Page 145 of Lost Then Found
“They’re only a year and a day apart,” I explain. “Same sign.”
Her mouth softens, eyes flicking back to the ink on my skin. “I knew they were close in age, but I didn’t remember them beingthatclose. I thought there were at least a couple years between them.” She pauses, considering, then snorts softly. “Poor Molly. Two babies so close together.”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “And born in July in Montana. A different kind of torture. She always said she barely had any time to heal before she was pushing another Wilding out into the world.”
Lark lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds about right.” She grins, sliding her fingers over my arm again, tracing the lines of ink. “So, you’re into astrology now?”
I glance down at my forearm, flexing my fingers slightly. “No. I don’t know much about constellations or star signs or any of that shit,” I admit. “I saw them in a tattoo shop when I was overseas and figured, why not?”
Lark nods, her touch lingering. I watch her for a second, the way she seems to be studying me, committing the ink to memory like it means something to her, too.
I clear my throat. “I should probably get something for Hudson at some point.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine, something soft passing over her features. “He’d think that’s pretty cool.”
Then she scrunches her brows, her fingers drifting to the inside of my other bicep. She’s still tracing the lines of ink when she tilts her head, studying it closer.
“What’s this one?”
A strange sensation unfurls in my chest, something sharp and vulnerable. Her touch lingers over the small design, and then her breath catches.
Her eyes widen as she looks up at me. “Are those…are thosedaisies?”
I nod once, shifting beneath her, suddenly too aware of everything—her fingers on my skin, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s trying to findthe right words, the way her voice has gone impossibly soft.
“For me?” she whispers.
“For who else?”
Her mouth opens, then closes again, her throat working around something unsaid. She looks back at the ink, at the tiny bouquet permanently etched into my skin, her fingers light as she traces over the petals.
Lark has always loved daisies, even when we were little. Especially the yellow ones. They grew wild all over the ranch, sprouting along the fence posts, peeking out from the tall grass, popping up in the fields where the horses grazed.
She spent hours picking them, collecting as many as her little hands could carry, until she’d drop them in a messy pile at her feet and start all over. Eventually, my mom gave her a basket, and after that, she was never without it, dragging it behind her, filling it to the brim with little yellow flowers.
She and Sage and Wren used to make things out of them. Flower crowns, necklaces, bracelets—whatever they could string together. Then they’d chase me and Ridge around with them, determined to makeuswear them, giggling when we groaned and let them tie daisy chains around our wrists, around the horses tails, along the porch railing.
I didn’t know it then—not really—but that time was sacred. Those long summer days, the sound of her laughter, the way she’d beam every time she looked down at the basket overflowing with yellow daisies in her arms.
As she got older, she stopped carrying the basket. Stopped picking them by the handful. But she never stopped loving them.
And somehow, without ever meaning to, I started picking them for her.
I’d be out on the ranch, checking fence lines, riding out to bring in the cattle, sweating under the Montana sun, and I’d see one—just a little yellow daisy, standing stubborn in the dirt, growing wild between the sagebrush. And I’d pick it without thinking about it. Without questioning why.
I’d tuck it into my glove, keep it safe in the pocket of my jeans, hold onto it all day just so I could give it to her later. Sometimes, I’d find her leaningagainst the porch railing, talking to Sage, or in the barn, brushing out one of the horses’ manes. I’d pass by, slip the daisy into the back pocket of her jeans, and keep walking, like it meant nothing.
Other times, I’d tuck it behind her ear, thread it into the braid she always used to wear when we were teenagers, my fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck as I worked it in.
I don’t know what she did with them after that. I never asked.
But I do know I kept picking them.
And now, years later, those same daisies are inked on my skin. Her name might not be written there, but we both know exactly who they belong to.
She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine, quiet but expectant. “Why?”
“You know why.”
