Good Time Cowboy. Maisey Yates
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They rode on in silence for a while, as the trail wound around the riverbank, and then separated from the water, heading a different direction, where the trees thinned out and the sky opened up, the sun shining down on row after row of twining grapevines.
“This is a helluva place,” he said. “You should be proud of it.”
He meant that. He might be an asshole of the highest order, he might find it tough to be sincere at the best of times, but she had done a great job here. She was a damn fine businesswoman. And she was right about what she had said about Damien. She had done more with this place. She had done better. In his opinion, she deserved everything she got.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice suddenly soft. “I remember the first time I saw it. The first time Damien brought me out here. And I just... I didn’t think that I was the kind of person who would ever be allowed to have something so lovely.”
Something twisted inside his chest. “Why not?”
He was surprised she’d shared that with him, and the look on her face told him that she was too. Almost like she didn’t understand the words that had come out of her mouth.
“I don’t know.” She looked away from him. “I guess...you know. Some people have beautiful things. Some people have beautiful lives. Some people don’t. And when you’ve lived an entire life of dirty and ugly it’s hard to imagine you could ever have anything else. That you could ever deserve anything else. I used to think of him like that too.”
Wyatt swallowed hard. He related to that a little more closely than he cared to admit. Even to himself. That feeling of being someone who could have a life that looked a certain way. Or being someone who could never aspire to such a thing. Someone who didn’t deserve it.
“It must feel more real now,” he said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice entirely.
“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment. “It didn’t last, did it?”
“This place is going to last,” he said, knowing that she meant her marriage, but moving on to the winery anyway. “What you’re doing here? It’s going to last. You can’t control what other people do. They’re going to cheat.” He gritted his teeth, hating that when it came to his own experience with this kind of thing he couldn’t stand on the right side of the line. “But this is different. It’s not a person. It’s land. It’s not going to betray you. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“Now that’s spoken like a cowboy,” she said. “I imagine the other faithful things in your world are your horse and your pickup truck.”
“Damn straight.” He took a breath, doing his best to dispel the pressure that had begun to build in his chest. “Speaking of horses, how are you doing on that one?”
“Good,” she said. “You’re right. It is like riding a bike. In that, I remember how it’s done.”
“Well, and Trixie here is a pretty easy ride.”
“Funny. I think I read that on a bathroom wall about a girl named Trixie once.”
“If it was in the Gold Valley Saloon I might’ve written it there.”
She laughed, the sound unexpected and bright, splitting through the relative silence around them. “I don’t believe for a second that you would do that.”
“You don’t?” He shook his head. “Clearly I haven’t done a very good job of convincing you that I’m a jackass.”
“Oh no,” she said. “You’ve done a fantastic job with that. It’s just... I don’t think you’re that kind of jackass.”
“Truth be told,” he said. “My name is carved on the wall in the saloon.”
“Tacky,” she commented.
Before Laz had taken ownership of the Gold Valley Saloon, it had been the thing for people to carve their names outside the bathroom door if they had scored inside. And back in his twenties, when he had been more of a drunken asshole than he was in his thirties, he had put his name up there thinking it was damned good fun.
But then, she was right. It was different than writing down a woman’s name and promising she’d give someone a good time, he supposed. As long as the only person you were exposing was yourself, it didn’t seem half as bad.
Of all the things he’d done, that wasn’t even close to being one of the ones he was most ashamed of.
“Yeah, well,” he said finally. “I’m a little tacky.”
“I believe that.”
They rode on through the rows of vines, the sun casting long shadows across the path as they went. It was a spectacular ride. If they paused for some wine tasting, it would be the kind of experience people would go home and tell their friends about.
The kind of experience that would make Grassroots Winery and Get Out of Dodge prime tourist destinations.
And right now, he didn’t care about that. He could hardly think about it.
He was supposed to be out here thinking of exclusively that. But then...but then there was Lindy.
He tightened his hold on Emmy Lou’s reins and stopped her midgait. “We figured that right up here would be a great place to stop for a picnic.”
He’d force himself back on track if he had to.
There was more grass at the end of the grape vines, a few picnic tables set out there, with the glorious view of the mountains around them. Back behind them was the row of pine trees, the river now completely obscured. There were no buildings in view. And it gave the sense of being wholly and completely closed in. He paused his horse.
“It’s serene out here,” Lindy said. “I get so caught up in doing all of the office work that I forget to come out here.”
“Well, you’ll have to come out on the tours sometimes.”
“I don’t know if I’ll have time.”
“It’s a double-edged sword,” he said, to her or to himself he didn’t know. “You make the thing you love your work, and often that means you start neglecting the parts of it that you loved most.”
“I guess that’s true.”
He dismounted, looking back at Lindy. “Why don’t we stop here for a minute?”
Lindy’s eyes were still covered by her sunglasses, but he could see the hesitation move through her entire body. The subtle twitch in her shoulders, the way her hands choked up on the reins, as if preparing to double down about staying on the horse. About not stopping with him.
He could almost read her internal war with herself. To make a big deal out of it and let him know that she was battling anything at all, or to give in and subject herself to a greater amount of time in his presence.
He’d casually dated women he couldn’t read as well as the woman in front of him. And for some reason...he could see through her, clear as day.
Which seemed more curse than blessing in general.
“Okay,” she said, getting off the horse quickly, as though the moment of hesitation before hadn’t happened at all.
“So, you actually make the wine here?” he asked, turning away from her and surveying the grapevines.
“Yes,” she said. “All of the equipment is housed in one of the other barns on the property. Before my in-laws bought the place years ago, it was a big, working ranch. So, a lot of the original buildings are intact. We’ve just repurposed them.”
“I see,” he said. He turned to face her then. She wasn’t looking at him. At least, he was fairly certain she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were still obscured by the sunglasses. Purposefully so, in his expert Lindy opinion.