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Lassoing My Neighbor A Small Town Forbidden Romance
J.P. Comeau
Copyright © 2024 by J.P. Comeau
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
A Special Note from the Author
Chapter One
A Yellowstone Creek Homecoming Connor
As I stepped onto the old porch of Yellowstone Creek Ranch, the sounds of birds singing in unison filled the air. The sunlight slowly illuminated the rolling hills, highlighting the morning dew on the grass and creating a breathtaking warmth that seemed to melt away all my worries. It was a display of nature's effortless beauty, tempting me to give in and let go of all my troubles.
The air was a crisp breath of purity, the chill of it biting at my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth creeping up from the east. It held the earthy tang of hay and the sweet scent of wildflowers, which were just beginning to unfurl their petals to the promise of a new day. I could hear the distant lowing of cattle, the rhythmic clanking of a metal gate swaying on its hinges, and the rustle of leaves dancing to the gentle command of the morning breeze.
Yellowstone Creek, a silvery ribbon in the distance, caught the sun's early rays and flickered with a brilliance that beckoned the eye. With its weathered wood and stone chimney, the ranch house stood as a steadfast guardian of history. It was more than a structure; it was a witness to generations of toil and love, an archive of laughter and tears.
I let my gaze drift over the barns and fences, each one a chapter in my family's story, each nail and board a verse in a song of survival and legacy. Once brightly colored, the barn's red paint had succumbed to the will of time, its faded elegance a reminder that nothing, not even the strongest spirit, was impervious to the elements.
This was where the soil held the seeds of the crops we cultivated and the roots of our family tree. It was a place that demanded respect, not just for its beauty but for its trials. As the world slowly brightened around me, I felt the weight of my own trials, a reminder of the land's relentless challenge to stand firm, grow, and endure.
I swung the door of my dusty truck open, the groan of its hinges competing with the morning quiet. Standing there, boots on the ground, I could see the rising sun's reflection in the rearview mirror, casting a silhouette that seemed like a stranger's. Stubble shadowed my jaw, and my eyes, once bright with ambition, now held a muted glint like the sheen of a well-worn saddle. My jeans, a bit more frayed at the edges, and my flannel shirt, a size looser than the year before, spoke of the lean times I'd come through.
The ranch was a canvas of memories, each corner a brushstroke of my past. As the soft light washed over the familiar landscape, a swell of emotions tightened my chest. I was back—not as the conquering hero I'd hoped to be, but as a prodigal son, humbled and a bit broken. The sting of my personal defeats tarnished my pride in this land.
Drawing a deep breath, the cool air filled my lungs and seemed to steady my shaking hands. I couldn't help the twitch of a smile as the ranch life stirred around me, a comforting embrace to my unsettled spirit. This was home. It was the starting point of my
dreams; now, it was my haven, my chance to rebuild from the ashes of my California dream.
California had always been a fantasy, the kind painted with the most vibrant hues and whispered in the moments before every sunset. I had left Wyoming several years ago with my pockets full of hope and my head filled with visions of golden fields and endless success. But those dreams had withered under the relentless sun, much like my crops did when the drought came and refused to leave.
As I'd watched the last rays die against the dry, cracked earth each night, part of me died with them. The land I had poured my heart into turned to dust, taking my ambitions with it. I'd fought hard, but each strategy and toil seemed only to echo back failure. The calls to Dad and other family members had become less frequent, my voice growing quieter as I avoided telling them of the mounting debts, the unforgiving weather, and the final, grudging acceptance that I couldn't make it work.
Dusty never uttered, 'I told you so,' nor did he insinuate it. When I appeared one day at the Lazy J Ranch in Jackson Hole, he offered me a job. And most recently, he extended the keys to his fifth wheeler, insisting it was mine until I regained my footing. It was more than mere shelter; it was a lifeline cast with the kind of love only a brother could offer.
As I unhitched the trailer, the familiar rumble of engines signaled their arrival. One by one, vehicles rolled up the drive. The doors swung open, and out they stepped—my brothers, Mark and Clay, their laughter cutting through the quiet morning, their wives and kids waving from the passenger seats, bright smiles plastered on their faces. And there was Emily, my sister, her arms laden with her new twin girls.
Mark was the first to reach me, his governor's composure giving way to the warmth of a brother's embrace. "Connor, you look like you could use a good meal," he joked, eyeing my leaner frame. Sandy, his wife, a kind woman with a penchant for volunteering, nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning my tired face with concern.
Clay clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grin infectious. "You haven't lost your touch with the truck, I see," he teased, referencing our teenage years maneuvering trucks and tractors with ease. His wife, Lizzie, more reserved, offered a gentle, "Nice to meet you, Connor," that felt like a balm to my restless heart.
Then Emily sidled up to me while passing the babies to her husband, Jack. "Mark's got a booth at the festival this weekend to glad-hand his constituents, Connor. Thought you might like to help out setting it up. It'll be a great place to reacquaint yourself with some of your old friends," she said, her voice carrying that same commanding tone she used when rallying her brothers but softened by the concern in her eyes.
Their presence, the easy banter, and the way they filled the space around me reminded me of what I had missed. The Cody Stampede Art Festival was just an excuse, a happy coincidence. They were here for me, rallying around the wayward brother who had finally come home.
The California sun, a relentless orb in the sky, was not the nurturing warmth I had imagined when I first laid eyes on my plot of land. Instead, it was a harsh judge, bleaching the dreams from the soil with its unforgiving rays. I had arrived in the Golden State with ambitions as high as the redwoods, determined to carve out my own piece of paradise with nothing but my hands and my will.
Those early days were filled with promise. I remember turning the earth, feeling its cool, fertile promise slip through my fingers, the smell of the moist ground a perfume of potential. I planted with precision, each seed a silent pact between me and the land. I had it all planned out—rows of organic greens and baskets of sun-ripened tomatoes that would be the pride of the local farmers' markets.
But the drought came like a thief in the night, stealing the vitality from the land. My crops withered, and with them, my savings dwindled. I could still see the bank manager shaking his head and feel the weight of the foreclosure notice in my hand. It was a bitter pill, swallowing the fact that the land I had poured my heart into was now foreclosed, a casualty of my misplaced confidence.
The losses weren't just financial. They seeped into my soul, stripping away the layers of a man I thought I was. In the quiet moments, when the day's dust settled, I faced a reflection marred by naivety and hubris. It was in those humbling moments I knew I had to return to where it all began. The feckless son of Roy Brooks, not seeking fortune anymore, but forgiveness—both from my family and myself.
The Brooks family had a way of speaking without words, a language crafted from years of shared toil and triumph. Each glance and touch conveyed volumes as I stepped into the fold of their welcome. My father's eyes, once sharp as an eagle's, were softer now, the edges of his world blurred by the encroaching fog of his Parkinson’s disease. But the pride in his gaze and the slight nod as he took me in was his way of saying all was forgiven.
"Dad," I began, the word a key turning in a long-locked door. His hand rose, a gentle stop to the tide of apologies threatening to spill from me.
"You're here to stay now. That's what matters," he said, his voice the crackle of autumn leaves. It was all the absolution I needed.
Mark, the pillar, the politician, had a handshake that could seal a deal with its firmness, but his embrace was all brotherly love, his pat on the back a reassurance that I wasn't alone in shouldering my burdens.
Clay, the quiet veterinarian, held back, his eyes studying me as if committing to memory the changes etched on my face since I left. His hug was tight when he finally stepped forward, a silent pledge of support.
As the Brooks clan gathered around the kitchen table, piled high with Emily's pies and the season's first strawberry preserves, the air was thick with more than just the aroma of home cooking. Expectations hung over us, a tangible force pressing down on my shoulders. The way my father's gaze lingered on me, filled with an uplifting and suffocating hope, spoke of his desire to see the ranch flourish in the hands of his sons.
With his political acumen, Mark hinted at future strategies for the ranch, ventures where he assumed I would take the lead. "This land
needs your touch, Connor," he said, each word laden with a belief in my abilities that I no longer had. Clay's nods of agreement felt like weights added to a scale I was afraid to tip.
In the quiet of the evening, after the laughter had faded and the dishes were cleared, the full weight of their expectations settled in my gut. Could I be the man they needed me to be? The responsibility of their faith in me was a mantle I wasn't sure I was ready to wear again. But as I listened to the soft creaks of the house, the only home I'd ever known, I realized that their expectations were not demands but offerings of hope. And perhaps, with hope as my starting point, I could begin to rebuild—not just the ranch, but myself.
The Circle Y brand etched above the stable door witnessed the ranch settling in for the evening, and I found myself walking beside Dusty, whose boots knew the curves of this land as well as any old cowboy's.
Memories of our last visit here flooded back when Dusty and his now-wife Laura had been practicing for rodeo season in the same ring we passed. I couldn't help but remember my father's distant figure during that time, a simple 'hello' thrown in his direction before quickly moving on without ever bridging the divide between us.
Dusty caught me staring out across the expanse, a sea of green that seemed both unchanged and entirely new. "Feels different now, doesn't it?" he mused, a statement more than a question. I could only nod, the connection to the land—a pulse beneath my feet— reminding me of roots I thought I'd severed long ago.
As we walked past the corral, Dusty glanced over, a knowing look in his eye. "You seen Maggie yet?" he asked, his voice casual.
"No, I just got here,” I admitted, the word coming out more resigned than intended. "But it's bound to happen." Living here, walking these grounds, Maggie's presence was as certain as the coming dawn. We were like two tributaries split from the same source, bound to converge again despite the distance traveled. The thought stirred an ache within me—a longing for something I'd sworn to leave behind.
Yet, as the land stretched before me, whispering of closeness and untold futures, I knew I had to resist. For her peace, for the sake of what we'd both lost and found in our separation, our past love had to remain just that—past.
The distant sound of laughter cut through the solemn silence between Dusty and me, and we both turned to see Eli barreling toward us. The kid was all knees and elbows, his energy boundless as the Wyoming skies. Close behind, Mark strolled with his easy authority, a smile appearing on his lips as he watched his son run.
"Uncle Connor, come see!" Eli's voice was a peal of excitement. "Grandpa got me a pony for my birthday, and I can ride all by myself!"
Watching Eli's pride, I couldn't help the grin that broke free. A moment of pure, unadulterated joy made the heaviness in my chest lighten.
I knelt down, ruffling Eli's hair. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, champ," I said, and I meant it. His invitation wasn't just to watch him ride; it was an invitation to be part of the family again, to take my place in the chain of moments that made up our shared history.
Chapter Two
Forbidden Dreams Maggie
The midday sun warmed the porch of the bunkhouse, its rays transforming the space into a lively classroom under the open sky. I stood at the center, surrounded by a flock of children from the local elementary school who had come to Yellowstone Creek Ranch on a field trip, their young minds eager to absorb the rich tapestry of Shoshone culture.
For years, the ranch had been both my workplace and my passion. I’d dedicated myself to cooking for the ranch hands and for Roy, infusing each dish with a piece of our shared history. It was more than just employment; it was a calling, a means of nourishing not only the body but also the soul, with the enduring traditions of our people.
As I laid out ingredients on the weathered wooden table, the children clustered around, their eyes wide with curiosity. I was about to show them how to make fry bread, a staple that held the flavor of our heritage, as much a part of this land as the sagebrush and the roaming cattle. As I shared with them the simple yet profound act of turning flour and water into something sustaining, I hoped they could feel the heart of my Shoshone heritage beating in every bite.
They gathered around me, a colorful mosaic of curiosity, each child's face alight with wonder. I stood before them, a tray of kneaded dough at the ready, the air around us thick with the scent of fry bread and a kiss of herbs.
"Now, watch closely," I said, my voice carrying over their excitement. "This isn't just food; it's history. Our history." Their eyes, some round, and others almond-shaped, fixed on my hands as they moved with a rhythm honed by years of practice.
The children, awestruck by the magic in the kitchen, chimed in with their own bits of wonder and curiosity. One little girl, with flour dusting her nose, piped up, "Is this the same bread that the Shoshone leaders ate?" Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of connecting to a past she was beginning to understand.
A boy, his hands more dough than skin now, asked in awe, "Did they make it like we are with their own hands?" There was a note of pride in his voice as if the act of making the bread linked him to those great leaders.
Another child, quieter but no less engaged, added thoughtfully, "So when we eat this, we're like sharing a meal with them?" The simplicity of the question belied the depth of understanding behind it.
And at that moment, as they ate and learned, the children weren't just making fry bread—they were weaving themselves into the rich tapestry of their history, one golden brown piece at a time.
On that sun-soaked porch, I was more than Maggie Tendoy; I was a teacher of traditions, a bridge between old ways and new hearts. Yet, even as I anchored these children in the lore of our people, my own heart was adrift, pulled by the gravity of a man from my past.
Connor Brooks was back home for good—within reach but far from my embrace.
As the children's hands dove into the flour, a cloud of white rising to meet the sun's embrace, my mind drifted to the figure just beyond the porch's reach. Connor was outside near the stable, his posture a language I could read from a distance—a mixture of strength and hesitation. It had been only a day since he returned to the Circle Y, yet the sight of him pulled at threads of feelings I'd carefully tucked away.
The children's laughter became a distant murmur as I wondered, not for the first time, how his hands would feel enveloping mine, coarse from work but gentle in touch. The memory of our shared glances, the electric silence full of words never spoken, was a music that played softly in the back of my mind.
Duty anchored me to tradition, to the expectations woven into my role as the sister of Chief Tendoy—a title my brother assumed from our father, whose name he proudly carried forward. Yet, the sight of Connor, a man whose soul matched the wild spirit of the land we both loved, tugged at me with a force as commanding as the river that cut through the ranch. My heart knew the dangerous dance of our concealed passion, the high stakes of a love that could bloom brightly but must remain hidden.
As my third-grade class eagerly dove into the task of shaping fry bread, I found myself drifting away from the present moment. My hands, coated in a layer of flour, hovered over the bowl as my gaze wandered towards the stable. Leaning against the wooden fence stood Chief Tendoy and Connor, engaged in a quiet conversation.
But I couldn't let myself be consumed by these thoughts. The children before me demanded my full attention. With renewed focus, I guided their tiny hands through the process of molding dough, each child determined and eager to create their own perfect fry bread. As my hands worked alongside theirs, I pushed aside the inner conflict and embraced the joy and simplicity of teaching these young minds.
The thud of boots on wooden planks announced Tendoy's approach. His footsteps were as deliberate and purposeful as the
man himself. As he ascended the steps to the porch, the children's rambunctious energy seemed to quiet, their intuitive senses aware of the Chief's approach.
Tendoy's presence commanded a natural authority, yet his silent glance toward Connor sent a ripple of tension through me, an undercurrent of concern that unsettled the still waters of my focus. "Maggie, this is good work," he commended, his voice rich with the pride of brotherhood and leadership.
I nodded, appreciating the distraction from the heartache his gaze had stirred within me. "They're getting a piece of our story," I said, my words as much a reminder to myself as they were a response to him.
He observed the children with a fondness that belied his stature. "It is," he agreed. "Our traditions are gifts we give to the future."
As Tendoy's hand rested briefly on my shoulder, the weight of his touch carried the complexity of our shared history and my current crossroads. It was an assurance, acknowledging the work I did with the children, a role I cherished deeply within our community. Yet, his touch was also a silent recognition of the bond forming between Connor and me, a connection he was aware of despite the unspoken nature of our relationship.
In the gravity of his gaze, as he pulled away, I read the unspoken yet clear reminder of my position as the daughter of a chief—a role bound by tradition, by the unwritten laws that dictated I could not marry outside our tribe.
My brother’s eyes, always so understanding, now held a glint of caution, a gentle but firm reminder of the expectations placed upon me. It was a balance I had managed all my life, but with Connor's return, it had become a tightrope walk between the call of my heart and the responsibilities of my heritage.
As I shut the old, squeaky door of the bunkhouse, the evening sky was putting on a show, all dressed up in oranges and pinks. It felt cozy and familiar. I could still hear the echoes of laughter and excited chatter from the kids who had just left. Their eyes sparkled with the stories and legends we'd shared, those tales that were a big part of who we were.
I strolled over to my truck. The sound of my keys jingling was like a comforting tune, reminding me of the cozy little spot I called home. It wasn’t far, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from this ranch, right there on tribal land.
As I approached my truck, the steady footfalls of Connor’s strides announced his presence before I saw him. He leaned against the hood, his posture casual, but his eyes held a cautious intensity. "Hey, Maggie," he called out softly as I stepped closer.
"Connor," I replied, the name a familiar taste on my tongue. "I didn't see you there."
He nodded toward the truck’s bed where my portable tables were stored. "You setting up a booth at the festival this weekend? Your jewelry always draws a crowd."
His question hung in the air, laden with unspoken words. It was an innocent query to any onlooker, but it was a thread pulling at the fabric of a carefully maintained distance between us. "Yes, I'll be there," I answered, my voice betraying none of the tremors I felt inside me.
The tension was a living thing, a silent exchange that spoke of repressed memories and the embers of a past passion we were both duty-bound to ignore. His gaze lingered, a silent conversation in the fading light, before he pushed off from the truck, the spell broken.
"Good," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "I'll make sure to stop by."
I watched him walk away, every step widening the chasm our shared history had bridged. As I sank into the leather truck seat and cranked the engine, my mind was flooded with memories of our forbidden love.
I remembered how the vast Wyoming sky had stretched above us, a perfect backdrop for our reckless teenage passions. Connor was starting to explore the world of dating in high school, and as someone older and more experienced, he came to me for guidance in matters of love.
He was a quick learner, eager to soak up every bit of knowledge I had to share. Our hidden moments of kissing and touching were like bursts of light against the secluded backdrop, reminiscent of fireflies
on a balmy summer evening. His intense and unwavering touch left me breathless and yearning for more.
The memory shifted with a jolt; the sound of the truck's engine pulled me out of my reverie, reminding me of where I was—and who I was—now. But even as our paths had diverged over the years, those stolen moments lived on, stoking the smoldering embers of our passion—a silent promise that we were not yet finished exploring each other's depths.
But as the daughter of Chief Tendoy, the name my brother assumed at our father's death and a friend to the Brooks family, our love was a delicate flame that could all too easily start a wildfire. We were from two worlds that coexisted yet rarely intertwined in such intimate ways. Our connection was deep, rooted in the soil we both cherished, yet this shared heritage demanded our separation. We were two spirits tied to a land that united and divided us.
The secrecy of our youthful romance was a bittersweet memory, tinged with the innocent belief that love could conquer all. But time and tradition had taught me otherwise. As the distance between the ranch and my home grew, so too did the space between those carefree days and the woman I had become, one who knew the cost of such a love and the price of its revelation.
As I turned into the driveway, a swell of pride and a rush of warm memories greeted me. My home, perched on the ranch's boundary, was more than a structure—it was the embodiment of my past and the vessel for my dreams. Walking through the door, I found solace in the unchanged, welcoming space of my manufactured home, a provision from the Shoshone Nation.
My eyes settled on the table where my latest handcrafted jewelry lay scattered—a collection of turquoise and silver that wove together the threads of my heritage. Each piece was a narrative in miniature, poised to share our culture's tales at the festival this weekend.
Yet, in the quiet of my contemplation, my thoughts inevitably meandered back to Connor. The memory of his touch ignited a warmth within me, a sharp contrast to the cool, smooth stones lying beneath my fingertips. The sensation was as vivid as if he were right
there, a reminder of the connection we shared that was as tangible and precious as the pieces I crafted with my own hands.
"Concentrate, Maggie," I urged myself, my voice barely above a whisper as I aligned necklaces and bracelets with careful precision for tomorrow’s showcase. “The festival celebrates your artistry, your heritage — not him."
My words hung in the stillness, yet a soft exhale betrayed my inner turmoil. I recognized the futility of my attempt at resolve. Once I saw Connor at the festival, any pretense of detachment would crumble. Our history was too rich, the magnetic draw between us too fierce to ignore.
"Don't make plans to meet him," I murmured to the encroaching dusk, a plea laced with the knowledge that my heart was not inclined to obey. It was a hollow vow, a fragile attempt to fortify myself against the inevitable.
As the night wrapped its cloak around the world, in that profound silence, it seemed the universe itself was nudging me towards a destiny woven long before, with or without my consent.
Chapter Three
A Festival of Gifts Connor
The cool dawn barely whispered through the curtains of my trailer as I stirred awake, the weight of the day already pressing on my chest. Outside, the ranch lay still, bathed in the soft blush of early light, a stark contrast to the restless churn of thoughts in my mind. Today was the Cody Stampede Art Festival, a day when the town bloomed wild with color and noise. But even as I pulled on my boots, the ritual felt hollow, my motions automatic. The family buzzed with the excitement of the day ahead, a low hum of eager voices and clattering dishes carried from the kitchen. Little Bella, Dusty and Laura's daughter were the first to notice me standing there, lost in thought. "Uncle Connor, are you coming in for breakfast?" Her youthful pitch cut through the early morning air, clear and bright.
I turned, offering a sideways smile. "In a minute, Bel. I just got to—" I gestured vaguely towards the barn, my excuse as thin as the morning mist.
Mark clapped a hand on my shoulder, his voice booming over Bella's, "You can't set up a booth on an empty stomach, brother!" There was a warmth there, a camaraderie that I usually leaned into, but today, it felt like an anchor, holding me back from the waves of anxiety crashing inside.
"Yeah, I'll be right there," I mumbled, but as I spoke, my gaze drifted back to the horizon. Would Maggie be looking out at the same sky, thinking of the festival, of me?
Driving from the open, quiet ranch to the lively Cody Stampede Arena, I was lost in thought, the hum of the tires on the asphalt setting the rhythm for my daydreams.
I pulled into the animated parking lot, instantly hit by the festival's signature buzz—the sweet and smoky scents of corn and barbecue filled the air, blending with the soundtrack of laughter and twangy country melodies. Kids darted around like little pinballs, adding to the day of fun and celebration, painting an inviting portrait of Cody's community spirit.
The arena itself was a spectacle, a colorful sprawl of tents and flags waving in the gentle morning breeze. I could make out the excited gestures of vendors putting the final touches on their booths. And there, amidst it all, was the Governor's Hospitality Booth— Mark's pride. I could already see the towering banners and the glint of red, white, and blue bunting catching the light.
Climbing out of the truck, I was immediately wrapped in the festival's welcoming embrace. There was a comforting familiarity in the air, yet beneath it, a thrum of expectancy pulsed through me, tied to the enigma that was Maggie's presence. It was as if I could sense her nearby, her laughter and smile teasing my senses, always just a moment away.
Today was meant to be about responsibility and honoring the family tradition, yet trying to sideline my thoughts of her proved as impossible as ignoring the rich pine scent back at the ranch—it was part of the place, just as she had become a part of me.
The framework of the Governor's booth stood like a skeleton against the bustling backdrop of the festival. "Left side's sagging," I called out, my voice firm over the clamor, directing the volunteers with a practiced ease that came from years of setting up similar events at the farmer's market.
Mark, his hands busy greeting his constituents, shot me a grateful look. "I owe you one, Connor," he said, his tone threaded with the stress of a man whose name was on every banner.
"Don't mention it," I replied, securing a corner of the canvas, my actions automatic. But my eyes betrayed my focus, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of dark hair, a certain grace amid the festival that could only be Maggie.
With our banners high and Mark greeting newcomers, our booth stood out proudly. It reflected both the Brooks family name and my dedication to making it a successful event. Then, amidst the swirl of activity, a glint of silver and turquoise snagged my attention. Maggie's booth was a trove of Native craftsmanship, each piece a whisper of tradition and modernity intertwined. And there she was, the craftsman herself—Maggie.
Our eyes locked, and the cacophony of noise surrounding us faded into a distant hum. At this moment, there was no need for masks or pretenses; we had shared words just last night, a brief conversation that somehow managed to convey everything and nothing at the same time.
The sparks between us were electric, and I couldn't help but wonder where this unexpected encounter would lead us. As our gazes continued to hold, it felt as if time stood still, giving us a chance to truly see each other in all our unguarded vulnerability.
"Connor," she greeted me with a smile as I approached, an anchor in the storm of activity.
"Hey, beautiful,” came the easy greeting, the words tinted with a warmth that felt as comfortable as a well-worn jacket. "What's the word on the street? Are your creations finding their fans?"
Her smile was like a sunrise, bright and full of promise. "Yeah, it's going pretty well. People seem to really connect with the stories I
tell them about each piece," she said, her hand lightly caressing the jewelry on display, a silent tribute to her craft.
She looked up with a glint of mischief. "How about you cowboy? Have you reclaimed your old fortress at the ranch?"
I let out a laugh, light and spontaneous. "I'm actually roughing it out in the trailer. Turns out I enjoy having a little kingdom of my own. It's the quiet, the space — it feels good," I shared, the truth of it ringing clear in my voice.
Her fingers traced a path over the glittering jewelry, lingering on a sun pendant that seemed to call out to her. It was a piece that demanded attention, radiating strength and individuality—much like the fiery spirit who had crafted it. "This one is meant for you," she breathed, her touch electric as she handed it to me, a silent promise passing between us.
At that brief moment, time seemed to stand still, the chaos of the festival fading into a distant hum. It was just the two of us, connected by the gleaming bronze pendant that glowed with the warmth of the midday sun. This shared instant, and the heat that sparked between us spoke volumes about our unbreakable bond and the fierce love that had always burned within us, hoping upon hope for this reunion.
As twilight descended, the festival lit up with cozy amber lights. The Brooks family was at the heart of it all, Mark's laughter and Sandy's warmth radiating through the crowd. Their kids were pure joy, living in the moment. In the distance, Maggie's crafts gleamed under the lanterns, creating a buzz of connection between us.
"Connor, go take a break, will ya?" Dusty's voice cut through my reverie, a knowing look in his eye. "We've got this covered."
With Dusty's understanding glance as my blessing, I left the safety of our booth. The pull towards Maggie was magnetic, like finding north on a compass. Each step held potential in the pulsing festival atmosphere, surrounding us with laughter and light.
"Mags,” I began, the words slightly heavy, rich with layers of emotion and the weight of silent confessions. "There's been this pull, you know? Memories of the last time I saw you… When we were in
the old cabin's loft. Those memories replay in my mind, more vivid than dreams."
Her gaze locked with mine, steady and understanding, acknowledging the tide of unspoken history that flowed between us. I extended my hand, my fingertips grazing hers, and there it was— that spark, that undeniable connection. It was a touch that brought back the warmth of past closeness, as tangible and comforting as the sun's rays, yet it carried the thrilling charge of a new beginning. Her hand in mine felt right—familiar yet thrilling, like coming home to a place that was the same but somehow wonderfully different.
"Let's seize the moment, Maggie... this is our time," I murmured, caressing her cheek with my thumb. "The waiting's been endless."
Her response was a gentle nod, her smile unfurling like a secret shared in the dimming light. "I've felt it too, Connor," she whispered back, her voice a soft echo of my own yearning.
Quickly, she collected her remaining unsold pieces and carefully packed them away. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I led her away as we retreated from the festival's lively radiance, seeking the quiet of an old, unused groundskeeper's shack. Its deep shadows promised secrecy from the outside world.
As we leaned against the cool, worn walls of the place, the warmth between us was undeniable—a gentle fire ignited by our rekindled closeness, burning with the potential of what lay ahead.
I pulled Maggie in closer; her body pressed against mine with an urgency that matched the pounding of my heart. The scent of her perfume was a heady mix of floral and musk, overwhelming my senses.
Her fingers traced a fiery trail along my chest, igniting every nerve ending and leaving me trembling with desire. The summer air felt like molten heat against our skin as we melted into each other, consumed by a passionate inferno.
My lips found their way to Maggie’s neck, and as I nibbled and suckled along her skin, careful to pay special attention to her pulse point, I heard her moan softly. "God, you drive me crazy," she breathed out, her hands tangled in my hair.
I could feel her hips pressing against mine, and her sweet scent was evident and intoxicating. Our bodies moved together, in sync with the rhythm of our deepened, unspoken desire.
My fingers reached for the denim skirt she had on, and I couldn't resist running my hands over her soft skin as I pushed it up her hips. The fabric of Maggie's panties was damp with desire, and I explored her clothed folds with my fingers, eliciting a gasp before she purred, “Mmm, Connor, you know what I like.”
Reaching for my arousal, Maggie reciprocated by unbuckling my belt and unzipping my fly with a gentle touch that showed she knew me well. Mags paused, her eyes filled with a mix of awe and longing as she reached for my bulging cock.
Her soft fingers brushed against my flesh, sending a rush of pleasure through my body. Maggie caressed me with gentle strokes, her thumb tracing the tip of my arousal, causing waves of sensation to course through me. Our gazes locked, and I could see the desire and hunger in her eyes. Leaning closer, she took my earlobe between her teeth for a brief nip before playfully tugging on it.
"I've been waiting all day for this," she moaned, her warm breath fanning over my neck as she continued to pleasure me. The sensation was intense, a perfect combination of pain and pleasure that only increased my desire for her even more.
"I can't wait any longer," I gasped as she continued to tease me.
“Then don’t,” Maggie whispered before sliding her panties to the side, exposing her swollen folds.
My fingers skillfully played with her clit, eliciting moans of delight from her. With my back pressed against the wall, our bodies entwined in a passionate kiss, and I savored the taste of sunshine and honey on her lips.
While our lips locked in a passionate embrace, I lifted her petite frame as she locked her legs around me. Then I slowly slid inside her, igniting a fiery desire that consumed us both. Our bodies moved in perfect synchronization, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through us. And our breaths quickened and mingled as our moans grew louder, the passion building with every movement.
“Maggie, you feel so amazing," I gasped, my hands gripping her hips tightly as she arched against me in ecstasy. We were lost in each other. Nothing else existed at that moment but the intense heat between us.
“I’m close… Oh, God. That’s it, Connor!” Maggie managed between ragged breaths.
Her words only intensified my pleasure, and I couldn't hold on any longer. "I'm right there with you," I grunted as I released my built-up tension, and my seed spilled out, filling her completely.
Our lovemaking left us panting and breathless, our bodies glistening with sweat. We locked eyes again, our souls connected through the powerful bond of our passion. As we slowed our movements, we remained entwined, savoring the aftermath of our lovemaking.
"That was incredible," she whispered, running her fingers through my hair.
"I never want to let you go." I smiled and kissed her softly. When our breathing finally slowed, we reluctantly pulled apart. I lifted her off me, and as she stepped down, I took a moment to admire her beauty, now radiating with our combined passion.
We quickly rearranged our clothing, realizing we couldn't linger here forever. As Maggie straightened her skirt and I fastened my belt, we couldn't help but steal a few more kisses.
As we approached the festival's heart once more, Maggie squeezed my hand gently. "I should head back," she murmured, her voice low, almost reluctant. I pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. Eventually, she let go, and we casually drifted apart, each weaving through the crowd in a different direction, careful to give no hint of the seclusion we had just shared.
I made my way to the cotton candy stand, the vendor spinning sugar into fluffy pink clouds, and bought a stick for each of the Brooks kids. The sugary scent wrapped around me like a tangible memory of the night's sweetness. When I turned back, I was immediately engulfed by the excited chaos of my nieces and nephew, their faces lighting up at the sight of the cotton candy in
my hands. "Uncle Connor!" they cheered in unison, their small hands reaching for the sticky treats.
I laughed, handing out the cotton candy, their joy contagious, and for a moment, I was just their uncle, returned from the adventures of the day with spoils to share.
My heart raced as I glanced over my shoulder and watched Maggie's truck silently pull out of the parking lot, its dark silhouette disappearing into the night. The weight of our secret hung heavy between us, a tangible reminder of the risky game we were playing.
With a smile tinged with both excitement and fear, I reached into my pocket and felt the cool metal of the pendant she had given me, a symbol of our forbidden love. Despite the fireworks of sugary treats and laughter exploding around me, all I could think about was the promise tucked safely in my pocket, waiting to be fulfilled in the darkness of our shared experiences.
Chapter Four
Dawn’s Awakening Maggie
The first light of dawn had not yet broken the horizon when I awoke, a restless sleep giving way to a flood of consciousness. Lying still, I let the silence of the early morning wash over me, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of my thoughts. The events of last night lingered on my skin, a tapestry of sensation and memory woven in the soft darkness.
Silently, I rose from the bed, careful not to disturb the delicate stillness that enveloped the room. The morning sun was coming up, a dance of darkness and light. As I crossed over to the mirror, my eyes caught sight of the marks on my neck, subtle imprints left by Connor during our passionate embrace. As my fingers gently traced the bruises, a whirl of emotions enveloped me—guilt, exhilaration, and a profound tenderness. Each
mark was a silent word in our private language, weaving a tale of rekindled desire hidden from the lively fair. Standing there, I felt the gravity of my decisions; the night with Connor had led me down an uncertain path. Despite my hesitations, a part of me was eager to rush ahead, ignoring potential consequences.
Taking a deep breath, I turned from my reflection, unwilling to confront the marks of our passion under the stark morning light. In the privacy of my room, I chose my attire with intent, picking pieces that would shield the delicate imprints on my neck.
The clothes draped softly, forming a veil between the remnants of last night's fervor and the outside world I was about to face.
I moved with purpose, aware of the necessity to present myself in a way that would not invite scrutiny or betray the intimacy shared in the evening's quiet hours. As I fastened each button of my blouse, I knew that as soon as I stepped into the day, Connor’s marks on my skin would be hidden from view, but their presence would remain just beneath the surface, a reminder of our intense passion.
The sun's orange crescent was starting to caress the earth as I stepped outside, cradling two steaming cups of coffee. My brother waited in his truck, its engine purring softly, a rhythmic undertone to the morning's serenade. I handed him his cup—black, no sugar, just how he liked it and offered a small smile, my usual morning quietude deepened by the remnants of last night's intimacy.
We began our journey heading south from Cody on State Road 120, the path to the Wind River Reservation as familiar as the lines on our hands. The landscape unfolded around us, a tapestry of rolling prairies edged by the stoic Rockies. Each mile was a moving painting I could never tire of, but today, it was colored by the storm of emotions that churned within me.
Tendoy took another sip of his coffee, the aroma blending with the crisp morning air. "You know, Maggie," he began, breaking the silence, "the land speaks in many ways if you're willing to listen."
I nodded, wrapping my hands tighter around my cup. "It's telling us a story this morning," I replied softly, the landscape rolling by like pages in a book.
He chuckled, the sound as comforting as the warm drink in our hands. "It's a story our ancestors wrote long before us. We're just here to read it aloud."
I glanced at my brother, his dedication as clear as the Wyoming sky above. "Do you ever feel the weight of it?" I asked, the question slipping out, fueled by the thoughts I couldn't suppress.
He turned to me, eyes deep and thoughtful. "Every day. But it's a good weight, like carrying a child. You feel the burden but know the future is worth it."
The council meeting loomed in my thoughts, not just a discussion but a crossroads that might very well define our future. As Wind River drew near, I clung to the warmth of the coffee cup, a lifeline amidst the surge of emotions, a reminder that no matter the distance we traveled, some connections remained as steadfast as the rising sun.
The council circle was a ring of solemn faces; each one was etched with the gravity of our gathering. We sat beneath the open sky, a circle of stones marking the sacred space. Chief Tendoy took his place at the head, his voice steady as he spoke of the recent rumors of a burial ground.
"The land we seek is not merely soil and stone; it could be the resting place of our ancestors," he began, his gaze meeting each council member's eyes. "Should this be true, then it is hallowed ground, home to the spirits of our tribe, and we are duty-bound to honor it as such."
I listened, my hands folded tightly in my lap, feeling the weight of our shared history pressing against my chest. My heart was a drum, pounding with the resonance of Tendoy's words, yet the tingling from the marks on my neck could not be ignored.
"If the Yellowstone Creek Ranch holds secrets we have yet to uncover," one elder said, her voice a whisper of leaves, "then we must seek them out with respect and care, for they are the guardians of our heritage."
I felt the murmurs of agreement, like the wind through the grass, and my own voice seemed trapped beneath the layers of my internal
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Great Britain and the United States. Mills, J. T. (F ’21)
Great church awakes. Palmer, E. J. (Ja ’21)
Great demonstration. Roof, K. M. (F ’21)
Great fire of London in 1666. Bell, W. G: (D ’20)
Great game of business. Frederick, J. G: (F ’21)
Great impersonation. Oppenheim, E: P. (Mr ’20)
Great leviathan. Barker, D. A. (F ’21)
Great menace. Mead, G: W. (Ag ’20)
Great modern American stories. Howells, W: D., ed. (S ’20)
Great south land. Koebel, W: H: (Ap ’20)
Great steel strike and its lessons. Foster, W: Z. (O ’20)
Great war and the R. A. M. C. Brereton, F: S. (N ’20)
Greater punishment. Chalmers, S. (Ag ’20)
“Greatest failure in all history.” Spargo, J: (S ’20)
Greece
Hibben, P. Constantine I and the Greek people. (Ag ’20)
Marshall, F. H: Discovery in Greek lands. (F ’21)
History
Caldwell, W. E. Hellenic conceptions of peace. (Mr ’20)
Greece, Modern History
Gibbons, H. A. Venizelos. (D ’20)
Greek drama
Norwood, G. Greek tragedy. (F ’21)
Greek poetry
Translations into English
Palamas, K. Life immovable. (My ’20)
Greek tragedy. Norwood, G. (F ’21)
Green eyes of Bast. Rohmer, S., pseud. (F ’21)
Green forest fairy book. Grady, L. E. (Ja ’21)
Green god’s pavilion. Martin, M. W. (O ’20)
Green rust. Wallace, E. (Je ’20)
Gresham, Walter Quintin, 1832–1895
Gresham, M. Life of Walter Quintin Gresham. (Je ’20)
Grey, Charles, 2d earl, 1764–1845
Trevelyan, G: M. Lord Grey of the reform bill. (Je ’20)
Grey fish. Cook, W. V: (S ’20)
Ground and goal of human life. Shaw, C: G. (Ap ’20)
Group mind. McDougall, W: (N ’20)
Growing up. Vorse, M. M. (S ’20)
Guards come through, and other poems. Doyle, A. C. (My ’20)
Guid auld Jock. Mackinnon, A. G. (O ’20)
Guide to Russian literature. Olgin, M. J. (Je ’20)
Guide to the military history of the world war, 1914–1918. Frothingham, T: G. (N ’20)
Guide to Zionism. Sampter, J. E., ed. (S ’20)
Guidebook to the Biblical literature. Genung, J: F. (My ’20)
Guiding principles for American voters. Mason, A. L. (D ’20)
Gulf of misunderstanding. Pinochet, T. (Ja ’21)
Gus Harvey. Smith, C. L. (Ja ’21)
Habits that handicap. Towns, C: B. (Mr ’20)
Hagar’s hoard. Turner, G: K. (N ’20)
Hail, man! Morgan, A. (My ’20)