Page 78 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

I laughed. We had certainly had our share of bad luck. Storms that left us cold and drenched. A bear that had torn apart my food sack. Scrapes and bruises on every part of our bodies.

But nothing had ever seemed that bad because we were together.

“Two more miles,” she said. She shook her head like she couldn’t quite believe it.

“Well, we still have to get back down.”

She made a face. “That doesn’t count.”

My knees begged to differ. “Trust me, it counts.”

The next mile went fast. We could see the summit sign in the distance, small at first, and then larger and closer with every step we took. And then we were there, at the sign, with a dozen other hikers sharing the summit.

The end of the trail.

Shit.

We dropped our packs. Not caring who saw, I scooped her into my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist and I kissed her, hard. She kissed me back with just as much heat. Wetness from her cheeks spread to mine. I pulled back, wiping the tears from her face with my thumb.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just…emotional, I guess.”

I gently set her on her feet. Immediately we were surrounded by other hikers, people who had been strangers to us five months ago but were now friends. A month from now, they would probably be strangers again. Maybe we would keep in touch with some of them, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not at all.

We spent a long half hour at the summit, taking pictures and saying our goodbyes. And then Bethany took my hand and squeezed it.

“Ready to go home?” she asked.

Home. Hart’s Ridge. Goat’s Tavern. Ethan and Jasmine and our other friends. I tried to imagine it, but all I saw was her. Bethany.

“I am home. Wherever you are, that’s home for me.You’remy home, Red. You’re my home and my adventure.” I shook my head slowly. “How crazy lucky am I? To have both in one person.”

She blinked. “Dammit, Luke, don’t make me cry again. I just got it under control.”

I pulled her in close and she melted against me. We stood that way, wrapped up in each other, looking out over the mountains.

But we couldn’t stay there forever, and we both knew it.

“Ready to go?” I whispered against her hair.

She smiled up at me. “With you? Always.”

One

James

Maybethepinkcowboyboots were a mistake. Dad had strong feelings about those boots. But then, so did I. They were such a part of me that if I looked down and saw something else on my feet, I wouldn’t know who I was.

Dad bought me my first pair before I could walk, so I would look cute in the family photos. As my feet grew, he kept right on buying new pairs to fit. One of my earliest memories was Dad dancing with me in the kitchen while Mom cooked dinner, the pink cowboy boots on my feet.

“Pretty like your momma,” he told me.

A bald-faced lie because I looked nothing like Mom. She was tall and blonde, whereas I was short with dark hair and freckles. The only thing I got from my mom was her curves, which was less of an asset for a horse trainer like me than a rodeo queen like her. I kept those suckers locked down so tight I might as well have been an A-cup. Or a man.

Dad always beamed when he saw me wear my pink cowboy boots with a skirt for a school dance or a date. But those boots were made for riding, and riding was what I did. He never failed to side-eye my pink cowboy boots when I stepped foot in the barn or the training ring. Like they didn’t belong there.

Or maybe that was me.

He was eyeballing my boots now as he sat across from me in the wood-paneled office, his immaculate oak desk between us. I took it as a good sign that he had called me in here for a chat rather than simply knock on my bedroom door or catch me over supper, which is what he had done six years ago, the first time he had passed me over for promotion.

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