Page 42 of Not Our First Rodeo
“What did you have in mind?”
The urge to put a smile on her face feels just as necessary as breathing. “I was thinking you could sit on my lap. Bounce around a little to really sell it, you know?”
She rolls her eyes, but I’m gratified when a laugh slips out of her mouth and her hands lose the death grip they have on each other.
“Oh, I know,” I say, letting a smile slip into my voice. “You could take your shirt off.”
“Come on, Beau,” Elsie says, and climbs out of the truck without waiting for me to turn it off.
I follow after her. When we get to the door, she turns to face me, her eyes alight in a way that feels like a punch straight to my gut. She’s so stunning it hurts.
“I’ll squeeze your hand three times if I want to leave.” She holds my gaze as she says it, and I know she’s thinking the same thing. That’s always been our signal, but it meant something different. Those three squeezes stood forI love you, and we did them all the time. Three squeezes to her hips as I’d pass her in the kitchen while she was making stir-fry for dinner. Three squeezes of my hand when we’d attend a wedding and Elsie was feeling sentimental watching the couple exchange their vows. Three squeezes to her thighs when I was between them, showing her how much I loved being there.
I clear my throat, feeling like my heart is stuck in it. “Three squeezes, it is.”
Elsie nods once, wiping away the last vestiges of vulnerability from her expression, and squares her shoulders before knocking on the front door.
A moment later, it swings open, and an older version of Elsie stands in the doorway, face sour. “You’re late.”
“Nice to see you too, Mother,” Elsie deadpans.
Diana Huntzberger rolls her eyes in the exact way that Elsie has perfected, her short blond bob tucked neatly behind her ears. “Obviously, it’s nice to see you, Elsie.” She pauses, then murmurs beneath her breath but purposefully loud enough for us to hear, “It would have just been nicer fifteen minutes ago.”
“There were cows in the road,” Elsie says, walking into the hall, me on her heels. This is a lie, but it’s better than telling her mom she was dry humping my leg while I licked her neck.
Diana’s brow wrinkles. “Why must there always be livestock in the roads here?”
“It’s Montana, ma’am,” I say.
Diana turns to me, looking like she’s just noticed me here. Elsie gives me a look, but I don’t miss the way her lips roll together to keep from laughing.
“Ranchers should really do a better job of keeping watch over their cattle,” Diana says pointedly. “Isn’t that why you all are always out mending fences all day?”
“That is one aspect of my job, yes.”
“Beau is a horse trainer, Mom,” Elsie says with a sigh, pressing two fingers to the space between her brows like a headache is already forming there. “How many times do we have to go over this?”
“Don’t worry, I can mend a fence with the best of them.”
“Yes, well,” Diana says, ignoring both of us, “let’s get out of the foyer. Your father is in the living room.”
Elsie and I follow her mother through the house, our boots echoing on the marble floors. I always thought white marblefloors in rural Montana were stupid, but I guess Diana and Elsie’s father, James, aren’t spending any time in the dirt. Plus, they’re not the ones cleaning the floors. That job belongs to the housekeeper who comes once a week.
We pass the expansive kitchen and end up in the sprawling living room that overlooks the mountains. Even though the house is only on an acre of land, they still have stunning views. I’m sure whatever small ranch home was here before they bought the land and tore it down to build this house was chosen specifically for this view.
“Elsie, you’re here!” James pushes up from where he was seated on the couch, setting his iPad in his place. I’m sure that, before we arrived, he was checking stock prices or reading theWall Street Journalor whatever it is an investment banker does in his spare time.
Elsie smiles at her dad, looking a little more relaxed as he closes the distance between them and wraps her in a hug. It makes some of the worry in my stomach settle. I wouldn’t say that Elsie’s relationship with her parents is bad, but they have a very different dynamic than I do with my family. Diana was a professional ballerina in New York until she retired in her late thirties. She had Elsie two years later and passed her passion for dancing down to her daughter. When they decided they didn’t want to raise Elsie in the city and wanted to live in a more “rustic” area, they researched dance studios before even looking at jobs for James. Dance came first, and when they found a surprisingly elite dance studio forty-five minutes outside of Bozeman, James knew he could manage commuting and working remotely.
The three of them put everything into her dance career, hiring tutors to homeschool Elsie so she could focus on ballet during school hours, taking few vacations, even though they could afford them, and making sure Elsie had the most high-end gear.Their family unit was a team dedicated to one thing: Elsie going pro. So when she brought home a seventeen-year-old cowboy her junior year of high school, it didn’t go over well.
I’m still not sure exactly where I fit in their unit, but the more I’m learning about Elsie, the more I’m not quite sure she knows exactly where she fits anymore either. Without dance, she’s not doing her part, and I think that weighs heavily on her. And now that she’s pregnant, there’s even less of a chance of her going back to it.
We never told them we were expecting during the last pregnancy, and I’m not sure if she ever told them about the miscarriage. When I asked her after moving home if she told them about our separation, she said no, so I doubt she told them about the miscarriage either.
“How are you doing, honey?” James asks, holding Elsie out at arm’s length to examine her.
“She looks tired,” Diana says, concern crossing over her features.
