“Thank you,” I say again. “I know this whole thing is weird. Us showing up here.”

Bo shrugs. “Raylan likes trouble. He always has.”

“Is that why he didn’t stay here?” I ask her. “It wasn’t enough adventure for him?”

Bo narrows her eyes at me, looking me up and down like she’s analyzing the motive behind my question.

“He had his reasons for leaving,” she says at last.

Then she turns abruptly and leaves the kitchen.

I feel like I offended her, but I have no idea how. Or maybe she wasn’t offended—she just didn’t want to leave space for any more questions.

I look out the window again, my eyes irresistibly drawn back to Raylan.

I feel a pull toward him unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

I don’t know what the fuck happened between us down by the river. I’ve never felt anything like that. I was completely out of control. And usually I hate that sensation. Hate it more than anything.

But in this particular instance . . .

It was almost worth the trade. Giving up my sense of security and dignity, in return for the most transcendent sexual experience of my life.

I’ve never felt pleasure like that.

I can feel my face flaming, just remembering it.

I don’t understand how it happened. I’ve never been so wildly attracted to someone. Never felt my body respond like that . . .

And now I want to shut it off again. I want to turn it off like a faucet, because I don’t know where this will take me. I don’t know what will happen if I give in to that impulse again.

I want to leave and go back to Chicago.

I’m overwhelmed by Raylan’s ranch, his family, his personal life. Overwhelmed by seeing him here in his element, where he’s most comfortable, most himself.

He’s at his most powerful here, and I’m at my most confused and off-kilter. I don’t have any of the trappings of my normal life—my clothes, my routine, my career, my own family. Those are the core elements of my identity. What am I, stripped down to nothing and brought to this strange place?

Raylan and I missed lunch when we were riding around all morning. I made myself a sandwich while I was working, but he stayed out in the pen, probably getting hungrier by the minute.

He spends so long with the horse that he almost misses dinner, too.

I’m alone in the kitchen with Celia when she starts the evening meal. I’m working away on Bo’s laptop, but I feel guilty watching her peel potatoes and chop carrots, knowing I’ll be eating the food when it’s finished. Especially considering she’s doing all this work with a clunky boot on her right foot.

“Can I help?” I ask her.

“No need,” she says. “You’re already working.”

Her tone is genuine—she’s not trying to nudge me into offering again. But I close the laptop and stand up anyway, feeling like I should contribute, since I’m staying in her house, wearing her daughter’s clothes, and eating her food.