Page 239 of Lost Then Found
I park in the gravel drive beside the main house, the Montana sun sinking low behind the indigo mountains, turning the whole sky apricot. Boone’struck is parked out front and the bike he got Hudson is tipped over in the grass, one handlebar caught in the sprinkler hose like he bailed mid-flight. It makes me smile.
We haven’t said it out loud, but we’ve basically moved in. Or I have. My things are scattered in drawers I didn’t fill on purpose. My toothbrush is next to his. There’s half-used bottles of my shampoo and conditioner in the shower that I didn’t buy. Every time I bring up heading back to my place, Boone barely looks up before saying something like, “You mean just to grab more stuff, right?” Once, I found him folding my laundry—badly—and when I raised an eyebrow, he just shrugged and said, “Didn’t want you to run out of clean clothes. Figured that’d be a reason to leave.”
It’s not subtle, what he’s doing. He wants me here. Wants us here.
But I can’t pretend I don’t love waking up in his bed, in his T-shirts, with his arm around my waist and his breath on my neck. I love the way he kisses me good morning like he’s waited all night to do it. I love the way he listens to me when I talk all night, like what I say matters, like it stays with him. Loving him is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
Loving Boone Wilding was never careful. It was untamed and inevitable, like stepping into a river and knowing the current might take you under. But some loves don’t let you wade in slow. Some loves grab you by the hands and pull. And maybe I spent too many years fighting the tide. Maybe I was always meant to be carried home
They’re in the yard when I pull up—Boone in cutoff sleeves, Hudson’s glove already on, a ball soaring between them like it has a mind of its own. The sky’s turned that soft, glowing kind of blue it only seems to be in June, the breeze tugging at the edges of Boone’s T-shirt and lifting Hudson’s hair off his forehead.
Baseball season started a few weeks ago, and Hudson’s already had two games. He plays shortstop like he was born to do it—quick hands, steady nerves, eyes sharp. Every evening after dinner, they’re out here. Boone calls it “getting his arm warm,” but I think he just likes the ritual of it. Hudson does too. He stands taller now, throws harder. Laughs more.
This is what I used to imagine, back when I still believed things mightgo the way I always hoped they will. Before I knew what it meant to sit alone at parent-teacher conferences, to fill in the “father” line on school forms with a blank space. I didn’t know how much it would matter—this moment, right here. Boone’s voice calling across the yard. The showing up. The being there. The knowing someone’s always going to throw the ball back.
I park and sit for a second, watching them. Boone tosses the ball, and Hudson catches it clean, his grin wide enough to be seen from here. Boone says something I can’t hear, and Hudson doubles over laughing.
My heart does that annoying thing where it climbs too high in my chest and presses into my throat.
Hudson spots me first. He lifts his glove high and waves it in the air, grinning so wide I can see every tooth from here. Boone glances over his shoulder, catches sight of me, and that smile he saves just for me stretches across his face, dimples deep and shameless. His hair’s gotten longer—dark curls brushing the tops of his broad shoulders now—and his stubble’s gone full beard, scruffier. If he didn’t look like a rugged, swoony rancher before, he sure as hell does now.
Sweat clings to his skin, making every muscle stand out sharper under the sun. I can see the curve of his abs through the thin fabric of his cutoff as he tugs the glove from his hand and drops it on the porch. He says something to Hudson, then jogs toward me, chest heaving, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing he sees.
I get out of the car, already shaking my head.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me in like it’s been a week instead of an afternoon. I squeal as he lifts me off the ground, my arms wrapping around his neck. He smells like salt and sun, and I should push him off, but I don’t.
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, but I don’t mean it. Not even a little.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “I thought that’s how you liked me,” he murmurs. “Hot and dirty.”
I roll my eyes but he kisses me before I can say anything else. Then he breaks it, eyes on mine. “I missed you today.”
“You say that every day,” I say, smiling in spite of myself.
He sets me down and brushes hair away from my face, his fingers grazing the side of cheeks. “I mean it every day.”
I loop my arms around his neck and tug him down until his mouth meets mine. There’s nothing slow about it. It’s immediate, all heat and tension and the kind of want that simmers all day before spilling over. His lips part against mine, and I take advantage, kissing him deeper, rougher, until he exhales into me like he’s been holding his breath. His bottom lip is full and warm beneath mine, and when I suck it into my mouth, he lets out the quietest sound. A little moan that vibrates straight through my chest.
His fingers grip my waist like he’s trying to steady himself, but I can feel the shift in him. The urgency. The way he leans in like he’d take this further if we weren’t standing in the middle of the damn yard.
“Think we should head back to the cabin,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I can show you how much I missed you.”
A loud cough cuts the air, and we both turn to find Hudson standing a few feet away, glove tucked under his arm, brow arched like he’s the parent and we’re the ones who need boundaries. “There’s a child here, remember?”
Boone lets go and laughs, ruffling Hudson’s hair. “Get used to it, kid.”
“Never,” Hudson deadpans, but his arms are already around me in a hug, squeezing tighter than usual.
I kiss the top of his head, which now reaches just below my nose. He’s growing so fast it almost hurts to look at him. His skin is dark from all the sun, his nose and cheeks dusted with light freckles that match Boone’s in the summer. His curls have gotten long, thick and chocolate brown, soft under my hand. He started growing them out after Boone did. He said it was just for fun, but I know better. I see the way he watches his dad, I see the way he copies him.
It undoes me a little, every single time.
Boone’s hand grazes the small of my back as we walk toward the porch. “How was work?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the low purr of a car engine interrupts me.Tires crunch over gravel behind me, and when I glance over my shoulder, my breath sticks.
It’s a car that doesn’t belong out here. Not on ranch land. Not with the sun still hanging low and the scent of hay still fresh in the air. A sleek black Audi SUV—washed, waxed, and definitely out of place. City money. Probably has a phone charger built into the dash and air vents that smell like eucalyptus.
