Page 21 of Untruly With You

“It was my pride and joy when I bought it in high school,” Sutton says, smiling at the memory. “Frankie dropped it off for us.”

After loading our bags into the back, Sutton opens the passenger door, which is already unlocked, for me. When he gets into the driver’s seat, he flips the visor down. The truck’s key falls into his lap.

“And with a hiding place like that, it’s a wonder that this thing didn’t get stolen,” I say sarcastically.

“I’m shocked Frankie didn’t just leave the keys in the ignition. So paranoid,” he jokes.

Our drive to West River is over an hour long, and I stare out the windows for almost all of it, often with my mouth agape. Before us, the Montana landscape unfolds, each passing mile revealing an additional layer of its natural beauty. The road winds through valleys and trees, passing by rustic barns, quaint towns, andlotsof cattle. The charm of the scenery is unlike anything I've ever experienced—far better than any Hallmark movie I’ve seen—and I find myself utterly captivated by it all. Sutton, meanwhile, spends most of the drive white-knuckling the steering wheel, his shoulders held high and tense.

Distraction time.

“So,” I say, “what can I expect from you as my fake boyfriend?”

The corner of Sutton’s mouth lifts. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what would it look like to date Sutton Davis? Are you the kind of boyfriend to hold hands in public? Are you going to start calling me something cheesy likehoneypot? Are you going to finish my—”

“Sentences,” he interjects. Sutton’s smile grows across his cheeks, showing off his dimples. “I’m not sure what it would be like to date me. It’s been a while since I dated,” Sutton says.

“How long?”

Sutton winces, and I know the answer before he says anything.

“You’re not telling me it’s been…”

“Six years,” he confirms. “Cassidy was my last relationship—my last serious one, at least.”

“Well,” I say, trying to act unfazed by that news, “you’ll just have to follow my lead, then.”

“As if you have so much experience in relationships,” Sutton says, grinning. I feign offense, and a laugh rumbles in Sutton’s chest. “Laine, you’re the one who said relationships ‘just aren’t for me right now.’”

Sutton turns off the highway, and we come upon a small and spread-out town nestled against the backdrop of the downright majestic mountains. As we drive through the outskirts, a mix of excitement and nervousness dances in my chest. Here, Sutton’s memories and emotions are deeply ingrained. I'm about to step into his world.

Quaint storefronts line West River’s main street, each with its own unique character. There's a rustic beauty to the architecture and hand-painted signs outside of every store. There’s only one lane of traffic in either direction. It only takes us a few minutes to get through the “city” of WestRiver. From what I can see, there’s only one stoplight, one grocery store, and not a single chain restaurant.

We cross a small bridge over the fast-moving river and drive higher and deeper into the mountains. The road turns from asphalt to gravel, and the truck bobs over the washboards. Even with the windows up, the smell of the forest fills the cab of the truck, thanks to the trees that hug either side of the road.

After twenty minutes on the gravel, we arrive at a massive arch with stone and log pillars and a black iron gate between them. Sutton slows to a stop, waits a moment, and the gate opens slowly. As we pass under it, I peer up, marveling at the sight of the grand entrance, and see an S with a curved line above and below it.

Silver Ridge Ranch.

The trees widen, allowing a valley to come into view. Though it feels like we’ve already climbed high into the mountains, there is still a backdrop of peaks beyond the ranch, their frosty tips piercing the pale-blue sky that seems to go out forever and forever.

“This is it,” Sutton says, his eyes locked on the buildings ahead. The main building on one side, like the archway, consists mainly of stone and logs. Across the impossibly green yard, there are four white barns, each one facing in toward a central point. I crane my neck to view out every window of the truck and spot three more cabins on the outskirts of the private valley.

I laugh is disbelief. “This is…gargantuan.”

“So open, so big…but so suffocating,” Sutton saying, a grim smile curving his mouth. “One hundred and fifty thousand acres in all.”

“It’s cute that you say ‘acres’ as if I have any sort of gauge for what that means.”

“To put it in perspective, New York City is just under two hundred thousand,” Sutton says.

I whistle. “Do I need a passport to get in here? Do you have your own governing body? A militia?”

As we get closer to the main home, more details come into view. Warm light pours out from the windows. A wraparound porch borders the front and sides, with lights strung between its columns. Flowerbeds in front of the house bloom in brilliant shades of pink, orange, and purple. A woman about my age with long, curly blonde hair sits on the front step. When she hears the crunch of gravel under our tires, she snaps her head up.

I can hear her yell through the closed windows of the truck. “Sutton!” She runs toward us, her smile so big it must be hurting her cheeks. She hits Sutton’s driver’s side window with her palms. As soon as Sutton cuts the engine, she opens his door, dragging him outside and into a hug.

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