7. Bishop

"Goddamn him."I glance out my bedroom window and see Porter's truck kicking up gravel after dinner. For a brief moment I'm afraid he's leaving for good, and I want to run after him. Tell him I want him to stay, but that it might be impossible to pretend we're only boss and hand.

Fuck, the way he gets under my skin and stays there. Earlier in the barn, I wanted to push him against the wall and take his mouth, pour all my frustration into him.

But I survived eleven years without Porter Dixon in my life, so I can survive even more. Even if laying eyes on him again makes my entire body thrum like a live wire.

In another minute, the rain finally lets up, lightly pattering my windowpane instead of pouring down in buckets. I spot fluffy, white clouds in the distance, pushing out the dark ones, and soon enough it'll look as if there hasn't been any storm at all. Unfortunately, there'll still be mud and some cleanup from fallen branches.

My hair is still damp as I pull on fresh clothes and rubber boots. I'll make sure the cattle are settled and check in on the horses too.

On my way out, I pass through the great room, where the fireplace is lit. My father is in his usual chair, and Mom, on the couch nearest the flickering flames, is poring over some document. "Where you headed?"

"Just checking on things," I reply, now wishing I'd followed through on the idea of building my own house on the ranch. Time just got away from me, and before I knew it, years had passed. Most days I'm just too damn busy to even think about it. In times like this, I'll admit them knowing my every move can be uncomfortable.

Thankfully, this house is big enough that our bedrooms are in different wings, and I do have my own entrance. But when I need to pass through the kitchen, like I do now, there's no avoiding bumping into each other.

"Always working," I hear Mom mutter as I reach for an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table.

"It's what good ranchers do," Dad replies as I chomp away and head out the door.

I can probably recite the rest of their conversation verbatim. Dad will tell Mom I'm doing what needs done to take over this ranch someday, and Mom will worry I'm trying to do too much. She'll say I don't have a social life, and she wouldn't be wrong. But what she really means is that I don't have a spouse and family. Or a sibling to share the load.

I know they're proud of me. I'm pleased with myself too because there was a time in my life when I wanted to give it all up. I wanted to run away from the responsibility. It was the month right before I married Aimee. I still ached for Porter and wished I'd gone after him. With time, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, told myself I needed to do what was right, and then I got on with it.

I muck through the mud puddles to the barn. It's calm in here, serene, and in that sense, I understand Porter's obsession with these majestic animals. The horses compete for my attention, so I love on all of them as I move from stall to stall. When I get to Arrow, I marvel at the calm in him, which is likely because of Porter. I consider having a discussion with Dad about it. About putting Porter's talent to better use.

Midnight whinnies for acknowledgment, so I turn to stroke his neck and softly coo to him.

Afterward, I do a quick walk-through past the chicken coop and the paddocks to make sure all's in order. The door to the bunkhouse is ajar, and from the sounds of it, the men are sipping cheap whiskey and playing cards. I like the sound of their laughter, and on any other night, I might even head inside and stay for a drink. That's pretty much my social life. It's the same for all of us. We're like family, bickering and all.

Instead, I head toward the firepit. The kindling is too wet to start a blaze, so I sit on the rounded stone bench, though it's damp underneath me. I tell myself I'm not waiting on Porter to return, despite wondering where he is and if he's coming back.

As dusk falls, I look up at the flickering stars behind the fluffy clouds. It's a sight I'll never take for granted. Same with the way the humidity clings to my skin after a good rain, the scent of mud mixed with grass and hay. It's the smell of home, and it settles in my bones.

I shut my eyes and breathe in deeply to try and calm my nerves. That's when I hear footsteps. My eyes spring open to find Wade heading my way, carrying an armful of dry kindling.

"You mind the company?" he asks, squatting in front of the pit.

"Not at all." I watch him arrange the sticks in the stack. Wade is the one who taught me how to build a nest of tinder before arranging the kindling above it just so. He's also the one who noticed the pain I felt when Porter left. Though he didn't say anything, he was kind to me, would shield me from any conflict with the others over my unpredictable mood. In a way, he was like a second father figure instead of an employee. Employee is not a strong enough word for what he's come to mean to me.

I blink against my stinging eyes. Damn, I'm getting sappy.

Mom always says I'm emotional and that's a good thing. That I still have compassion. That it'll come in handy someday. Dad would argue that I can't be too soft and forgiving with the employees. That I need to keep a boundary that can't be crossed. Christ. If only he knew how many I'd crossed with Porter.

"The men getting too rowdy for you?" I ask when we hear boisterous laughter from the bunkhouse.

"Somethin' like that." He smiles. "I'm not as young as I used to be. But don't tell your father that."

"Neither is he," I reply, and he chuckles. "But mum's the word." I make the motion to zip my lips and throw away the key.

When yelling erupts, I recognize the voice. Randy. What's he still doing here? "He getting out of hand?"

When Wade doesn't meet my eyes, I know I've overstepped. No way he'd throw one of his own under the bus. "I think he's all right. Just gets rowdy with the guys sometimes. Like your daddy says, as long as it's not affecting his work on the ranch."

"Just worried about Pixie, is all."

"She's asleep in his truck. Tuckered out after dinner. The men don't have more than a couple on nights like this, and outside of a few rare instances, they stick to it."

That effectively shuts down the conversation, and I don't press it. I'm glad Wade is mindful of the men's drinking and has set some parameters in the bunkhouse. I have no doubt they heed his rules, but Randy isn't a resident and might have other ideas. For now, I'll trust Wade to take care of it.

Helping him carry some dry logs from the shed, we get the fire roaring, then sit and watch the flickering flames from opposite benches.

Randy exits the bunkhouse and heads to his truck. Watching him closely, I don't get the feeling he's had too many, so maybe he's got some common sense after all. He leans over the seat, no doubt to check on a sleepy Pixie before heading on his way.

Wade lifts a hand as he pulls out. "See, told ya he's all right. Was even chugging water before I came out here."

I still have questions but keep them to myself for now.

Every time I hear a random noise that ends up being a coyote's cry or an owl's hoot, my gaze shoots toward where I'd see the road if it weren't so dark and the pines so tall.

Wade must be onto me because his gaze meets mine. "He took his guitar with him."

I stiffen. "Who?"

"You know who." He throws me an incredulous look. "You don't gotta pretend with me."

I blow out a breath and nod.

"Also asked where the nearest bar was that allowed live music."

My breath catches. "Whatd'ya mean, live music? Like, somewhere he can play?"

That's new, not that I know what he's been up to the past eleven years. Or vice versa.

"Seems so."

"What did ya tell him?"

"Buck's seemed like the right place to direct him." He glances over my shoulder toward the house. "If you wanna take off, I can think of a good excuse?—"

"Nah, appreciate it, though." A cold sweat steals across my skin, not only because Wade likely knows about me—about us—but because I still haven't told my parents. I think of Porter's response to that news and grimace. "Porter wouldn't want me there anyway."

He arches a brow. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure." Porter couldn't have made himself clearer. "He thought me and Aimee were still married and had kids."

Wade's eyes grow wide as saucers before he barks out a laugh. "Oh, damn. If only he knew how that all fell apart." His expression sobers. "No offense."

"None taken. We weren't right for each other."

He leans forward. "If I can speak more plainly, you did all that for your ma and pa."

I nod. No use denying it. "It wasn't fair to her. But I thought I could make it work. We were friends for years and got along well in most every way."

Even our sex life was decent. Not great, but not bad either. But the intimacy wasn't there, for either of us, I suspect. I'm glad she sounds much happier now.

Wade stares at the fire a beat before he says, "No way to make it work when your heart's with someone else."

I open my mouth to protest, to tell him it was only casual between me and Porter, but why bother? He isn't that far off. And no guy I've been with since has compared.

"You'd think by now I'd be able to…"

"Not always that simple." Wade averts his gaze. "Time helps dull the pain but doesn't always heal it."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

Wade rarely shares about his past. All we know is he's never married, never been interested in relationships or kids. He lost his family in a fire as a young adult and has been with the ranch ever since.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." He winks like there's quite a story there. But in the blink of an eye, shuts it all down, like he normally does when the attention is on him. "Well, it sounds like the men have settled down for the night. Gonna hit the hay."

I hold back my frown. "Sounds good. Thanks for the company."

I stay out there for I don't know how long before deciding I need to call it a night as well. Whatever Porter's doing, he must be having a good time of it. I wish I could see that—him playing for a crowd—but it would probably only make me ache for him more.

Just as I'm stamping out the fire, headlights illuminate the driveway, and fuck if my stomach doesn't flip knowing he's back.

Though I also wish I wasn't out here this late as if I'm waiting up for him.

I focus on my task as if I'm paying him no mind as he parks, cuts the engine, and jumps out of the cab, carrying his guitar.

"What the hell are you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same question." I study his tight jeans, plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. Damn, he looks good. "You still play?"

"Here and there."

"Cool."

The air grows thick between us as we stare at each other.

"Well, I should—" He makes the motion to leave.

"Remember when we'd dream about sleeping under the stars in the mountains?"

He hitches a shoulder as if it's no big thing. "We done it plenty of times."

"I mean alone. Just you, me, and your guitar."

"Bishop, I told you?—"

"I know, I know." I hold up my hands and back away. "Just boss and employee. Good night."

I rub at the ache in my chest that feels a whole lot like longing.