you see Birkenstocks anywhere on my person? I know how to dress properly for this place.”
“Awww, I’m just giving you a bad time. We were always good at that.”
The reminder was mildly depressing. Next thing she knew he’d be stealing her boots and hiding them like he’d also done when they were kids. She didn’t want to believe he still saw her as that short, stocky, fart-sound-making preteen from almost twenty years ago.
“Sorry,” she grumbled. “Must be my thousand-dollar hangover.”
“You don’t get hangovers. I know that about you, too.”
“So I don’t drink much anymore. I’ve become a lightweight.”
“What? Old Tris doesn’t take you out to the finer establishments of Chicago?” He waggled his brow, and she leaned sideways in her saddle to sock him on the arm, finally laughing.
“Not to the seedy establishments either. Or to the movies. Or picnics. Or anywhere.”
“Hey, then I’m one up on him. I’m taking you on a picnic.”
“No. I’m taking you on a picnic.” The new turn in the conversation reboosted her mood.
“I’ve missed this kind of thing, Harpo. Glad you’re still fun to tease.”
At that her residual embarrassment from the night before along with her fears that she was only as good as a childhood memory to him, dissipated like magic. They rode in companionable silence, and the longer he stayed next to her, the more comfortable she grew, absorbing his quiet confidence, reveling in his easy manner and unwavering friendship. She gave up wondering why she was so hyperaware of him this trip and let herself simply enjoy.
He rode as one with his horse, left hand loose but sure on the reins, right hand relaxed on his thigh. Fascinated by the ridges of veins on the back of his hand, which defined the word masculine in visual form, she stared at the dusting of hair behind his knuckles and let her gaze meander up his arm to the roll of his plaid shirt sleeve below his elbow. Broad chest. Defined shoulders—obvious even beneath the loose cotton of his button-down shirt. Corded neck. Full lips—
She cut herself off as tension crept back up her neck and heat into her cheeks.
Leaning forward, she stroked Bungu’s long, black mane as his head bobbed easily with his walk, and concentrated on his beauty rather than Cole’s. She willed her friend to start talking again, suddenly craving the goofball she’d resented earlier. The goofball would be preferable—safer at least—to the strong, silent, movie star–looking cowboy.
They came around the base of the mountain, and this time no rumbling trucks marred the valley vista stretching before them. Her mother and sisters fanned out into a line, and everybody halted. For a moment only wind rustling in the hills and the snorting of the horses filled the warm air. A wispy bank of clouds trailed from the Tetons in the distance, like banners from Camelot.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” her mother said. “It is truly stunning.”
“And now imagine a half-dozen oil wells,” Joely said.
Harper could have kissed her for saying the words first and saving her from the obvious everyone had expected her to state.
“The first question would be whether there isn’t somewhere else they could put them,” her mother said. “Or explore. I suppose if this is where the oil is . . . ”
“And what if it is?” Harper asked. “Can’t we decide we don’t want them here for no reason other than we don’t want them? Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with politics or thinking one belief is good and another bad. Maybe it’s our ranch, and we want it to look like this for the next generation.”
Nobody countered her.
“As I recall, there’s a great picnic spot around the next curve,” Mia said.
“I’m all for that,” Joely agreed. “I know there’s chocolate in our saddle bags.”
The entire mood lightened. Once they’d tethered the horses, their mother pulled a large, blue-and-white checked cloth from her
“Awww, I’m just giving you a bad time. We were always good at that.”
The reminder was mildly depressing. Next thing she knew he’d be stealing her boots and hiding them like he’d also done when they were kids. She didn’t want to believe he still saw her as that short, stocky, fart-sound-making preteen from almost twenty years ago.
“Sorry,” she grumbled. “Must be my thousand-dollar hangover.”
“You don’t get hangovers. I know that about you, too.”
“So I don’t drink much anymore. I’ve become a lightweight.”
“What? Old Tris doesn’t take you out to the finer establishments of Chicago?” He waggled his brow, and she leaned sideways in her saddle to sock him on the arm, finally laughing.
“Not to the seedy establishments either. Or to the movies. Or picnics. Or anywhere.”
“Hey, then I’m one up on him. I’m taking you on a picnic.”
“No. I’m taking you on a picnic.” The new turn in the conversation reboosted her mood.
“I’ve missed this kind of thing, Harpo. Glad you’re still fun to tease.”
At that her residual embarrassment from the night before along with her fears that she was only as good as a childhood memory to him, dissipated like magic. They rode in companionable silence, and the longer he stayed next to her, the more comfortable she grew, absorbing his quiet confidence, reveling in his easy manner and unwavering friendship. She gave up wondering why she was so hyperaware of him this trip and let herself simply enjoy.
He rode as one with his horse, left hand loose but sure on the reins, right hand relaxed on his thigh. Fascinated by the ridges of veins on the back of his hand, which defined the word masculine in visual form, she stared at the dusting of hair behind his knuckles and let her gaze meander up his arm to the roll of his plaid shirt sleeve below his elbow. Broad chest. Defined shoulders—obvious even beneath the loose cotton of his button-down shirt. Corded neck. Full lips—
She cut herself off as tension crept back up her neck and heat into her cheeks.
Leaning forward, she stroked Bungu’s long, black mane as his head bobbed easily with his walk, and concentrated on his beauty rather than Cole’s. She willed her friend to start talking again, suddenly craving the goofball she’d resented earlier. The goofball would be preferable—safer at least—to the strong, silent, movie star–looking cowboy.
They came around the base of the mountain, and this time no rumbling trucks marred the valley vista stretching before them. Her mother and sisters fanned out into a line, and everybody halted. For a moment only wind rustling in the hills and the snorting of the horses filled the warm air. A wispy bank of clouds trailed from the Tetons in the distance, like banners from Camelot.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” her mother said. “It is truly stunning.”
“And now imagine a half-dozen oil wells,” Joely said.
Harper could have kissed her for saying the words first and saving her from the obvious everyone had expected her to state.
“The first question would be whether there isn’t somewhere else they could put them,” her mother said. “Or explore. I suppose if this is where the oil is . . . ”
“And what if it is?” Harper asked. “Can’t we decide we don’t want them here for no reason other than we don’t want them? Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with politics or thinking one belief is good and another bad. Maybe it’s our ranch, and we want it to look like this for the next generation.”
Nobody countered her.
“As I recall, there’s a great picnic spot around the next curve,” Mia said.
“I’m all for that,” Joely agreed. “I know there’s chocolate in our saddle bags.”
The entire mood lightened. Once they’d tethered the horses, their mother pulled a large, blue-and-white checked cloth from her
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