Page 75 of Untruly With You

Hank wants me and Wells to help him with something on the ranch. I’ll be back tonight. I miss you.

The sky is dark, so unless I’m mistaken, I think that means it’s nighttime. Any update on when you’ll be home?

Are you stuck in the storm?

Text me when you can.

Then the next day’s.

Can we talk, Laine?

Bill said you’re on your way back to the city. Can I call you before your flight?

Will you text me when you get home so I know you’re safe?

I’m sorry for what I said.

My fingers barely move when I type and delete message after message. Nothing sounds right.

“Son!” Hank’s voice snaps me out of my stupor. “You don’t look so good.”

All I can do is nod.

Wells rubs the back of his neck. “I’m headed out to check the trails, see if any got washed out by the storm. Come with me. You can—I don’t know—get some fresh air or something.”

I give another nod.

Duke’s horse is on-edge while I saddle him, even more so than he was during my first ride with him last week. Not wanting to leave my copy ofPeter Panor, more importantly, the note inside, in the barn, I tuck it in the saddle bag, triple-checking that the straps are secured before swinging myself up onto the horse. As soon as I do so, something jabs in my thigh, and I pull out Laine’s lipstick tube from my pocket. I hadn’t realized I grabbed it this morning.

After opening the tube, just to see that familiar shade of red, I place it in the chest pocket of my snap-up work shirt, just below the embroidered “S” of our family’s cattle brand.

As soon as I kick my stirrups, Duke’s horse rears its head and lets out a harsh whicker.

“He’s been like that ever since the storm,” Wells explains.

I follow behind Wells’ horse, hoping it’ll keep Duke’s in line. “What’s the weather supposed to be today?”

Wells shrugs. “Little rain. Nothing bad.”

Overhead, clouds kiss the mountaintops. They’re white and as fluffy as cotton candy. “What’s got you worried, bud?” I ask, patting the horse’s shoulder.

35

LAINE

When I getto the restaurant Ophelia suggested, I find her already seated at one of the sidewalk tables. She’s wearing a monochromatic outfit, a periwinkle turtleneck, a blazer, and a mini-skirt that shows off her mile-long legs. And though my wildly patterned outfit is a far cry from her put-together look, she gives mine an impressed nod after looking me up and down.

She hugs me, grinning. “Please tell me you dressed like that in rural Montana,” Ophelia says, touching the arm of the yellow-and-green jacket I layered over my lavender tank top and orange pants.

“This, plus red cowgirl boots,” I say, relief lightening my words. I spent all morning mentally preparing for the worst, but Ophelia’s excitement calms my worries. For the first time in days, my smile feels natural.

She motions for me to take a seat, and I join her at the table. The street is bustling with people, and I try to ignore the overwhelm creeping into me. After just a week in West River, I somehow acclimated far too easily to it. Even in the throes of a fake relationship, the world felt serene there.Now, every honking horn, every ring of a bike bell, and every clang of machinery feels like a needle stinging my skin. I refocus on Ophelia, pretending all the background noise isn’t there.

“I've been going through the updated drafts you sent me. And I’m impressed. You've captured the essence of Montana in a way that's authentic and captivating,” Ophelia commends, her eyes gleaming with genuine enthusiasm. “Thatwas the voice we were looking for.”

Another crashing wave of relief crashes over me. “I’m glad you liked them. Montana was inspiring, to say the least.”

“Liked them?Lovedthem,” Ophelia gushes. “I handle most ofWonderings’online presence, and I want to run all the stories on our website. And when I showed them to Adam, he was equally impressed. He is thinking about focusing an entire issue on the wonders of the west. We would probably hire some more freelancers, locals from other rural towns, but we want your articles to be the centerpiece.”

---