Page 63 of Wild Highway (Runaway 2)

And tonight, all three of us would tell Cash together.

I opened Gemma’s door, holding it for her as she climbed inside, then waved to Dad and reversed my truck out of his driveway.

Gemma pulled her lips together, unsuccessfully hiding a smile as we drove toward the stables.

“Just say it.”

She let loose that smile, s

tealing my breath and the last piece of my heart. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Chapter Twelve

Easton

“Oof,” Gemma grunted.

I popped my head out the stall door to see what was happening. She had a bale lifted by the twine and was attempting to heft it toward Sprite’s feeder. “Want some help?”

“No.” She shot me a warning glare. “I can do this myself.”

I held up my hands, chuckling as she shuffled across the floor.

A month ago, she could barely lift the bales an inch. Those square bales were little compared to the ones we used for the cattle. These we kept stocked in the loft for the horses when they weren’t out to pasture. They weighed about seventy-five pounds and moving them around by the thin, red baling twine wasn’t easy. But she’d been working with me every weekend in the stables and was becoming quite the hand.

Gemma’s arms had grown stronger, so had her legs and her core. I knew because I’d seen the definition in her muscles sharpen on the nights I’d spent in her bed at the cabin.

When she had the bale in place, a proud smile stretched across her face as she took the Leatherman I’d lent her this morning from her pocket and cut the twine. Then she went about putting the hay in Sprite’s feeder before taking a chunk to Pepsi’s empty stall.

I’d let her do the feeding while I’d mucked out a few stalls, a job that I hadn’t done in years because I’d hired hands to do it instead. But I’d let Rory go with some of the guys this morning instead of working in the stables. He was out helping prep for the afternoon wagon ride.

Over the past month, he’d spent a lot of Saturdays out with the other staffers. Not only because it gave him more exposure to other tasks, but because it allowed me the chance to work alone with Gemma.

If time with her meant mucking stalls, I’d called it a win.

Thanksgiving was approaching and the resort was at maximum occupancy. Mostly, we catered to hunting parties, but we had some guests who’d come here for a week getaway. We offered wagon rides where they could get a look at the Montana scenery while drinking cocoa or spiked cider. We had families flying in soon who’d stay here through the holiday, enjoying the lodge and the chalets and the renowned chef’s food spread.

Meanwhile, my family would all eat together at Grandma and Granddad’s place, as was tradition.

And Gemma and I would pretend, like we had been all month, that we were coworkers and friends at best.

If my family had any clue that I drove to Gemma’s cabin a few nights a week, no one had mentioned it—which meant they didn’t know. Besides my mother, the Greers weren’t known for subtlety.

So Gemma and I were keeping up appearances when we crossed paths at the lodge during the week. I didn’t stop to talk to her at the front desk. And on Saturdays, when everyone else was at home, this had become our routine. We’d eat Friday night family dinner, limiting conversation and pretending to ignore the other. Then I’d leave first but instead of going home, I’d go to the cabin. By the time Gemma arrived, I’d have a fire roaring and was usually naked in bed, waiting for her to join me. Saturday mornings we’d share a pot of coffee, then I’d come up with a handful of jobs for us to tackle together.

“Okay, I’m done.” Gemma appeared at the stall door, brushing her gloves on her jeans.

It was cold outside, the air frozen and the ground covered in a fluffy layer of fresh snow. But there was a light sheen to her brow from working hard and her cheeks were flushed.

She’d shed her navy winter coat—one she’d ordered weeks ago after I’d lectured her relentlessly for an hour about Montana winters. Over her long-sleeved black tee, she’d shrugged on one of my flannels to keep her clothes from getting too dirty.

Her hair was up in a messy knot because she hadn’t washed it this morning when we’d showered together. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup and a few pieces of straw clung to her boots—another purchase I’d encouraged her to make.

Standing there, fresh and relaxed, Gemma stopped my heart. Damn, but she was beautiful.

“Have you ever thought about swapping the storage stall at the end of the stables to one in the middle?” she asked. “It would save foot traffic.”

“Um . . . no.” That stall at the end of the stables had always been used for storage. I couldn’t think of a reason why—that’s where it had always been. “But I will.”