Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(69)
Somehow, even with all the vehicles outside, I didn’t expect the stands to be packed with more bodies than I’d ever seen at a rodeo. I wiggled my nose to cut through the burn as I looked around, pulling Blair’s hand onto my lap. And I blacked out until my name was said over the speaker. With a reassuring pat on the thigh from Blair, I stood and walked through the thick dirt to where George Shaw, Wells Canyon’s official rodeo announcer, was holding a microphone out for me. It was all slow motion, and filled with an anxious gut feeling similar to the way I felt climbing on a wild bronc or bull. Except lacking any sort of exhilaration.
It fucking sucked.
I cleared my throat, making the mistake of looking at the hundreds of beady eyes staring back at me, then found my girl. Her eyes met mine, and she pressed a kiss to her hand, tossing it discreetly my way like I’d done so many times to her over the years.
“My name’s Denver, and uh, Charles is—was my grandpa. As you may know, my grandpa wasn’t a big talker, and that’s a trait he passed down to basically everyone in the family…which is why they made the reckless decision to let me talk today.” I shrugged at the gentle laughter from the crowd. “Grandpa might not have been a talker, but he still managed to impart some pretty meaningful wisdom. ‘If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough,’ ‘You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his horse,’ and ‘Shut up, Denny.’ Sorry, Grandpa—last one didn’t stick too well.”
Blair smiled. Dad gave me a subtle head bob. Mom winked. So I pushed on: “Grandpa’s idea of a compliment was ‘you didn’t screw that up too badly,’ but he always made it clear how much he loved us. And by us, I don’t just mean his immediate family. He loved the ranch, the town, the people, and the animals. He’d give the shirt off his back, drive a tractor twenty minutes down the road to pull somebody out of the ditch, and give anybody a job if they needed back on their feet. We’ll miss the old cowboy—may his pastures be forever green, his horses fast, and his coffee always hot.”
Licking my chapped lips, I handed off the microphone and practically sprinted back to my seat—heart suddenly racing faster than it had been throughout the eulogy. Blair was waiting, ready to grab my shaking hands and hold tight. Jackson gripped my shoulder when I sat down, giving silent approval. And Mom leaned forward to give me a small smile, whispering that I’d done a great job.
When the final words were said, the crowd trickled down through the gates to where we’d been sitting. Despite clearly feeling exhausted from the trip out of the house, Mom put on a smile for about ten minutes before Dad insisted they leave. And, with the only other outgoing family member gone, it fell on me to accept condolences. Austin tried—shaking hands and nodding along as people felt obliged to share stories about our grandpa. Jackson, too. Although he was too much of an awkward motherfucker to even engage in conversation, for the most part.
But Blair stood with her arm around my waist, keeping me grounded. She talked when I couldn’t. She laughed at my ill-timed, and often dark, jokes.
“I’m never doing this again,” I said as we walked back to the truck. “It doesn’t matter how lighthearted you try to make it. It’s sad and it fucking sucks.”
There was no sense saying that, because we both knew I would be doing it again. Likely in the very near future. And it would be so much worse.
Denver
Denver: I found your old saddle while I was cleaning shit out of the shed. Should test it out sometime.
Blair: Found it? Or went looking for it so you had a reason to text me?
Denver: As if I couldn’t think of a million other reasons to text you.
Blair: Name one.
Denver: I saw a lab puppy in town, there was a grumpy cat meme that looked like you, I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked when I saw you at the big house earlier
Blair: Did you just compliment and insult my appearance in the same text?
Denver: It was a cute cat, and you looked really good
The past couple weeks have been a frenzied mixture of our typical summer work on the ranch—getting the hay cut and stored, checking on the grazing herds, fixing fences—combined with a lot of wedding prep for an event the women keep insisting is “low-key.” Plus, Blair is in a state of constant motion, always moving between a million tasks. So I’m left pining.
The way we’re texting every day while pretending like there’s nothing else going on is awfully reminiscent of when we first started dating as teens and were too nervous to tell our families. But back then, we could steal kisses in the barn or hold hands on the bus to get us by. Now it’s glimpses from afar when she’s on the ranch, our daily text conversations, and a couple of midnight phone calls to keep me on the hook.
And God, does Blair Hart know how to keep me hooked. Last week, she wore a miniskirt that the fashion gods obviously designed for quickies bent over her fucking desk. Today, a low-cut tank top and something spread across her freckled chest to make it shimmer in the sunlight as she helps Cecily decide how to lay out the reception tables. It doesn’t help knowing our tests both came back negative, and the next time I fuck her will be with nothing between us.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but the only thing happening for me is that I’m becoming accustomed to my dick being in a permanent semihard state, because I can’t stop thinking about how badly I want her.