Page 158 of Lost Then Found
I told myself it was just a distraction. Something to do. A reason to get out of the house before I spiral any deeper over the Bluebell and everything that’s slipping through my hands faster than I can catch it.
But that was a lie. And I knew it.
I said yes because I needed to see him. Because no matter how hard I try to guard my heart, no matter how many times I remind myself that getting close to Boone Wilding could be a bad fucking idea—I can’t stop thinking about him.
About the way he looked at me the other night. Like I was something he’d been trying to find his whole damn life.
About the way he touched me—like he already knew every inch of me, like his hands remembered what my skin needed even after all these years.
Sex with Boone has never just been sex.
Even back then, when we were kids fumbling through it with shaky hands and too much want—he always knew how to get me out of my head. How to read me without asking questions. How to make me feel seen.
But the other night?
That was different.
That was something else entirely. Something that felt less like a hookup and more like a homecoming. Like I’d been holding my breath for a decade and he was the only one who could knock the air back into me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
It was slow, like he was savoring every second, like he was trying to etch the shape of me into his memory. It was the kind of connection that made me forget where my body ended and his began. It was the way he kissed me—hungry, desperate, but still so damn careful, like he knew I was fragile, like he was holding something breakable in his hands and wanted to prove he wouldn’t drop it this time.
And now I’m here, watching him with Hudson, watching the way he moves so effortlessly into this role he never knew he was supposed to have, and I feel it all over again—the ache of it, the weight of it, the terrifying realization that Boone Wilding is still the only person who has ever made me feel like I belong to someone.
I tighten my arms around myself as I lean against the fence, forcing myself to stay in the present, to focus on the scene in front of me. Boone, standing next to Hudson, teaching him—patient as ever. And Hudson, determined and stubborn, exactly like Boone.
I shake my head, smiling as I watch them. God, I love this. I love seeing them together, love the way Boone encourages him without an ounce of frustration. I love the way he fits into this role so naturally, like he was meant to be here all along.
Hudson lets out a triumphant yell as the rope finally catches, wrapping tight around an old fence post that Boone had set up for him to practice on. His whole face lights up as he turns toward me, beaming.
“Mom, did you see that?”
I nod, grinning. “Sure did, bud. That was pretty impressive.”
He pumps a fist in the air like he just won a championship. “I wanna do it again.”
Boone laughs, shaking his head as he steps in to adjust Hudson’s grip. “Alright, alright. One more time. But this time, keep your elbow up. Don’t drop it too soon, or you’ll lose your loop before it even gets where you want it.”
Hudson nods, focused as Boone demonstrates, his big hands moving with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from years of practice. I watch the way Hudson’s brows pinch together, the way he soaks in every bit of instruction Boone gives him, eager to get it right.
I let my gaze drift beyond them, taking in the ranch as the sun sinks lower. I forgot how beautiful it is this time of year. The pastures stretch wide and endless, a sea of green rippling in the breeze, flecked with wildflowers—lupine and Indian paintbrush, flashes of purple and red against the honey colored light. The air smells like warm earth and fresh grass, tinged with the faintest hint of horses and leather.
The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks still dusted with the last remnants of winter snow, but down here, spring is in full bloom, tipping toward summer. The sky is streaked in shades of amber and rose—a sunset that would make you stop and take notice, that settles something restless inside you.
I used to love this time of year. Used to love how the days stretched longer, how the nights carried the promise of something new. For years, I pushed that feeling down, locked it away with all the other things I tried not to think about.
But standing here now, watching my son, watching Boone, feeling the warm breeze against my skin, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—I could let myself fall in love with it again.
Boone claps his hands together, turning toward me with that easy, lopsided grin that always gets him what he wants. “Alright, your turn.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He gestures to the rope still dangling from Hudson’s hand. “C’mon, Lark. Show the kid how it’s done.”
Hudson snorts. “Yeah, right.”
Boone raises an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think your mom can do it?”
