Page 32 of Up in Smoke

I roll my eyes. The truth is that Iwantedto spend time with him since getting home from the baseball game two weeks ago, and that terrified me. Avoiding it seemed safe.

I hold my breath and widen my eyes when Tripp and his horse move toward the fence on the side of the barn. My horse follows them at a slow pace like he’s done this a few thousand times before.

We’re side by side when both horses stop under a shade tree. Tripp nods proudly, and I try not to squeal with excitement.

“So? What do you think? Last time you were here, it was dark out.”

I look out at the ranch. “I think it’s paradise on earth. And a little dusty.”

He doesn’t respond, but I catch his soft laugh. My gaze turns back toward him, and he seems deep in thought. I don’t look away from his side profile when he leans forward on the horn of his saddle and continues gazing out to the pasture that’s peppered with bright, yellow buttercups. He’s in his element, and it’s impossible to ignore how satisfied he seems right now.

I like the friendly texts we’ve been exchanging. But this is better. So much better.

“It probably sounds crazy to most people,” he says. “But I could be dirt poor and live out of a broken-down shack with two potatoes and a gallon of milk for the week. As long as I had my horse, I’d still be happy.”

Something about the way he said it—so plainspoken and sure—makes me pause. Most people, including me, talk about happiness as if it’s something they’ll earn once everything in their life is perfect: the house, the job, the bank account. But Tripp stripped that all down to bare bones with no hesitation.

I believe what he said, and I admire his simple contentment. That kind of outlook doesn’t come easily. He was either raised to think that way or clawed his way to that perspective after lifegutted him one too many times. Either way, I don’t think Tripp chases after shiny objects to feel fulfilled. What he said means that he doesn’t take the little things for granted, and he and I have that in common.

In contrast to the fear I feel sitting atop a horse for the first time, it makes me want to trust him.

“That surprises me about you,” I admit.

His head swivels in my direction. “What, you thought I was shallower than that?”

Despite some of the things I’ve heard about Tripp, I knew from our trip to the city a few weeks ago that he isn’t a shallow guy. He played catch with those kids in the outfield for an hour, at least. After that, I think I already knew he prioritized things that make his heart happy instead of materialistic things.

“No,” I correct him. “I meant the last part of what you said. I know you work on this ranch, but I guess I didn’t really peg you for a bonafide cowboy attached to his horse over everything else. Shouldn’t you have a handlebar mustache or something?”

“Jesus,” he scoffs playfully. “Should I pack a dip in my lip and spit into a brass jug on the floor while I get to work on growing more classic cowboy facial hair?”

“You know what I mean,” I say with a small laugh. “I know stereotypes are dumb. But you’re different from how I pictured a cowboy.”

His slow grin makes me blush. “You don’t like how I look, Mace?”

Mace.

I giggle. Fuckinggiggleat the shortened version of my name like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard it. It’s not—but he said it like he couldn’t help but throw it in. Not to ruffle my feathers. Almost like he wanted to make damn sure whatever I decide to say next won’t be a lie.

“Fishing for compliments now?” I roll my eyes and run my thumb over the smooth edges of the reins in my hands.

“Always. Just tell me I’m pretty,” he teases. “You know you want to.”

I tilt my head and study him. No cowboy hat today. Instead, his sporty ball cap is turned backward. My line of sight falls to the tiny glint of a gold chain tucked into his faded, cutoff t-shirt. Then lower, over his jeans with holes in the knees.

His boots are on, but the rest of him could have fooled me into thinking he worked anywhere but a ranch his entire adult life. He’s an enigma—so uniquely different in the way he dresses and carries himself, but still deeply ingrained in the lifestyle here.

“Sure, you’re pretty. Pretty lucky I don’t have good enough balance to shove you off your horse with a swift kick.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. One hand is braced on the back of his saddle, and he lifts his hips to reposition his body again.

“Maybe I don’t look the part,” he admits. “But it’d take a hell of a lot more than a kick to knock me off my horse. Even then, I’d jump right back on. That cowboy enough for ya?”

I nod. “Okay, I think I get it now. It’s all in the mindset.”

“You’re catching on.”

Regal, his chestnut mare, shakes her head to shoo away the fly that’s trying to land on her nose. Her long, dark mane tosses back and forth three times, and she lets out a dramatic huff through her nostrils.

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