Page 24 of Untaming the Cowboy
She took note of the way his mouth moved, how his lashes lowered, the reverence in the chew. Something stirred low in her belly, heat curling through her as she imagined that mouth somewhere else entirely.
Her gaze found that cleft in his chin. That chin. Her inner voice was already misbehaving, whispering things about riding his face like he was a goddamn four-wheeler.
She took a generous gulp to cool down, burping softly after that fast chug.
He looked at her, arching a brow. “You good?”
“Don’t you start.” She pressed fingers to her lips, laughing. “I know Granny would’ve popped me for being unladylike.”
“You’d have deserved it.”
“Boy, hush.”
He didn’t. Luc leaned back, nursed his drink, and talked. Really talked. He told her about a father who wore patriotism as if it were a second skin and about a big brother who tried to be a map of that man. Then he shared about the funerals when neither of them made it back from war, their flags folded tight and given to his mom as a final tribute to their service and sacrifice for the country. And how he and his younger brothers followed them into service because it felt like duty.
“My mama’s still outside Houston,” he said evenly. “One of my younger brothers lives with her. He . . . he didn’t leave the way he should’ve.” His jaw went tight as a cinch. “A dishonorable discharge he won’t talk about it. I don’t force him.”
“And your other brother?”
“Air Force. Based in Warner Robins.” He peered at her over the rim of his beer. “That close to Briarwick?”
“Bout two hours south.” She met his look. “Why? Planning a detour next time you visit him, cowboy?”
Color rose again, painting his bronze skin in a slow, earthy flush that had nothing to do with the kitchen light, making her want to touch him just to feel it bloom. “Yeah,” he finally said, a smirk settled on his full lips as those stormy eyes stared back at her. “Maybe I am.”
Dahlia swallowed hard, redirecting them back to their G-rated conversation rather than let him know about her naughty thoughts. She decided to tell him about her family’s small farm—feed sacks and rain puddles, cousins chasing chickens at dawn. About milking cows that stomped mud all over their sneakers and roosters that had no respect for sleep. She spoke of Darnell, her father who loved hard and gave her life’s anecdotes, Juniper, her mother who believed the earth sent messages in birdsong and swore the devil tried to hide in sugar.
“Mama heard things the rest of us couldn’t,” she said lightly, keeping the weight from her voice. “She’s at peace now, though.” Dahlia’s fingers curved into quotation marks. “Daddy and my grandparents always called her a ‘free spirit’—their way of saying untamable but precious. Apparently, I inherited that particular trait.”
Luc nodded once, then tipped the can back for a long pull.
“So, she nudged, curiosity winning over caution, “what brings a Houston boy all the way out here?”
He took another generous sip and set the can down with a soft thud. He looked at her as if he were a man studying a road that might lead home or off a cliff. “Long day tomorrow,” he said finally, not meeting her eyes. “We should turn in.”
She swallowed the push that wanted to rise. No. Let him keep that door locked for tonight. She rinsed their plates while he dried. They moved around each other without brushing, heat pooling in the inches they didn’t cross.
At the counter she reached for the teapot and explained every ingredient as she poured. “This blend is guaranteed to keep the ghosts of the past at bay. Won’t stop the dreams, but it dulls the jagged edges.”
She noticed his eyes following her hands. His gaze fixed on the rising steam.
“What exactly am I drinking?” Suspicion hardened his stare.
“Nothing that’ll have you speaking in tongues. It slows the mind without knocking you flat.” She extended the mug, he reached for it, his fingers brushing hers. “Drink while it’s warm.”
He sipped cautiously. His throat bobbed with the swallow, face pinching at first taste. But the honey must have softened the bitterness. His lips smacked appreciatively before he licked them clean.
“Not half bad,” he admitted.
She gestured toward the cup. “This is no miracle cure. But it helps.”
While he drank, Dahlia wiped down the granite countertop, then swept the kitchen floor. Later, they walked the hall together, a yellow glow from overhead pooling ahead of their steps. The house had that end-of-day hush, an emptiness that made every floorboard seem louder. He stopped a step short of her room. So she did too. He turned to face her.
“Thanks for the company at dinner.” His voice was lower, gravellier. Perhaps it was the tea already showing its effects. “And for . . . this,” he said, lifting his mug.
Her fingers curled against her thigh. “My pleasure. Anytime, cowboy.”
He stood there, something turning behind his eyes, something he fought like the big ones he’d already told her about. She waited him out, watching the battle play across his face until his knuckles grazed the doorframe, hesitated, then dropped away.
