Wild Hearts (8 page)

Logan turned the ATV away from me. I swallowed hard.

“Wait,” I said. “I'm
not
afraid, but you do owe me. So I'll do you a favor and let you play tour guide.”

Logan kept a straight face, but I could tell he was fighting the urge to laugh. The corners of his mouth twitched.

I slid onto the back of the four-wheeler and tried to keep at least a few inches of space between us. My palms sweated and I stared at his back, knowing I'd be touching him in seconds. I felt awkward leaning forward and encircling his waist. His chest muscles tightened against my interlocked fingers.

He fed gas to the engine and we moved forward. He gave it a little more gas as we zipped down the road.

“You okay?” he asked. “Tell me if I'm going too fast.”

“I'm good,” I said. I almost couldn't believe that I had my arms around Logan—the guy who had honked his truck horn at me less than seventy-two hours ago.

I realized I didn't know anything about him, aside from what he'd told me and what little I'd heard from Amy. My image of cowboys was probably skewed with footage from old black-and-white Westerns that Grandpa and I had watched together.

“What do you do, exactly?” I asked. “I heard that you have a ranch or something.”

Logan took a smooth left and headed off the road and into a grassy field. He stopped and got off the four-wheeler.

“My dad and I run it together. I herd the cattle, gentle foals—you know, getting them ready for riders—take care of the livestock, and do whatever needs to be done.” He lifted the wire loop that was placed over a fence post and opened the rusty gate. “Can you drive through?” he asked.

“Sure.” I slid forward and squeezed the gas. I'd driven plenty of ATVs around Dad's lots. The four-wheeler eased through the gate and I put on the brakes and waited for Logan to close it.
Foals.
Logan had a hands-on connection with horses. Enough of a connection that he'd protested my dad's arrival.

“Are we allowed to ride in here?” I asked. Mom and Dad would freak if I got caught trespassing.

Logan grinned, showing his cute dimple again, and took his seat in front of me. “We can ride anywhere as long as we don't bother the animals or run over any crops. I've worked this field before.”

“You work at WyGas, run a ranch,
and
do other stuff?” I already knew the answer, but I didn't want him to know that I'd been talking about him.

“Yeah, I work part-time at Watson's when I can squeeze in some hours around school. I really don't mind it. Most of my bosses are all family friends, so it's almost like I'm my own boss.”

He moved the ATV forward over the prickly-looking tall grass and I gingerly wrapped my arms around him again. He smelled like cinnamon and fresh, sweet hay.

“I was definitely wrong about you,” Logan said. “The day we met, I had you pegged for a touristy buckle chaser.”

“A what?”

“Buckle chaser. But it's no big. I was wrong.”

“No, tell me,” I said. “What does it mean?”

Logan increased the four-wheeler's speed and we zoomed toward a small hill covered in black rocks. “We call
aggressive
girls buckle chasers,” he said. “You're not. I mean, I know we haven't been hanging out that long, but I can tell.”

“Oh, God.” Just when we had really started to get along, he had to ruin it with
that.
“You thought—” I started. “But I would never . . . forget it!”

I yanked my arms from around his waist and tried to hold on to the back of the four-wheeler. I thought we'd finished razzing each other from earlier.

“Brie—” Logan started.

“Do you expect every girl here to fall all over you, or what? Sorry if you were disappointed that I didn't try to make out with you two seconds after we met.”

Minutes ago, we had been talking about man-eating bears and I'd been set to hike solo. Now that Logan had me alone in the middle of nowhere, he decided to tell me what he really thought.

“Put your arms back or you're going to fall off,” he said. Ignoring him, I just stared at my camera case.

“No,” I said. “If I touch you, watch out, that means I'm a belt chaser!”

“Buckle chaser,” he said, his tone softening. “I didn't mean to offend you. Really. I was just surprised that you—”

I cut him off. “Didn't try to hit on you just because we're sitting like this? Do you think girls who aren't from around here find all cowboys irresistible?”

“I didn't say that,” Logan said. “But a lot of tourist girls are the same. They think Lost Springs guys are backwoods idiots who do nothing but ride horses and kiss the visiting girls. People treat this place like Vegas. They get to leave and no one at home knows a thing.”

“Well, I'm not one of those ‘people.' You didn't even know me and you lumped me in that category.”

“You didn't know me and you put me in the ‘crazy horse protestor' category,” Logan said.

“At least I was accurate!” I said. “Okay, maybe not the ‘crazy' part, sorry. But you
are
a protestor. Why? What is it about the horses that makes you feel like you have to protest?”

Logan took a
long
pause. “The real answer is personal,” he said. “It's only something that I tell my friends. The easy answer is one you'll find out if you stay on the ATV with me.”

I sighed. “Okay, okay. Keep your secrets. But know that I would protest for my dad if I needed to.”

“You don't,” Logan said. “Your father made sure every possible piece of paper was signed before he got here. The Bureau of Land Management already gave him a thumbs-up, so he's good to go.”

“Then why are you protesting?” I asked, shaking my head. “Just to show you're upset? What?”

“I don't know why each person is protesting,” Logan said. “We're all there for different reasons. Everyone knows that we can't stop your father. For some of the townspeople, I think they would feel as though they let the horses down if they didn't at least show their support.”

Logan fell silent. I didn't speak, either.

“It seems like if we want to make it through this ATV ride, we have to stop talking about our dads,” I said.

“Agreed,” Logan said. He opened up the gas more and we zipped over the long, weed-filled grass.

A few minutes later, he turned off the four-wheeler at the base of the black rocks and got off.

“C'mon,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

I shrugged, hopped off the ATV, and stepped behind him through the dewy grass. If only our entire exchange could float away in the gentle breeze.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

When in doubt, let your horse do the thinkin'.

We walked around the base of the gentle hill and the black rocks choked the grass and weeds. Logan knelt down and felt the ground. He brushed aside a few rocks and exposed the rich brown dirt.

“Feel this,” Logan said, motioning for me to bend down.

I stretched my hand forward and felt the spot where he'd touched.

“It's warm,” I said, feeling the ground again. It was weird touching ground that was actually hot under my hands. It wasn't just warmed from the sun—it was a different, moist heat.

Logan nodded. “Now, remember what that felt like and come over here.”

“What was that?” I asked, staring at the spot before jogging after Logan as he made his way across the loose rocks.

“You'll see,” he said. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and watched him for a second. He looked around six foot one or two. In his side pocket, a pair of leather gloves peeked out, and what looked like the top of a pocketknife stuck out of his back pocket. I wondered if he got his arms so chiseled
from weights or ranch work. A weird scent hit my nostrils, and I sniffed the air.

“What's that smell?” I asked. “It smells like rotten eggs. You're lucky this wasn't a date, or you would have so bombed.”

Logan laughed. “I don't smell a thing. Must be you.”

“Ha-ha,” I said, holding my nose. “Really, what is it?”

“That would be sulfur.” He slowed his stride and pushed his hat back on his head. No wonder no one moved to this town. They were gassed out.

“From what?” I asked.

“From this.” He grinned and pointed to a smooth piece of land a few yards ahead that wasn't covered in rocks. It looked like gray mud from a spa.

We walked up to the patch of mud and I peered down at it.

“What am I supposed to be seeing—Oh!” I jumped. Bubbles popped in the mud. “No way!”

“It's a mud pot,” Logan said. “Don't even try to get closer than this. The mud is hot enough to burn skin.”

“That's what the sulfur smell was, huh?” I leaned a little closer and pulled my camera over my head.

“Yeah, it smells awful, but if you can stand it, it's amazing to see,” Logan said as he ran his eyes across my face. I could see him taking me in, the way I'd done with him earlier. I clamped my teeth down on the inside of my cheek to keep from blushing.

The mud pots were out in the middle of nowhere. Like a treasure with no map. Behind us, the rocky hill shouldered acres of tall grass and flowers. If I looked straight over the mud pots, I could see the base of Blackheart Mountain.

I adjusted the camera without thinking—it was all like second nature. I pointed the lens toward the bubbles. I leaned in, balancing on my toes.

“Whoa,” Logan said. I felt him move in and place a steadying, strong hand atop each of my hips. “I don't want to take you to the hospital with third-degree burns. Take your pictures. There's no rush this time. I don't have my truck to rev at you.”

I zoomed in on the mud pot and tried to focus
myself—
not the camera. It was difficult with Logan's palms and fingers radiating heat through my jeans.

Blinking, I concentrated on the shots and got my focus back. Tried not to visualize his warm brown eyes and tan face. Thankfully, my no-boyfriends-until-college rule was firmly in place.

“Okay,” I said, stepping back. “I got some great photos.”

Logan grinned.

I followed him away from the mud pots and we got back on the ATV.

“Where are we going now?” I asked, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Somewhere really special,” he said. “It's not far.”

We left the mud pots and the sulfur smell behind us as Logan eased the ATV up a slight hill. I could feel his washboard abs.
Don't even go there
, my nagging subconscious told me. I turned my face to the side and rested my right cheek gently on Logan's back. He didn't react, so I relaxed my neck muscles and let my head fully rest on him. The sun warmed my back. Logan gave off a vibe that not many people had—he didn't
talk only to prevent silence. He didn't make lulls in conversation feel awkward.

Logan slowed and turned off the ATV when we reached the hilltop. We climbed off the four-wheeler and into thick, emerald-green grass that came up to my knees.

“This view,” I said. “Wow.” The grass stretched across a plain that turned into gentle rolling hills in the distance. Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of reddish orange flowers created vibrant pops of color.

Logan stood beside me, his hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans. “I never get tired of coming here,” he said.

“What are those flowers?” I asked. “They're so pretty. Your outfit sort of matches them, too.”

“That was my goal this morning,” Logan said. “I woke up and thought, okay. Today, I want to color-coordinate my T-shirt with the Indian paintbrushes.”

I laughed.

“They're the state flower,” Logan said.

We stood in comfortable silence for several minutes.

I held up my camera. “Do you mind if I take a few shots of this before we go?”

“No way,” Logan said. “You need to be home any time soon?”