Owen and I both respond with a dutiful “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Mitchell studies my face for a beat before walking inside.
Leaving Owen and me standing there.
“You couldn’t have told me about this?” I ask, with a stomach full of mad.
“Why don’t you check one of the twenty messages I left on your phone?”
Even angry, he’s so darn sexy. It infuriates me even more. “I needed at least another day to prepare.”
Owen’s voice is dry as wheat straw in a drought. “I can help you.”
I yank open the door. “You’ve helped more than enough.”
Chapter Fourteen
If winning the Civil War came down to who was the better camper, Owen would’ve been an all-star general. While I was the rotten corpse the company threw daisies on and left behind.
I stayed up late last night Googling important items such as tent pitching, camping necessities, and how not to become coyote bait. Surprisingly, there wasn’t too much on “camping with guys who make you mad but also turn you on.”
“I don’t need your help, Owen.” I stand on tiptoe and make another reach for my tent. “I can do this myself.”
“I’m just getting it out of the truck for you,” Owen says, with all the exasperation used on a tiresome child.
“I can get that.”
He spins around to face me, removing his sunglasses so I get the full effect of those storm-cloud eyes. “I get that you’re mad at me, but let me do my job. I’m pretty sure my carrying your tent isn’t going to shred your independence or lessen the impact of your grudge, especially with so few witnesses.”
“Fine.” My eyes narrow. “But I’ll put the tent together.”
His brows raise with obnoxious doubt. “Have you ever done that?”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin. “But it’s not like we’re constructing three-story houses here. I think I can manage.” I point to a flat spot on the ground a few feet away. “Just throw it there.”
“Is that where you’re making camp?”
“Yep.”
“Well, enjoy your alone time. Because the rest of us are hiking five miles into the woods and setting up somewhere else. I just assumed you’d want the food and water we brought, but I don’t want to interfere with your expert skills.”
Darn him. Darn that boy to Dixie and back.
“I guess I could join you.” I sniff. “For the good of the ranch.”
He wisely says nothing.
I, on the other hand, am not so smart. “But I will take my tent.”
He looks like he’s ready to throttle me and write it off as a camping casualty. “Did you catch the part where I said we’re hiking five miles?”
“You think I can’t do it?”
Owen moves close to me, plying his anger and body against my skin. “It’s not a question of my belief in your skill or intelligence, something I believe you possess a lot of. What this is about is your questioning everything I say, every small attempt at helping you. We agreed we would put aside our differences until we got back to the ranch. If you think you aren’t going to be able to follow through on that, tell me now so I can get a replacement.”
I know I’m being ridiculous. All I’m doing is poking the beehive and waiting for new stings.
“I can be civil.” I turn my head so he won’t see me roll my eyes. “But give me the freaking tent.”
Muttering a curse that could split the surrounding trees, he pushes the bag into my waiting arms.
And I nearly drop it.
“Can you carry that?” His shirt stretches across his back as he reaches in the truck for his own equipment.
“Yes.”
“Because this is my last offer.”
“You’re not my caddy.” I heave the awkward, oversized bundle higher into my arms, my shoulders already complaining. “Piece of cake.”
An hour later, I want to cry. Owen hadn’t mentioned that the terrain would be rocky and hilly, with absolutely no path, cutting across three ditches, one ravine, and some shallow bit of Sugar Creek that involved strategically hopscotching onto mossy rocks to avoid stepping right into the water.
I want to go back to the lodge.
I want to go back to New York.
I want a number four Value Meal at McDonald’s.
“You okay back there?” Owen has made his way to the end of the line of campers, waiting patiently on the other side of the creek for the last person to cross. And that would be me. I can’t even see most of our party, they’re so far ahead.
Those rude overachievers.
“I’m fine.” I don’t bother to make eye contact as I pass Owen. At least not until I feel the weight of a hundred elephants leave my back when he snatches my tent away from me.
“You are so damn stubborn.” He balances my tent with his, glaring behind those shades. “Just like your grandpa.”
“I’d like to carry my own stuff.”
“And I’d like to get to the battlefield before morning.”
He doesn’t even wait for a response, just turns and continues his hike. I’m so overheated and tired, I can’t think of a single quality comeback. All I can manage is a lip snarl as I follow.
“Okay, guys, we’ll set up camp here,” Owen says when we reach a clearing a mile later. He gives instructions for where he wants the tents, some additional how-to tips, and makes his rounds, assisting each person.
The campers, dressed in everything from shorts and t-shirts to one couple in authentic wool period costume, seem to know what they’re doing. It’s like the Tent Pitching Olympics. And not only do I not bring home the gold, I don’t even qualify. But the folks around me have their blessed shelters up in no time, and of course, they look perfect. No lean, no wobble, no person shaking her fist and kicking the canvas that simply will not cooperate. I consult the pamphlet of instructions, which seems to be written by someone with a PhD in being as vague as possible.
Owen starts my way, but I hold up a hand. “I got it.”
He inspects my progress, his head tilting one side, then the other. “Clearly you have it covered.”
“Clearly.” Did I need all those tent spikes? “I’ll have dinner going in no time.”
“Pretty good chance of rain tonight.” His accent is buttermilk dipped and sweet tea anointed. “But don’t worry. This baby’s water proof.” Owen walks right on by and pats my tent. “Unless you don’t put it up right.”
Chapter Fifteen
Plop. Plop. Plop.
My eyes spring open as drops of water ping me in the nose. I brush them away and notice my face isn’t the only place that’s wet. The entire bottom half of my sleeping bag is soggy.
Thunder rumbles outside the tent, and I sit up and look around, though I see nothing. Nothing but my own stupidity in not accepting Owen’s help in assembling my tent.
Surely the rain will stop. Because I will crawl naked across that battlefield in broad daylight with a smoking musket between my teeth before knocking on the door of Owen’s tent.
I stand up with the resolve of a thousand bra-burning feminists just as a clap of lightning illumines my tent.
And the whole sorry structure buckles.
The heavy top collapses, nearly knocking me to the wet ground. I throw out my hands and swim in the canvas like I’m caught in a riptide. My heart races, and I struggle to catch a good breath.
I’m dying.
Death by Crappy Tent.
The rain, falling in sheets, slaps against me like some weatherly dominatrix. Arms flapping, I throw out a judo kick in vain, only to slip and pitch backward right on my butt.
I’m drowning in a puddle of water and humiliation.
Just as I lie back, uncertain if it’s to amp up my fight or cross my arms prettily over my chest and die, there’s a whoosh.
And the water-heavy tent lifts from my shaking form.
“Avery?” Owen’s voice is loud and urgent.
&
nbsp; He holds up the reject teepee with one muscular arm, standing over me like an avenging god, ready to do battle with Poseidon, Zeus, and whoever else can do the cool party trick of shooting a lightning bolt on command. “What in the world are you doing?”
I shield my face from the rain. “Just hanging out. Getting closer to nature.”
He drops to his knees, impervious to the downpour. “Are you hurt?” His hands are suddenly everywhere, feeling every nook, crevice, and cranny of my body. I inhale a breath to protest, but when his fingers graze my sides, I forget where I packed my complaints.
“Are you hurt?” he repeats in a yell.
I finally remember to use my words. “No.”
Before I can say, “You have five minutes to stop touching me,” Owen lets the tent go, scoops me into his arms, and pulls us from the heaping mess in a move worthy of a Marvel hero. He runs us right into his own tent, where he deposits me on his sleeping bag. A lantern flares to life, casting a faint glow all around us.
“Don’t say it.” I wrap my arms around myself—cold, soaked, and not wanting to offer a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. “Do not say I told you so.”
“I’m not.” Water drips from his hair onto his cheek. “What I am saying is to get out of those clothes.”
I blink twice. Because that sounded fifty kinds of hot.
“Here.” He rifles through a duffle bag as the rain continues to hammer at his tent. His very sturdy tent. “Put these on.” Owen holds out a t-shirt and pair of shorts, his eyes traveling the wet outline of my form.
“Thanks.” My hand touches his as I grab the offering. “Any chance you have a bra in there?”
He doesn’t smile. “You could’ve been hurt. That tent could’ve made you a human lightning rod and nuked you like a burrito. Is your pride really that important?”
I clutch the clothes to my chest as wind howls outside. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry.” He swabs his forehead with a dash of his arm. “I want you to come to me if you need help. I want you to trust me. I want you to get that I’m not your enemy. So your ex-boyfriend was a loser—his loss. So your dad and grandpa wimped out on you—it was never about you. Not every guy on the planet is going to screw you over.”
I plant a hand on my hip. “Like when you decided I’d have lunch with Mitchell this week? Without asking me, without so much as a word?”
In one swift move, Owen peels off his wet shirt, exposing an upper body perfected by manual labor, the Southern sun, and angel-kissed genes. He digs into his bag again and pulls out another pair of jeans.
“All Mitchell wants is ten minutes to have more than a surface level conversation with you. Is that asking too much?”
“Yes.” So is being in this small space with a half-dressed Owen while still keeping my wits.
“He’s a nice man, Avery. He made some serious mistakes, and he wants to make up for them.”
“He can’t undo them.” My eyes widen in the dim tent. “What are you doing?”
“Changing into dry pants. You can stand there dripping wet all night if you want to, but I’m not.”
I turn and face the entrance. “You could’ve asked me to look away.”
“You’re awful bossy for someone who doesn’t have a place to sleep.”
I hear him shuck out of his water-tight jeans and imagine the view. The skin. The muscle.
“You can turn around now.”
My fantasy is interrupted way too soon.
Owen holds out a large white towel. “Your turn.”
“Can’t you just be a gentleman and turn around?”
“It’s three a.m., and I’m running on four hours sleep in two days. My word that I won’t peek is as gentlemanly as I can manage.”
“Losing sleep over work?” I step close to his make-shift curtain, as Owen holds the towel high enough to give me a questionable amount of coverage.
“Work and one frustrating female.”
His words flood me with a bold happiness. “I’m changing clothes now.”
Owen lowers his head, his eyes covered from sight. “Go for it.”
“Here goes the shirt.”
“Hurry up, Avery.”
I toss my top at his feet. “Shorts are kind of sticking. So hard to peel off. Did you have that problem?”
He whispers a curse. “You have two seconds to finish.”
“This bra is a total lost cause. Maybe I should go next door and ask Mrs. Mathis if I can borrow her replica from 1865.”
“One. . . ”
I laugh and quickly shimmy into Owen’s shirt. It falls softly over my skin and smells just like him.
“Two. Time’s up.” Owen lowers the barrier and finds me standing in my bare feet, completely clothed.
“Disappointed you didn’t get to see anything?”
His low chuckle follows his first smile in days. “I deserve a nomination for sainthood. Are you cold?”
I inch closer. “A little bit.”
He wraps the fluffy towel around me and reels me in. His arms encircle me, warm and tight. “I’ve missed you, Avery.” He kisses my cheek, my temple.
I lean back in his embrace, sliding my hands up his chest, before finally holding his face. “I’ve missed you, too.”
He nips at my bottom lip. “I’m sorry I was a jerk.”
“Me, too.” I press closer. “Let’s not fight again.”
“Deal.”
“So you promise to stay out of this thing between Mitchell and me?”
His lips pause in their exploration of my neck. “I don’t think I can do that.”
It doesn’t get more honest than that.
I know I’m at a fork in the romantic road. If I stay with Owen, he comes with a fierce loyalty for Mitchell.
Or I can walk away. With nothing.
I have no idea what to do about my grandfather. And I’m tired of trying to gauge his guilt or innocence.
But the man in my arms is the truest thing in my life. Somehow in a matter of weeks, he now holds my heart in those rough hands.
“I choose you, Owen.” The words scare me as much as they thrill. “I choose you.”
I seal his mouth with mine, and we sink to his sleeping bag.
“When you go back to New York, you’re still mine.” Owen lays me down gently and slides his thumb over my lip. “We’ll make it work.”
“I don’t want to talk about the end.” My lips find the tender spot beneath his ear. “I don’t really want to talk at all.”
Owen answers with a searing kiss, his mouth exploring, teasing, and branding me as his. Our limbs entwine, and I hear my own sighs as each kiss takes me higher, deeper. Seconds stretch into minutes, and I’m lost. Unable to do anything but cling to him and pray he doesn’t stop.
But eventually he does. Leaving the both of us short of breath and hovering near a point of no return.
“We have to get some sleep tonight.” Owen lifts his head and looks into my eyes. He combs back my bangs with his hand and kisses my forehead.
He’s right. I know it.
But that doesn’t make it any easier.
My pulse still a wild staccato, I trace my fingers across the heavy stubble on his chin. I could stare at this face for a lifetime. “Thanks for saving me tonight.”
He smiles. And with one final kiss, he rolls to his side and pulls me to him.
“You’re a good man, Owen.” I burrow closer.
His arm around me tightens, and I close my eyes and listen to him breathe.
Until finally sleep finds me—a little cold, a little wet.
A little in love.
Chapter Sixteen
I don’t want to leave Shadow Ranch.
Ever.
This is the thought that’s been playing on repeat in my head ever since that wonderfully disastrous camping trip last week.
I know that New York is where my life is—my dorm, my college, my future.
But Manhattan doesn’t have Owen.
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Funny, smart, sexy Owen, who works ten and twelve hour days, then spends his evenings with me before driving me back to Mitchell’s house later than he should. I want time to slow down and summer to hold tight. The days and nights are rolling by much too fast, as if they’re conspiring to rush the moments that remain. The moments where Owen has some romantic date planned—like a pontoon ride on the lake or an evening carriage tour through Sugar Creek. Or the equally sweet times that involve no plan at all—like last night. Just the two of us curled up on his couch, each of us reading a book, content to do our own thing—together. Or two evenings ago when I sat in the barn with Owen and watched as he helped a troubled mama cow deliver her baby. Seeing that strong man cooing gently to the wobbly calf nearly made me call the university and tell them I was never coming back.
“I’ve got this.” Elizabeth loads the last plate into the large dishwasher. “Get out of here. You’ve been going since four-thirty.”
I survey the kitchen, pleased that it’s nearly spotless after a chaotic dinner. It has been a full day of showing our new guests a good time of cattle work, a trail ride, and an afternoon game of baseball. And now all the guests were headed out on a late night hayride, while I was on my way to see my favorite cowboy.
“You’ve had a long day, too,” I remind Elizabeth.
“Yeah.” She pours herself a tall glass of sweet tea. “But you don’t get paid overtime like I do.” She lifts up her glass in salute. “Go do whatever it is you do with Owen.”
“Bible study.” I grab my phone.
“Right.”
I walk through the dining hall, giving it one last inspection before stepping outside. I rub my arms against an unusually cool evening and make my way to Owen’s cabin. The porch light shines overhead like a welcoming beacon as I knock on his door.
No answer.
I try again.
He’s probably in the shower.
Wild Heart Summer Page 8
