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For every woman who fought bravely and for those who loved her through it.
“Hey.” I poke his arm and earn his abrupt attention. Well, hi there, muscles upon muscles. Damn.
I thought I was past grieving what I lost, but maybe grief isn’t linear. Maybe I can accept what I’ve lost and still mourn it. Maybe I always will.
I’m at a fork in the road, and I know it. It’s that moment in many of the books I’ve read, with two paths before the heroine. One is shadowy. An owl hoots. Leaves rustle. The other is sunlit. Birds twitter. The path is wide and well trod. A snort of self-amusement sneaks out of me. Well trod. I may be a tad overdramatizing this.
“Rooney?” She finally notices the brittle edge in my voice. Staring out to the field, Rooney narrows her eyes and takes a longer look. “Wait, is that…holy shit. Holy. Shit.” I can’t even manage a nod of agreement. “Okay, I’m going to, uh…I’m going to go check my ingrown toenail. I’ll hang back here.” “Thanks,” I mutter.
Like many men before him, Luke’s here to ride the wave of a woman’s blood, sweat, and tears, hoping he can coast on her momentum.
“Your best is always good enough,” Mama says. “Your best just doesn’t always mean that things turn out how you want.”
“I’m scared too, Sunshine. This is vulnerable shit.” His mouth is a breath away from mine. “I just know I’d rather be afraid with you than fearless with anyone else.”
Swiping his coffee off the counter, Ryder backs away. Dammit, my worst fears are confirmed. Ryder Bergman wears flannel on his fantastic ass and mountain-man legs as well as he wears it over his tree-felling upper body.
