Page 93 of Burnin' For You
“Wow. But…” She squeezed Reuben’s hand. “It might account for why your father passed the ranch on to Knox. Maybe he thought you wanted something different.”
Reuben glanced over at her. “I’ve been thinking about that. I was pushing pretty hard to play football—mostly because I didn’t want to let him down, but maybe he thought that’s what I wanted, that by letting me go, he was doing me a favor.”
Gilly knew what it took to confess that, baby steps to forgiveness, even acceptance, and she couldn’t help but reach up, touch his face.
He’d clipped the beard down but hadn’t shaved it off, and now she ran her fingers through it gently. The doctors had shaved his hair short in one area at the hospital to add stitches, but Reuben wore a baseball hat today to cover it. Black waves curled out the back. In his dark blue T-shirt and faded jeans, only the cowboy boots gave him away as a rancher.
He caught her hand, pressed his lips against her palm. Released it. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“A chance to buck hay? Are you kidding me?”
His brown eyes were rich with emotion. “I just love you.”
She drew in her breath, her throat thick. Nodded and looked away. And felt the silence drop between them.
Behind that quiet, brooding demeanor was a true romantic, a man unafraid to tell her how he felt, and that surprised her.
Scared her, just a little, at the amazing depth of his love for her. The fact that he said it without reserve, without fear.
And of course she loved him back. How could she not love him—this amazing, handsome, broad-shouldered, indefatigable man who risked his life over and over for her?
Who showed up to protect her for no other reason than he loved her.
He squeezed her hand, then, and she looked at him. Warmth in his expression, so much of it, it stirred the low burn inside her.
But once she admitted her feelings, then there was no taking it back. No turning around, retreating to her tough, not tender, world.
“So, are those cupcakes really homemade?” He indicated the box on her lap.
“Juliet helped, but…yeah.”
He squeezed her hand again.
They drove past a large corral into the circular drive and pulled up to the lodge, a beautiful, two-story, hand-hewn log structure with a towering stone-covered entryway. A long porch out front hosted rocking chairs and a long wooden bench topped with a basket of dried purple lavender and daisies.
The place had charm written all over it.
“My grandfather built this house by hand,” Reuben said, not a little pride in his voice. “My dad added the wing with the new kitchen and great room. He hand stacked the fireplace—trust me—I carried in the stones. Wait until you see the views from the back.”
She was already blown away.
Gilly got out, taken by the smell of the towering ponderosa pine that cradled the house and by the view of the mountains, craggy and bold in the distance.
Not far away, a traditional gambrel roof horse barn, painted a deep green, confirmed what Reuben said about it being a working ranch with traditional horses.
Two pickups sat in the driveway in front of the four-car garage.
The front door opened.
“Reuben!”
Gilly turned to the voice. A woman about sixty years old with her shoulder-length dark-brown hair, deep hazel-green eyes, and a smile that resembled Reuben’s—the kind that could light up her entire face—stood on the porch. She wore a flannel shirt cut off at the shoulders and tied around her waist, a hint of a tank top underneath, and a pair of jeans and cowboy boots.
She held out her arms, and Reuben nearly engulfed her with his embrace, picking her up, swinging her around. She laughed, and he put her down.
“Mom,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You look good.”
“Now that you’re here,” she said, and patted his cheek as if he might be ten and not towering over her by a foot.