Page 217 of Lost Then Found
Ridge stops. Blinks. “I came down here for a Pop-Tart. Why am I being slandered?”
Wren points her half-eaten brownie at him. “Don’t play dumb, Rodeo Romeo. We’ve heard the stories.”
He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, pops the cap, and takes a long sip before answering. “They’re not stories if they’re true.”
Wren narrows her eyes. “You’refoul.”
Boone laughs. “Pretty sure you signed a girl’s belt buckle with thatnickname.”
“Okay,onetime,” Ridge says, grabbing a Pop-Tart and tossing it onto the counter. “She asked!”
“She was eighteen,” Wren says.
“Her mom asked first!” Ridge yells.
Hudson gasps like he’s witnessing a crime. “You’re going to horny jail.”
Ridge points at him. “You probably didn’t even know what that word meant five minutes ago.”
Hudson shrugs. “And now I know too much.”
Ridge tears open the Pop-Tart wrapper like it insulted his honor. “You guys are the reason I have trust issues.”
“You have trust issues,” I say, “because you fall in love every six seconds and then panic when someone texts back.”
Boone nods. “He’s got a crush on the girl at the feed store again.”
Wren grins. “Which one? Jane? Or the one with the braids…Emma, right?”
Ridge walks out mid–Pop-Tart bite, flipping us off on the way. “I’m never coming back down here.”
I’m crying now. Hudson’s nearly on the floor.
“Promise?” Wren calls after him.
Hudson wipes a fake tear. “He was so young. So full of bad decisions.”
I laugh and glance up at Boone, still flushed from the heat outside, his shirt damp along his shoulders and chest. “Did you find everything you needed for Old Faithful?”
“Yeah,” he says, tugging off his hat and running a hand through those sweat-damp curls, flattening them before flipping the cap back on. “Had to get new wiring, though. What’s in there’s basically trash—frayed, probably from the last forty years of mice and weather.”
My brows pull together, picturing the old house, sun-bleached and half-forgotten. “What are you even gonna use it for when it’s done? Turning it into a moonshine still or something?”
Boone snorts, a quick grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nah. Gonna use it for storage. Tools, parts. Nothing exciting.”
I tilt my head, glancing at him like I’m trying to do the math. “But that house is huge. What could you possibly need to store out there?”
Before he can answer, Wren jumps in from the couch, wiping brownie crumbs off her fingers. “Probably the big stuff. Fencing gear, irrigation parts, maybe that busted generator no one’s dealt with. You can’t exactly stash that in the linen closet.”
Boone nods, his hand still warm on the small of my back. “Exactly. Just easier to keep it all in one place.”
I nod, even though something about it doesn’t sit right.
Some foolish part of me—quiet and hopeful, the part I don’t let out too often—had wondered if maybe he was fixing up Old Faithful for us. Me and Hudson. Not that he ever said that. Not that I ever asked. But the thought had crept in once or twice. Made itself at home.
I’ve always loved that house. Even the way it is now—weathered, cracked around the edges, half-swallowed by tall grass and wildflowers. It’s got this quiet strength to it. Like it’s waiting. Like it still believes someone will come back for it.
You can see it if you really look.
