“He’d be damn proud you’re running it the way he did, the way his daddy did before him.” I let the words settle deep in my chest, warming a part of me that still aches for a father I’ll never hear them from. “Of course, he’d probably tell you to hire more hands so you don’t work yourself six feet under before you’re fifty.”
“I just like things done a certain way,” I say, chuckling as I turn my face toward the man I owe more to than I could ever put into words. “That’s why you’re still kicking around up here—you do as you’re told.”
Preston huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky I like Piper too much to mess up that pretty face of yours,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
I bark out a laugh and clap a hand on his back. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without you all these years, Pres. But you gotta start listening to Ivy and take it easy. Look at you out here at the crack of dawn with me—you’re not twenty anymore.”
“I’m old, not dead. This is what I do, and I’m not slowing down till the good Lord makes me.”
“Fair enough,” I say, leaning my arms across the fence, watching the cattle move slowly through the frost-covered grass.
Despite everything that’s happened with Travis and all the mess and hurt he left behind, I’ve never felt more at peace.
I have my family who’d ride through hell for me.
I have this land that flows through my veins like blood.
And most of all, I have Piper—my home in every way that matters.
Chapter 28
Piper
Six monthswith Christian Crawford feels like six lifetimes of coming home to a place I didn’t know existed, only to find the kind of once-in-forever love people spend decades chasing and still never get lucky enough to touch.
I’m standing at the window above the kitchen sink, elbows braced on the counter, while the June sunlight spills through the glass and catches on Christian like he’s something made from the most perfect dream.
He’s out by the far pasture, one hand gripping a weathered fence post, the other adjusting a section of wire that’s come loose like it’s second nature. Every muscle in his back flexes, carved and roped with the kind of strength that wasn’t given; it was earned from years of breaking horses, hauling hay bales, and cutting down trees.
When he straightens, my fingers dig into the kitchen counter’s edge, anchoring myself against the wave of want that crashes through my body. His shirt is long gone, draped over the gatepost beside him, and his worn jeans are riding low, clinging to those powerful thighs in a way that should be illegal. A trail of sweat rolls down his spine, disappearing beneath the denim, and, God help me, I’m not just watching him. I’m burning for him.
He hasn’t even looked toward the house, but he knows. He always knows when I’m watching. And if he turns right now, if he so much as lifts his head and beckons me with a finger? I’ll crawl to him without a single fucking thought other thanplease.
Moving up to the mountain with Christian in February wasn’t some big sit-down decision. It just happened. One minute we were crashing at Violet’s, and the next I was up at the farm more than I was in my own bed, and it got stupid real fast. Christian was running himself into the ground, driving those endless country roads just to steal a few hours of sleep next to me, only to haul his tired ass out before the sun even thought about rising.
But Christian didn’t complain. Not once.
Because in his words,“Now that I’ve got you, I’m not going back to sleeping alone.”
The man is clingy as hell, but clinginess looks a little different out here.
It looks like checking the fence lines with me tucked in front of him on Roger, my back to his chest and one strong arm wrapped around my waist. It’s him making sure I’ve eaten before he even thinks about feeding himself and keeping my favorite mug full of coffee every morning, even if his is still half empty.
It’s the way he watches me from across any room—whether it’s the barn or the bar—like I’m not just the center of his world, but the reason it even spins.
Clingy, cowboy-style means I never have to question where I stand because, to Christian Crawford, I’m the point of everything.
The only night we didn’t spend together was Christmas Eve. That one belonged to Violet and me. It was our night for holiday movies, junk food that would probably kill us if we ate like that year-round, and matching pajamas that were absolutely necessary.
Christian never once pushed me about spending Christmas with him. He just pulled me close, kissed my forehead with those lips that always seemed to know exactly how to make everything better, and said in that low drawl,“I’ll see you tomorrow night, darlin’.”
The moment I suggested he stop running himself into the ground and told him to start sleeping at the farm instead of wearing himselfthin trying to be everywhere at once, he just blinked at me like I’d completely lost my mind.
“Not without you,”he said.
Simple.
Final.
