Page 203 of Lost Then Found
Lark leans back slightly, her hand brushing my arm. “You think?”
“I know. She’s probably cooking him a three-course meal as we speak.”
Her lips twitch. “Fair.”
I glance toward the bedroom, then back to her. “What’re you wearing up there?”
She leans forward, grabbing her coffee. “I texted Wren earlier, asked if I could borrow a pair of jeans. Figured she’d ignore me, but she actually brought some down. We talked for a while. It was really nice, catching up with her again.”
I nod, pulling in a breath that’s equal parts relief and something else. “Told you she’d come around.”
She takes another sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim of the mug. “What about you? What do you have going on today?”
I lean against the counter, watching her fingers trace the edge of the laptop like she’s not even thinking about it. “Need to run into town, grabsome supplies for the ranch. But I could always do it later if you want me to stay.”
She tilts her head, considering. “I actually asked Wren earlier if she wanted to go riding. She said yes, and I’ve been itching to get back out there.” Her eyes flick up to mine. “It’s been too long.”
“That sounds fun,” I say, and I mean it. The idea of her and Wren spending time together again settles something in me. “You and Hudson wanna stay for dinner tonight? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She nods, already smiling. “Yeah, we’d like that.”
I check my watch, then glance at her again. “I’ve got some time before I need to leave.”
Her mouth pulls into something slow, almost teasing. “Time for what?”
I step forward, slipping a hand around her waist and pulling her into me. Her laughter bubbles up, but before she can say anything else, I lift her clean off the stool. Her legs wrap around me and she’s still grinning as I start toward the bed.
Her arms tighten around my neck as she tilts her head, mouth close to mine. “Just so you know, if you’re late for whatever you have going on today, it’s your own fault for getting distracted.”
I don’t say anything to that. Just carry her the rest of the way, her laughter soft against my throat as the afternoon light spills across the unmade bed and everything else fades away.
Chapter 22
BOONE
Kenny Chesney’s spilling through the speakers, window down, sun catching the dust trailing behind my truck as I pull off the main road and onto the gravel drive leading up to the Hart Ranch. His voice is too damn cheerful for how little sleep I’ve gotten lately, but I let it play, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel as the landscape stretches out ahead of me.
The Hart place comes into view just past the bend, nestled against a ridge that catches the light like it was made for it. Fields spread out wide and green, grazing land scattered with black Angus and a few red heifers, tails flicking, heads down in thick spring grass. Their barn sits tall and clean, a fresh coat of white paint still holding up against the weather, the roofline sharp against the open sky. Fences are straight, gates hung right, no slack or sag anywhere. The place has been well taken care of and it shows.
They’ve got less land than we do, but not by much—give or take a few acres, depending on whose side of the property line you’re standing on. Wilding Ranch still moves more horses, better bloodlines, and we’ve consistently beat them out at auction prices for cattle the last few years, but the Harts sure give us a run for our fucking money.
They train solid quarter horses, compete in the same circuits, and their breeding program’s been gaining traction. Their beef’s good—notWilding good—but good enough that buyers pay attention when they show up. They’ve got a crew that works clean, ranch hands that don’t cut corners, and every time we improve something—new equipment, upgraded fencing, better grazing rotations—somehow, they’re right behind us doing the same.
It’s not hostile, not anymore, but it’s close enough to keep things interesting. Every county fair, every auction, every season—it’s a quiet race no one’s conceding.
A pair of ranch hands are out in the lower field as I roll past, tightening fence wire. One of them waves, the other doesn’t bother. Across the pasture, a few more are working a young gelding in the round pen, its coat already slick with sweat, muscles bunching beneath it as it circles tight.
As I pull up the drive, their ranch name comes into view, carved deep into a weathered post at the entrance.HART RANCH – EST. 1921,their brand stamped below it.H¦R, the crossbar anchored tight, almost military in its precision. It’s simple, but it sticks. That brand’s on enough hides across this valley to mean something, to hold some weight.
Further in, the house comes into view and I have to slow down a little, taking it in. I’ve seen it before, but it still catches me off guard every damn time. The place is massive — easily three stories, a wraparound porch, pale stone façade with dark timber beams that give it that kind of modern ranch look people spend too much money trying to get right. Big windows, all perfectly clean, which tells me someone’s job around here is purely aesthetic.
Has to be big, though, for all the damn kids they’ve got. Six of them, maybe seven? I can never remember. All I know is there’s always more Harts than you think, and they show up everywhere. There’s never just one Hart anywhere in this town, which is probably by design.
A few sleek cars are parked out front, too shiny to belong to ranch hands. One of them’s a black Escalade, probably less than a year old. Next to it, a silver Audi SUV with custom plates, and a bright red pickup that’s definitely never hauled anything. The kind of cars that say money’s good,and they don’t mind you knowing it.
I pull up behind the lineup of spotless vehicles, Lucille grumbling a little as I shift her into park. Her paint’s chipped, dust clinging to the fenders. Parked behind cars this polished, she looks out of place. Doesn’t bother me. She’s got more miles in her than any of these pretty things.
I kill the engine and sit for a minute, my hand still resting on the keys. I know better than to walk into this without thinking it through. Vaughn Hart doesn’t just give things away—not information, not favors, not even a good goddamn mood unless he’s already decided it benefits him. I can’t come in hot, pressing him on what I want to know. That’d put his back up against a wall quick, and once he’s closed off, there’s no getting through.
