How We Deal With Gravity(64)

“Okay, maybe ten minutes,” he winks, holding out his hand. I grab it and am immediately soothed by the sensation of his fingers intertwined with mine. It’s such a simple touch, holding hands. But having Mason’s wrapped around mine feels so natural, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.

Mason leads me to his car, and I look around for clues while he walks to his side. He catches me, and starts laughing. “You’re not going to find a map in here,” he says, looking over his shoulder while he backs out onto the road.

“Can you give me any clues?” I ask, and he just slips on his sunglasses and smiles.

“I can tell you that you’ll be out all night. Good thing tomorrow’s Friday,” he says, his eyebrows raised just above the rims of his glasses.

I huff, but it’s really only for pretend. Truth is, Mason could be driving me to a grocery store where he plans to walk the aisles for hours, and I’d happily join him. These last few weeks have been a dream, and I never want to wake up.

We pull up next to a barn about thirty minutes north of Cave Creek, and Mason jumps out quickly, rushing over to my side to get my door. “I can let myself out of a car ya know,” I say, though I secretly like that he’s going full-gentleman tonight.

“Just preserving your energy,” he says, tipping his glasses down to give me a look that has my body tingling and wishing we were alone. He holds my eyes for a few long seconds and then shakes his head. “Damn.”

“Damn, what?” I ask.

“Just…damn,” he smirks, and I blush.

Mason leads me to the other end of the barn where there’s an older man saddling up a few horses. “Hey there. Are you Jeff?” he asks, and the man dusts his hands against his jeans, sending puffs of dirt in the air, before turning around to shake Mason’s hand.

“That’s me. You must be Mason?” he says, his mustache groomed into this perfect handlebar. We have a lot of cowboys in town, but the further away you get from the big city, the more authentic they are. Jeff here looks like he’s probably the real deal.

“I’ve got ‘em saddled for ya. You’ll want to follow the green trail on the map. Dinner’s at eight,” he says, handing the reigns over to Mason. When I realize Jeff is leaving us alone, with two ginormous horses, I start to laugh nervously.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I say, taking the reigns of the smaller horse from Mason. I pet my horse along his nose, and he dips his head down to sniff me. I’ve been around horses a lot. I’m not a great rider, but I’m comfortable with them.

When I look back to Mason, he’s already swinging his leg over and getting ready. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him so relaxed on a horse, but I can’t hide my shock. “You are full of surprises, Mason Street,” I smile, lifting myself up and climbing onto my horse.

“Her name’s Dixie. This is Red. I had to sell them when the contract fell through,” he says, running his hand down his horse’s neck and back up again. When he looks at me, his smile is forced and flat, and I feel heartbroken for him.

“I had no idea. I’m sorry, Mason,” I say, my brain entertaining silly thoughts like running away with him and his horses right now.

“It’s okay. It was just one of those things; I always wanted horses. You know, like some people always want a racecar or…whatever. I didn’t get to see them much, and it didn’t really make sense to own them anyhow. It was the first thing I did with the money we got, and it was probably a stupid financial decision. Jeff works for the ranch I sold them to. They let people ride. I haven’t been up since I’ve been home, but it felt like a good time to come…with you,” he says, and the way he’s looking at me feels like he’s been looking at me for forever.

We ride Dixie and Red for about an hour, winding through a trail along a riverbed and through a few small hills deeper into the desert. By the time we reach a small group of people, the sun is starting to set.

“Here,” Mason says, dismounting and reaching to hold Dixie for me while I climb down myself. We never rode fast or hard, but my thighs still hurt anyhow. I know I’ll pay for this tomorrow, but I’d ride for hours in pain just to end up here with Mason.

There’s a large campfire going, and a few older men sitting with guitars and playing. I notice three or four other couples walking over to a small table to pick up food, and I smile up at Mason.

“Are we having a cookout?” I ask, watching him pull a rolled up blanket from the back part of the saddle.

“I figured I could take you to a fancy restaurant anytime,” he says, reaching for me. I fold right against his body, his arm tucking me in tightly.

The fall weather is starting to settle in and the desert air is chilly at night, so Mason lays out our blanket close to the fire, and makes me comfortable while he goes to make our plates. The three men playing and singing on the other side of the fire are singing old country tunes, and they remind me of my mother. She loved Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings.

Mason comes back with two plates piled high with more food than I could ever eat, and we both sit close together on our blanket, devouring barbecued chicken legs, cornbread, and beans. I’m barely though half of my plate and I have to stop.

“Are you giving up?” Mason asks, his mouth busy working a bite while he talks.