Page 37 of The Cowboy and the Stray

I sat curled in one of the rocking chairs, knees pulled to my chest. The ranch was quiet. That deep, settling kind of quiet that seeps into your bones and unknots the tension you don't realize you're carrying. I breathed it in, held it in my lungs, savored the unfamiliar peace. Temporary peace.

Calder had been gone all afternoon, off fixing some broken gate on the far side of the property. I hadn't seen him since this morning, when he'd passed me a mug of coffee without a word. No words, but plenty said in a glance. In the way his fingers brushed mine on the mug's handle, in the fractional head tilt toward the door, the unspoken invitation to join him on the porch. I'd fought the urge to lean into that touch, to curl my palm over his knuckles and linger there over the rich scent of coffee and morning cool. Of course, he had to smell like heaven. At least until he got to work.

Now the shadows stretched long across the yard as evening seeped in. My gaze drifted from the weathered boards at my feet to the sturdy lines of the barn, and out to the purpling hills beyond. I pressed a hand against my sternum, fingertips tracing the ridges of my collarbone through the thin cotton of my shirt.

How in the world had I ended up here, even worse, been here over a month? Hiding out on a Texas ranch, falling into the easy rhythms of the land, the animals, the people. Especially the people. Especially Calder. I'd never meant to stay this long. Never meant for a temporary refuge to start feeling like... something more. Oops. There it was again. The root-setting impulse.

I couldn't let it become more. Couldn't let myself sink roots, couldn't let myself want. Not with Lance still out there, a coiled snake in the grass waiting to strike. My heartbeat kicked up at just the thought of his name, the ghost of phantom fingers tightening around my wrist.

I shuddered. This wasn't the same. The ranch wasn't Vegas, and Calder Maddox was no Lance Creed. But still, I couldn't shake the wanting. It lodged in my throat, tightened like a fist behind my breastbone. More than safety, more than sanctuary, I ached for the brush of Calder's hands. It scared me more than Lance ever had, that desperate wanting. Perfect. I survived a psychopath, but a hot cowboy might be my undoing.

The porch boards creaked, and I startled, head jerking up. But it was just Calder, ambling across the porch to prop a hip against the railing. He tilted his head back, face tipped up to the emerging stars. "Hell of a view, isn't it?" he asked. "I love it out here. Can't imagine living anywhere else."

I swallowed hard, gaze tracing the angle of his jaw, the strong column of his throat. Dragged my eyes away to look out at the night sky, tracing the patterns of the stars. "It's perfect," I said quietly. "I grew up in cities, mostly. Bouncing between apartments and foster homes. Group homes. The lights always drowned out the stars. Even when I could sneak out onto a roof or a fire escape, I could never see much. Never like this. I loved astronomy as a kid." My laugh was quiet. “One house had a telescope, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to set it up.”

I looked over, expecting to see that sharp curiosity in his eyes. Instead, they held a strange softness. It made me want to say more, but the words stuck in my throat.

Calder was quiet for a long moment, just the crickets and the distant lowing of cattle filling the cooling air. Then he straightened up off the railing. "Be right back," he said. "Don't move."

I watched him as he headed inside, the screen door thwapping shut behind him. Confusion and curiosity warred in my chest. I frowned at my bitten-down nails, wishing, despite the warm night, that his hands were here to chase off the chill. Great. I was officially one wistful sigh away from a Hallmark movie.

I didn't have long to wonder. Calder returned a few minutes later, something bulky and angular in his arms. As he got closer, I realized it was a telescope. An old one, by the looks of it, scuffed and well-used but obviously cared for. He knelt beside my chair to set it up, long fingers adjusting the tripod to account for the porch's uneven slats.

As he worked, a faint thread of music drifted from one of the upstairs windows. It took me a moment to place the instrument. A violin? The melody was haunting, threading through the night air like something fragile and aching. I glanced at Calder, a question in the tilt of my head.

He smiled, small and crooked. "My sister," he said. "Sloane. She plays whenever she's, uh, processing. Trying to untangle something in her head. Music's how she keeps from imploding, I think."

I turned my face back to the open window, listening harder. Letting the silvery notes wash over my skin, sink into my bones. It sounded like longing, like something trapped behind glass, hungry for moonlight. I understood that. Understood Sloane, without even knowing her. That ache in the melody was the same fist that tightened behind my breastbone whenever Calder got too close. Whenever he didn't get close enough. Ugh, how did longing get this poetic?

Calder finished adjusting the telescope, the legs planted firm on the porch boards. He turned to the battered cardboard box at his feet, lifting the flaps to reveal a stack of books inside. Some were field guides, by the looks of them. Star charts. Atlases of constellations, their faded covers soft with use and age. He selected one with a tape-repaired spine and flipped it open to show me a page where his name was scrawled in a child's unpracticed hand.

"I also got obsessed with astronomy as a kid," he said, a ghost of that crooked smile touching his lips. "Checked out every book in the school library. Saved up for this telescope."

He held the book out to me, and I took it with careful fingers. Traced the wobbly letters of his name. Calder Maddox. How many nights had he spent with this book splayed across his knees, flashlight balanced on his shoulder, dreaming of other worlds? I wondered what else we had in common, what other pieces of a lonely childhood we might share.

"I used to draw star maps," I admitted. My voice was hushed, like I was telling him a secret. Maybe I was. "I'd copy them out of books, when I could find them. Tried to imagine the shapes people saw in the stars, thousands of years ago. Sometimes I'd make up my own constellations. Nothing real, just stories. Patterns I put in the sky, to make it seem less big and empty."

Calder leaned in, then, setting a hand on the arm of the rocking chair. His fingers were close enough to touch, if I uncurled my hand from the book. I didn't. Not quite. But damn it all, I wanted to.

"Maybe you can show me sometime," he said. "Draw me some of those made-up constellations of yours. I want to see the sky the way you see it."

My heart lurched, and this time I did uncurl my fingers. Let them hover in the space between us, above the book that held traces of both of our younger selves. "I'd like that," I whispered. "I'd like that a lot."

"Move over," he said.

I hopped off of the rocking chair and he scooted it out of the way, then stepped back so I could get close to the telescope. Calder shifted behind me, reaching around to guide my hands to the telescope. His chest pressed against my back, and I shivered despite the warm night.

"Here," he murmured against the nape of my neck. "Put your eye here and adjust the focus ring until it's clear."

I leaned forward, skin tingling where he touched me, however innocently. The night sky swam in the lens, stars blurring and sharpening as I fiddled with the focus. Then, all at once, they leapt into clarity, diamond bright against the inky black.

I gasped. "Oh," I whispered. "Oh, wow."

Calder chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through me everywhere we touched. "Pretty amazing, right? See that really bright one, kind of bluish? That's Vega."

I couldn't tear my eyes away. The star gleamed impossibly bright, searing my vision. A distant sun, burning in the void. Burning blue. "It's incredible."

"Vega's part of Lyra," Calder said. His hand covered mine on the barrel of the telescope, gently angling it to a different section of sky. "And there, see those three in a row? That's Orion's Belt."