Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Here, she's a little ranch princess with a bubbly personality that can't get enough of what the Ashby Ranch has to offer.
Legion hates it, I can tell.
But he doesn't say anything. Just lets her be.
I head downstairs with Mercy bouncing along in front of me. She's wearing a summer dress I swear could have come straight from my childhood closet, though I have no idea where it came from. The sight makes something twist in my chest—I've never had a little sister before, but I'm starting to understand the appeal.
Legion is already outside on the porch when we arrive, staring out at the mountains with that restless energy I recognize. He's been talking about going home more frequently. Yesterday he mentioned the new trailer twice.
I get it. Cash and Legion circle each other like wolves whenever they're in the same room. Wyatt has mostly kept his distance, staying in one of the guest houses near the river. But I like having Legion here. I want him to stay.
Mercy barely slows down as she passes us. "Hi, Legion! Bye, Legion! Madeline's waiting!"
Cash hired Madeline—my dressage instructor, a former Olympic equestrian—to teach Mercy basic riding. Now this nine-year-old who never had anything gets private lessons from one of the best riders in the world.
The moment Mercy disappears toward the barn, Legion's mouth is on mine. His kiss is hungry, desperate, and wanting, the heat of his body radiating through his clothes as he presses against me. I feel the unmistakable hardness of his arousal against my stomach, his desire for me evident in every taut line of his body.
The intensity of his need sends a shiver down my spine, his hands gripping my waist with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch.
After days of careful distance and restraint during his recovery, this raw, unfiltered passion feels like coming home—dangerous and perfect all at once.
His body remembers what his mind has been forced to deny, and there's no hiding how much he's craved this connection. We've been so careful with his recovery, keeping everything chaste, but his body is clearly done with restraint.
"I have a surprise," I say when we come up for air. "Your antibiotic treatment is officially over. So we're celebratin'."
His eyes darken. "How exactly are we celebratin'?"
I take his hand and lead him toward the driveway where an old Willys Jeep sits loaded with picnic supplies. The vehicle is a faded brown color that reminds me of the sandstone cliffs near Drybone. And though it’s a ranch vehicle—a favorite of the ranch hands—there’s no logo on it.
"Want to drive?" I ask, holding up the keys.
Legion's face breaks into a genuine smile as he runs his hand along the hood, his fingers tracing the weathered metal with reverence. "This thing is a classic," he says, eyes lighting up with appreciation for the vintage military vehicle before us.
He looks so much better than he did ten days ago. The white t-shirt stretches across shoulders that have regained their strength. His faded jeans hang perfectly on his hips. He looks so good now, you'd almost never know he was on death's door three weeks ago.
Only I know about the scars hiding underneath—the healing tissue where his brand was, the marks from prison, the story of his life written on his skin.
We climb in, the Jeep's engine roaring to life with Legion behind the wheel. I direct him away from the main house, past the eastern pastures where the tall grasses sway in the afternoon breeze, and toward a secluded canyon formation I've known since childhood—a place where the sandstone walls rise up like ancient guardians, their surfaces etched with decades of wind and weather.
The dirt path narrows as we approach, winding between juniper trees and scrubby sagebrush that release their earthy scent with each step.
We park the Willys at the trailhead, its engine ticking as it cools in the summer heat. I gather our supplies from the back—Legion hefting the heavy wicker picnic basket with one hand as if it weighs nothing, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath his tattoos. I take the soft cotton blankets, their edges worn from countless family outings, though this is the first time I've brought anyone here aside from Colt.
The way Legion's eyes scan the landscape, taking in every detail, makes me wonder if he's memorizing an escape route, or simply appreciating the wild beauty that's always been my sanctuary.
The canyon isn't far, just enough of a walk to feel like we've earned our privacy. It's a natural alcove carved into the sandstone, sheltered from prying eyes by an overhanging lip of rock that curves like a protective hand above us. The weathered formation creates a perfect pocket of seclusion—a secret chamber that feels both exposed to the elements, and completely hidden from the world.
Centuries of wind and water have hollowed out this sanctuary, sculpting the warm amber stone into a space that seems designed specifically for forbidden love.