiffened; the lines in his face showed the weight. Pain, buried deep.
Her daddy always said soldiers never come back the same. They see things they can’t say out loud. Do things they don’t ever confess. It carved men up, leaving ghosts behind the eyes. And Luc? He had a whole platoon in there.
Dahlia let out a breath through her nose. His order made sense now. Those dawn wake-ups, boots lined on the mat, the way he kept edges squared. She knew the look of someone trying to stay a step ahead of their demons. Her mama knew about those.
Juniper Childs had fought a different war, her mind clawing at itself until it bled. Some nights, Dahlia would find her barefoot in the grass, whispering to air while thunder cracked overhead. She’d wanted so bad to pull those clouds off her mother, but she’d been a child with too small of hands.
Dahlia blinked the thought away. She wouldn’t let that happen to Luc.
Cookie’s ears flicked. The mare always seemed to listen when Dahlia’s inner workings were loud. “Yeah, I know,” she murmured, leaning forward to gently scratch Cookie’s withers. “He’s been havin’ a rough go, huh.”
She hadn’t told him, but she’d heard the fit a few nights back. The shout. The crash. Wynn’s frantic bark, the whine that said even a good dog couldn’t help. That tea she made Luc? It wasn’t just for rest. It was a test. And when he drank it? He didn’t stir until well after three a.m.—the devil’s hour, her mama called it.
Cookie slowed her pace. The path dropped into a crease of shade where the ground kept its cool. Down here, the ingredients waited.
“I know it ain’t a cure,” Dahlia murmured, sliding off. Her boots sank into the soft earth. “But it’ll help him relax. Help him sleep,” she said looping Cookie’s reins over a branch.
Mugwort feathered at her knee. Lemon balm brightened the cluster. Sage grew gray-green and generous.
She moved through the patch with her satchel open, picking the way Granny taught and Mama whispered:Pinch, not pull. Thank the plant. Leave more than you take.
Juniper believed the earth spoke in signs and songs. Sometimes those songs turned to storms she couldn’t outrun. Dahlia felt the ache of that memory and shook it loose before it rooted.
Cookie whickered and tossed her head when Dahlia snipped extra sage.
“What? You don’t think so?” Dahlia tucked a sprig behind her ear. “Mmhmm. Well, this ain’t nothing a lil sage and sunshine won’t fix. Maybe a prayer or two.”
The mare shook again as if to argue, then leaned into the bit, resigned. Dahlia laughed and finished collecting the rest of the ingredients. They took the long way back which she knew would tire Cookie out. In the stable, she watered her, offered an apple, and kissed the soft muzzle.
“You did good today, sugar.” She murmured, giving Cookie a kiss on her muzzle. How about tomorrow we visit Patsy to see what recipes she feels like swapping?”
Cookie nickered and lowered her head that Dahlia took as a ‘yes.’ Once she left Cookie, Dahlia went to get dinner started and prepare the tea for Luc. After an early day, Beau and the ranch hands had eaten early and turned in.
“Tell Luc we left him some,” Beau said, eyeing the platter.
“If it were left up to you it would be none, greedy.” Dahlia was already wrapping a plate to go.
She handed it to him, and Beau graciously took it, wishing her a good night with a lazy salute. Then she put on a second skillet and fried another chop, just in case. It felt wrong to let Luc come in to a half-warm plate and an empty kitchen.
He arrived about the time the apples turned glossy again, pausing at the threshold as if gauging whether he still belonged in his own home.
“Nobody saved me a beer?” he asked, deadpan, then shot her a sheepish grin when she pointed to the cold ones she’d set on the counter. After washing his hands, Luc opened two cans, handed her one and tapped the rim of his to hers, a soft click that felt like a truce.
It wasn’t awkward. To her surprise, it was normal. As normal as if they’d been a couple doing this for years. Forcing that thought to the back of her mind, Dahlia motioned for the table.
“Go ahead, sit. You’ve got to be starving.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, sinking into his chair. “But the way it smells in here, I am now.”
She plated his dinner and joined him. Halfway through her second can she paused, watching him chew like he hadn’t tasted mashed potatoes and green beans since the war. He let out a low sound at the apples and looked embarrassed for it.
“Well, somebody likes his pork chops,” she teased, watching heat climb the slope of his cheekbones.
“I do,” he mumbled. His gray eyes that kept different weather slid up meeting hers, then quickly dropped to his plate again.
