Page 29 of Untruly With You

At least I can be honest with this, seeing as how I can’t break something I don’t truly hold.

“I promise.”

14

SUTTON

My sleeping pillwears off right as the morning sun is peeking over the mountains outside the window. I squint in the dawn light, trying to make sense of everything.

And then I see her.

Even in that ridiculous shirt, with her limbs wildly strewn out, and her bangs sticking up at all angles, Laine looks beautiful. Somehow, a subtle wash of red still stains her lips, turning them a shade that perfectly matching my mother’s peonies out in the garden.

Realization hits me all at once like a punch to the face. I actually slept with—rather, near—Laine. The girl I’ve been—as Frankie so embarrassingly put it—pining after. Pining ever since the night of the date auction. Maybe even since she came into class late in her bright patterns, demanding to be seen.

It’s a good thing I took that Ambien, otherwise I would’ve been up all night, acutely aware of her every movement, terrified I would do something embarrassing in my sleep. I almost close my eyes again to bask in Laine’s nearness, but it doesn’t feel right. Sleeping alongside her when I was knockedout was one thing. Lying here conscious, as my feelings are becoming harder to ignore, is a whole other thing.

I sit up as quietly as I can manage, my eyes still on her. She stirs a bit, covers her face with her arm, and tucks the corner of the patchwork quilt under her ankle. Her breaths even out once again, and her body relaxes completely.

I take twice as long as usual to get dressed, even though I’m just getting ready for a day on the ranch. It’s not my dream itinerary, working with Wells today, but Laine needs to make headway on her articles, and I don’t want to distract her. Knowing my father would be gone for a couple of days for his unspecified appointments, I encouraged Laine to take advantage of that and get as much interviewing done around the ranch as possible.

I’ve had little of an appetite since arriving back in Montana, so even though the cook has a solid start on the breakfast spread he’s prepping for all of the ranch hands, I grab only an apple on my way outside.

Staying away from the barns yesterday was intentional. Laine would have loved a tour of them, I’m sure, but I couldn’t bring myself to get too close right away. The farthest building, the bunkhouse, is already alive with raucous laughter and teasing. I nearly get to the open door before doubling back and heading for the stables, not yet ready to face the others I’ll be working with today.

If I stop overthinking, it can almost feel as though no time has passed. The sound of dirt under my old boots, the morning chill, that distinct smell of hay and sun-warmed wood mingling with the sharp tang of leather and faint traces of horses—it’s a scent that lives somewhere deep in my memory, tangled up with summers spent working under skies of endless blue.

Did I even move to New York?

Did I spend six years in school?

Or am I still eighteen years old, living every day on this stretch of practically untouched land?

Hank sold my paint horse the same day I moved away, but the others I was familiar with are still here, with the addition of a couple of new adults and three foals. Even Duke’s horse is here, in the last stall. He’s a gorgeous quarter horse with a russet coat, a blaze of white down the center of his face, and matching white socks on each leg. When Duke was here, he was on his horse daily and pampered it to death—constantly training, brushing, and bonding with it. His horse, in turn, took on Duke’s same personality—gentle yet powerful. However, it’s been six years since Duke was here. And if Wells took over the care of his horse, maybehispersonality rubbed off on it, meaning I need to approach cautiously.

“Hey, bud,” I whisper as I close the final distance between the horse and me. I hold a hand out high, pausing midair to study the horse’s reaction. It blinks and tips its nose down, almost bowing. My hand falls to its forehead and down its muzzle. “Come on,” I murmur. “You’re mine today.”

The ranch hands come in as I’m bridling Duke’s horse. I look at the group of twelve, doing my best to not appear as sheepish as I feel. There are a handful of unfamiliar faces, but some of them have been around since I was a kid.

“Mornin’,” I say, shocking myself by subconsciously dropping the “g.” I pull the horse along with me as I walk to the group. Some smile. Some glare. All seem to know exactly who I am, but I introduce myself anyway. “I’m Sutton Davis. I’m Hank’s…” Am I technically the oldest now? No, that doesn’t feel right. “I’m his…other son.”

“The writer,” one of the younger in the group says, crossing his thin arms. Just by his wiry build, I know he’s new to the ranch.

“Editor.” Assistant editor, technically. Andtechnically, noteven that for a few more weeks. They don’t need to know that, though.

Bill, who has been working at Silver Ridge since it was my grandpa’s, nods at me, the closest thing I’ll get to a welcome. “You’re here for Wells’ wedding?” Bill’s silver mustache hangs so low it nearly touches his chin. He was always friendly to me when I was young and even kept a pocket full of Werther’s Original caramels to give to me and my siblings whenever we walked by. But now, there’s no hint of kindness in his eyes. And of course, no candy offering.

I know my father and brother feel I abandoned the ranch and, by extension, they feel I abandoned them. I suppose the others here must think the same. Beyond that, Wells surely hasn’t had the best things to say about me to them over the past years.

“Yeah, I’m here for the wedding,” I confirm.

A few of the familiar employees lean over to the ones I don’t recognize, hushed conversations slipping between them. I can’t actually hear what they’re saying, but it’s no mystery.That’s the brother who dated the bride-to-be.The fresh faces light up with amused delight.

Then, one of them barks out a laugh. “She must be a hell of a lay,” he says, loud enough for us all to hear.

A voice so strong it’s unfamiliar in that moment booms out. “Who?”

Wells strides in, his scowl accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes. He’s only twenty-three, but his voice was enough to flatten any humored smiles. To me, he’s still the sixteen-year-old kid getting in trouble for sneaking into bars and getting into fights. As such, his bravado makes me cringe, but for a moment, I can see him as the others do. Strong-willed. Commanding. Powerful.

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