“I need to get to class,” I said, lifting my eyes to meet his. My teeth raked against the cut of my bottom lip, tasting dried blood and reminding me how awkwardly uncool I probably looked right then. But I didn’t care.
Beau stood, locked in place, as he watched me disappear into my classroom. And just like that, he’d captured a part of me that would never let go as long as I lived.
Gravel crunched outside the barn as I shoveled clumps of dirt and hay to make way for fresh stuff. The sun had come up just an hour before, but I’d been working outside since just before dawn. I wiped the thin layer of sweat off my brow and headed out to the front of the house, driving my pitchfork into the earth and ambling toward Dakota.
“Surprised the place isn’t locked up like Fort Knox,” she said, climbing out of her car. She turned back, glancing at the long, tree-lined drive. “I was expecting a gate at the very least.”
I squared my jaw and shrugged. “All I need are a few cameras and a couple of ‘no trespassing’ signs. Most folks out here leave me alone. The locals are pretty protective. It’s the outsiders I’ve got to worry about.”
“You don’t worry about stalkers?” she lifted a single arched brow.
“My fans are good people, Dakota.” I smiled and slipped my hands into my front pockets. “I get a lot of folks that drive by, but no one’s ever come up and bothered me. I’ll put a gate in soon I suppose. Not that I particularly need one.”
She cocked her head to the side and gently closed her car door, and the heels of her fancy boots sank into the earth as she walked toward the back.
“Need help?” I offered as I watched her pull out heavy bags from her trunk. My offer went unanswered, but I took the luggage from her grasp anyway and hauled them up to the front porch.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to help me.” Her words were equal parts polite and curt as she brushed dark hair from her eyes. Dakota leaned back into her car and retrieved a purse, a notebook, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “You ready?”
Massaging the back of my neck and squinting toward her as the sun held a spot just above her head, I laughed. “I’ve got to clean out that barn over there first. Go on inside and get changed.”
“Changed?” She stared down at her pointy city boots and ran her hand down the frilly pink blouse she’d decided to wear to the ranch that day.
“You can’t walk around here in that.” I lifted my hat and ran my hand along the top of my head before replacing it. “Looks awfully expensive. Probably don’t want it getting dirty.”
“I’m not doing farm work, Beau,” she said. “I’m here to interview you.”
“Can’t we catch up first? You used to like watching me do chores.”
“Don’t you have people you can pay to clean out your barn?”
I pursed my lips and shrugged. “I like doing it. Makes me feel like me again. At the end of the day, I’m just a salt of the earth guy, Kota.”
“Fine,” she said, squaring her shoulders as she scanned the view over the rolling hills that surrounded us. “I’ll throw on some jeans. But I’m not shoveling manure.”
“Not a problem. No animals have lived here in years,” I said.
She scrunched her brow as if to ask for an explanation. Back when we were together, Mason Ranch was one of the biggest in the tri-county area. My father farmed corn and soybeans and raised Angus cattle and bred horses and chickens on top of it all.
“Dad died two years ago. Mom sold the livestock. I bought out the acreage. I can go on, but you’ll probably want some of this for your interview.”
“I-I had no idea,” she said, blue eyes softening just a tad. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Dakota and Dad were close once. He looked at her as if she was his third daughter, calling her his bonus kid. She never knew her dad, so he was the closest thing she’d ever had. The day he died, I tried to find her to let her know, but all my searches for “Dakota Andrews” came up empty. I’d always chalked it up to her not wanting to be found, and a part of me never could blame her.
“Did you do any research before you came up here?” I wiped my brow with my forearm. “On me?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t have time.”
“I see.”
I retrieved my pitchfork as she headed inside, coming out a short while later dressed in fitted blue jeans and a faded University of Kentucky t-shirt. Her long, dark hair was swept up off her neck and piled high on top of her head as if she was trying to convince me she wasn’t trying.
“Go Cats.” My lips tugged into a smile. I liked this version of her – the one without the fancy clothes and stick up her ass. She lifted a digital recorder in the air and held her thumb over a red button.
“Ready?” she asked. Even dressed down, she was the epitome of professional. It appeared as though she didn’t have an “off” switch anymore.
A thousand times I’d imagined what it would feel like seeing her again, but looking at her now was like staring into the eyes of a stranger. Someone who reminded me of a woman I used to know.
“Fire away.” My hand slid up the worn wooden handle of the pitchfork as we headed back toward the horse barn. I happened to be in New York doing a show the year before when I woke early enough on Saturday morning to catch some network morning show. That’s when I saw Coco Bissett. My Dakota. Hidden in plain sight all these years.