The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,81
muscles come from life, from his job, not arm day at the gym. His body is a testament to the work he does every day on this ranch, and I can’t help imagining what the scruff on his face would feel like scraping its way up my thighs. His smile hasn’t decreased, and I say, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you look like you got laid last night.”
Wes nods his thanks at the coffee and winks. “Twice, actually.”
“Wow, lucky guy.”
“I am.” He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my temple. My heartbeat picks up pace, and I know I’m in dangerous territory. I have the urge to speak up right now, to force a conversation about what last night meant, but I don’t want to yet. I want to keep this good feeling going for a little longer. It’s as simple as that.
I look out at the trees. Now, in the morning light, I can see how high up we are. The clearing in front of Wes’s cabin, the mixture of tall pine and cottonwood trees, and to the left, the gently sloping hill leading to the backside of the homestead. Pine cones and pine needles dust the ground. I close my eyes and breathe in. The scent of earth, the sharp and sweet pine, combined with Wes’s manly smell, is heaven on Earth.
My eyes flutter open and I gaze out at the landscape. “Someone once told me that loving the ranch doesn’t come from the sight of the sunrise through the steam curling up from your morning coffee, but I think maybe that’s how she draws you in. Because I’ve got to tell you, I think I’m falling for the ranch right now.”
“Is that right?” Wes’s voice rumbles beside me.
“Oh, definitely. I can see why you’d do whatever you need to do to make it yours. This place is incredible.” I take another deep breath. “I wish I could bottle that up and take it back to the hotel with me.” The smell of stale carpet leaves a lot to be desired.
“That smell is what I missed most when I was overseas.” He crooks a smile at me. “Well, that and my mom, of course. Make sure you tell her I said that if she ever asks.”
I laugh. “I’ll be sure to.”
We fall quiet. I think we’re both thinking the same thing. Or maybe I’m just thinking it, and the thoughts are so loud it feels like I can’t possibly be alone in them.
“Do you want to talk about the dream, Wes?” I’m careful not to call it what it really was. Nightmare.
He tenses, his fingers curling tighter around his cup.
My fingertips press against his forearm. “You don’t owe me anything, Wes. Not a damn thing. But I do know how awful grief can be. And guilt. I was lucky enough to have my sister and my dad when my mom died. Their words didn’t erase my feelings, but at least they were there. I had people.” My voice drops down to a whisper. “Who are your people, Wes?”
His lips purse together and he stares out across the land. Land he loves so deeply he would marry a woman he doesn’t love to have it.
The longer he takes to respond, the more I already know the answer.
I raise my coffee to my lips, and before I take a sip I tell him, “There’s a meeting at the VFW every Wednesday afternoon at four. I saw a flyer for it at the Merc.”
Wes imitates me, talking with his coffee cup poised at his lips, as if they are props in our conversation. This is shaky territory for us to be in. “What’s the meeting for?”
My toes curl, as if I might need to spring away at a moment’s notice. And the truth is, I might. But if I don’t tell Wes a resource is available to him, right in his own town, just because I’m scared of his response? That would make me a coward.
“The meeting is for those suffering from PTSD.” I’m careful with my tone as I tell him. I’m not soft-spoken, or pleading, not even a hint of pity. Just the facts. I saw his response to me that night of the park concert. If there is anything I can do to piss Wes off, it’s show him an ounce of pity.
His expression right now is the one he goes back to on default—stoic. He says, “You think I need the meeting?”