Swift and Saddled: A Rebel Blue Ranch Novel
Swift and Saddled: Chapter 18

Before last night, I had a leash on my attraction to Ada. I could walk past her in her overalls and not have the urge to push her against the nearest wall and show her exactly what she did to me.

Not anymore.

All I could think about was the way her bare skin felt under my hands. Now that I knew what she felt like, nothing would ever be enough.

She wanted me. She was the one who’d asked me to kiss her—who’d demanded that I touch her. And now I was ruined.

Totally fucking ruined.

That’s what was going through my head as I assembled a bunch of ingredients to make one of her favorite foods—the spinach pie thing that she’d told me about in the truck when I took her to town.

I was taking Dusty’s advice and doing something that showed her that I was thinking about her. All the time.

There was only a small problem. I wasn’t a very good cook. I could cook, and I did cook, but I wouldn’t say everything was always one hundred percent edible. My dad made sure all of us knew cooking basics, especially Gus and me. From the time we were little, he told us that someday we might have to share a home with someone, and when that happened, it would be important to split labor—whether that was cooking, cleaning, or whatever.

Gus was like my dad. He loved to cook, and he was good at it. It was another thing he was better at than me. Which was a good thing, because now he had to keep a small human alive.

I could do the basics—eggs, grilled chicken, pasta, and I could toss the hell out of a salad—but spanakopita—that spinach pie—was a little out of my wheelhouse. Especially because it started with homemade pastry, which felt like it could go very wrong very quickly.

Whatever.

I was a capable guy, and I was going to do this—maybe not well, but I was going to do it.

Ada had gone down to Aggie’s to talk about the stuff she wanted her to build. Teddy came and picked her up—apparently they were going shopping too—so I figured I had at least four hours to make this happen.

So far I’d been at it for a little over an hour, and all I had to show for it was a kitchen covered in flour.

When the front door opened, I heard Gus call out, “Anyone home?”

“In here,” I called back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Gus asked when he came into the kitchen. His eyes widened at the sight of me and all of the flour.

“I’m baking, obviously.”

“You sure as fuck are not baking.”

“Okay, well, I’m trying,” I said. And no, it wasn’t going great. “Ada mentioned that she liked this spinach pie thing that her mom makes, and now I’m trying to make it for her.”

Gus came closer, and he took stock of all the ingredients on the counter and the pieces of pastry that I couldn’t get to stick together. “No offense,” he said, “but I don’t think you’re doing a very good job.”

“That’s really helpful, Gus, thank you,” I snapped. His eyes widened again. I didn’t get snappy very often.

“Tell me the breakdown,” he said. “Maybe I can help.” Gus walked over to the kitchen sink and started washing his hands. He was serious.

“In theory, it’s easy,” I said, running a floured hand down my face. I didn’t even want to know what I looked like. “Like a spinach mixture and phyllo pastry?”

“Okay,” he nodded. “Where’s the phyllo?”

“That’s what I’m making?” I said, unsure. It’s what I was trying to make, anyway.

Gus looked a little too concerned for a conversation about pastry, but he said, “You’re trying to make phyllo pastry? Have you never seen The Great British Baking Show?”

“What? No. Why are you watching The Great British Baking Show?” If there was one thing I could not imagine my older brother doing, it was sitting down and choosing to watch a TV show about baking.

“Riley likes it, and their accents are soothing.” He shrugged. I looked at him with my mouth agape. “Whatever,” he said, brushing me off. “That’s not the point. The point is that store-bought phyllo dough is your friend because you’re never going to be able to roll it thin enough.” Or roll it at all, I thought, considering that it was in pieces all around me.

“Well, I don’t have store-bought phyllo dough.”

“I’ll call Emmy.”

“Why are we calling Emmy?” I was confused about how my sister got brought up in this situation. Was she a phyllo expert? Did she have a skill set I didn’t know about?

“Because she’s at the store.” I rolled my eyes. Of course he knew that. Last month, Emmy was doing a solo cattle drive, and she didn’t have a radio. We couldn’t get hold of her, so I’d done what any normal person would do: I checked her location on her phone.

Apparently Gus hadn’t known that was a thing. Now he was checking our locations constantly. I swear, every time I left the house, I got a text from him asking what I was doing.

“You need to stop checking our locations all the time. It’s creepy,” I said. Gus was already dialing Emmy. As he brought his phone up to his ear, he said, “I don’t have to check yours anymore. You’re always following Ada around.”

Asshole.

I heard Emmy pick up. “Hey, are you still at the store?” Gus asked. Pause. “Can you pick up a package of phyllo dough—maybe two—and bring them to the house? Wes is trying to make his own.” I heard Emmy’s muffled voice on the other end of the phone. “Yeah,” Gus said. “That’s what I said. He doesn’t watch it.”

Jesus Christ.

“All right, see you soon.” Gus hung up the phone. “Emmy will be here in twenty minutes. Let’s start on this filling.”

Gus started chopping scallions, garlic, and onions, and I started wilting some spinach in the biggest pan I could replace. As much as I hated to admit it, Gus was a good person to have around in the kitchen. He read the recipe and took charge, and things started going a lot more smoothly.

Before long, Emmy came into the kitchen with a few grocery bags in tow.

“All right,” she said. “I got five boxes of phyllo dough, because the situation sounded dire.” Okay, well, that felt a little dramatic. “I also got a loaf of sourdough bread and a bag of Sour Patch Watermelons.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Ada and I bonded over our love of both of those things last night, so I figured it would be good for you to have a backup in case whatever you’re making isn’t edible.”

I wanted to argue, but she had a point, so instead I just said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and I also got you some mini Reese’s.” Those were my favorite. They had the perfect ratio of chocolate to peanut butter.

“Emmy,” Gus said, “can you start prepping the phyllo? I got some olive oil and a brush out for you.” She gave Gus a salute. Before she got started, she connected her phone to the kitchen speaker and started playing the country station. Emmy liked to have background sound—music, TV, whatever—while she was doing things. She said it helped her focus.

“Yes, Captain.”

The three of us worked together on the dish. I think it was the first time since Emmy came home that we were together—just the three of us. It was really nice.

I recognized that when it came to the sibling department, I was a lucky guy. If I had to live in anyone’s shadow, I was glad that it was theirs.

“So, Gus,” Emmy said, “did you give Cam any sort of warning that Dusty was coming back to Meadowlark?”

“What?” Gus said, confused. “Why would she need a warning about that?”

“You’re an idiot” was all Emmy said, with a shake of her head. I hadn’t thought of giving Cam a warning either. Cam and Dusty had dated in high school. As far as I knew, Cam was the last woman Dusty had actually dated. It didn’t end well, but I didn’t know if that meant she needed a warning that he was coming home.

Together, the three of us layered the spinach filling and phyllo dough. Once we got to our last layer, Emmy brushed olive oil over the top of it, and we put it in the oven. I set a timer for twenty-five minutes.

Of course, it was nice that my siblings showed up to help, but I was more grateful that they stayed to help me clean up. I had made a giant fucking mess.

“So,” Emmy said as we were cleaning up the last of the flour, “what inspired this bout of baking? Did something happen with Ada? Besides the initial makeout, obviously.” I stayed quiet a second too long, because Emmy’s eyes got big and bright as she shouted, “I knew it! I fucking knew it!”

She didn’t have a chance to say anything more because the front door opened. Shit, that couldn’t be Ada, could it? I looked at the clock on the microwave—the cockblock of the century—it had been a few hours since I started. Shit.

But it wasn’t her voice I heard first—it was Teddy’s. “That corset top is going to look so fucking good on you,” she said as she came into the kitchen. Ada was right behind her, and my heart felt like a kick drum at the sight of her. Her oversize black sweater had fallen off one of her shoulders. I thought about putting my mouth there last night.

Fuck. My jeans tightened.

Her hair was pulled up in a bun, but since it was short, the bottom layers were falling out. She was wearing jeans that were tight on her hips but loose everywhere else. When she saw my eyes on her, she smiled.

God, she was beautiful.

“What am I smelling?” Teddy asked, looking around the kitchen. Once she saw Gus, she said, “Shit. That’s what I’m smelling.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Is that all you’ve got today, Theodora?”

“No,” Teddy said. “But lucky for you, I’m not really in the mood to watch a grown man cry today.” Ada was looking from Gus to Teddy and back, like she was watching a tennis match.

“Okay.” Emmy clapped. “What you’re smelling is actually none of our business, and all of us are leaving now.” She started pushing Gus toward the door. “Except for you, Ada. You get to stay.” Emmy winked at her.

Subtle.

“Why do I have to leave?” Gus asked.

“Because you have things to do,” Emmy hedged.

“No, I don’t,” Gus said—the only one who wasn’t getting it.

“Oh my god,” Teddy groaned. “You are literally so stupid. C’mon, Top Gun, let’s go shave off that mustache.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Gus snapped. Emmy started to push him out, and Teddy helped.

“See you guys later!” Emmy called.

When I heard the door shut, it was just Ada and me. Whenever it was just the two of us, wherever we were felt smaller.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi,” she responded, tucking some of her loose black hair behind her ear. I wanted to go to her and fold her into my arms, but I didn’t want to come on too strong. I didn’t know how to do this. Not after last night.

“How was your day? You met Aggie?”

Ada’s face lit up. “Yeah, it was great. She is great. We’re getting two credenzas, a kitchen table, and a coffee table, and she’s doing custom leather pulls for some of the drawers.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said truthfully. I loved the way Ada brightened when she talked about Baby Blue. “I’m glad you got to catch up with Teddy too.”

“Speaking of that.” Ada sat down at the kitchen counter. She was directly across from me now. “What is going on between her and your brother?”

I had never been more confused in my entire life. “What do you mean?”

Ada raised her eyebrows. “There’s obviously something going on there. Did they date or something?”

I laughed. “Teddy and Gus? You think something is going on between Theodora Andersen and August Ryder?”

Ada nodded excitedly. “Obviously. Can’t you see the tension?”

“Yeah, because they hate each other,” I said, confused. “Like actually hate each other.”

Ada didn’t seem convinced by what I was saying. “I would bet my life savings that something has happened or will happen between those two.” She seemed very sure. I liked it.

“Maybe when hell freezes over,” I countered.

“Fancy a wager?” Her smile was playful.

“You’re on,” I said, and I reached out my hand to shake on it. She looked down at my hand, studying it for a second before she put hers in it. We looked at each other, and I saw her chest heave slightly.

I wondered if she was thinking about last night.

I sure as fuck was.

“So,” she said, pulling her hand away far too soon. “What am I smelling in here, though? It smells amazing.” As if on cue, the timer on my phone went off, and I quickly grabbed some oven mitts and pulled the dish out of the oven. I set it on the hot pads that were right in front of Ada.

“Spanakopita,” I said, suddenly nervous about…everything.

Ada looked down at the golden pastry and then back up at me. “Seriously?” she asked with the biggest smile I’d seen her sport since the bar. Her smile took all the words out of my head, so I just nodded. She looked back at the dish. “Did you do this for me?” Her voice was quieter now.

“Yeah,” I said.

She bit the inside of her lip. “Why?”

That felt like a loaded question. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about her, because I wanted her to be happy at Rebel Blue, because I wanted her to think about me the way I thought about her. “Because you told me it was your favorite food” is the answer I settled on, which was also true.

“Can I try it?” She sounded kind of excited.

“Hell yeah,” I said, pulling a knife out of one of the drawers and bringing it over to her, along with a plate and two forks. “Do the honors?”

“My mom would kill me for not letting it sit for a minute, but…” She sliced a square and put it on the plate between us. The filling was steaming. Ada picked up a fork and motioned for me to do the same.

Both of us picked up a bite and blew on it to cool it down. I waited for her to taste hers. I wanted to see her reaction. She smiled as she chewed. She brought her hand over her mouth as she said, “It’s good,” with a nod.

I took my bite, and I wasn’t expecting to like it, but I did. It was warm, and salty, and flaky, and…good.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, actually,” I said with a chuckle, “I do.”

“I think even my mom would say this is passable,” she said, shaking her head in what looked like disbelief.

“Passable! What a compliment,” I said with an exaggerated eye roll.

“I promise you, coming from Thalia Hart, passable is equivalent to a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Will you tell me about her?” I asked, not sure where that had come from. Ada paused midbite. She looked down at the spanakopita for a minute.

“My mom is…fierce and forthright,” she said quietly. “She’s a good mom—in her own way. She isn’t affectionate like your family, but she’s always there—even if she doesn’t want to be.

“Her expectations for me have always been high,” Ada continued, “and most of the time, I feel like I let her down.” Hearing her say that sent a knife to my heart. Ada was magnificent, and I wanted everyone to see it—to see her. “She left her whole life behind when she came to the U.S. Everything she has, she built herself. She had dreams for me growing up—dreams that I would never have to work for as hard as she did. I think that I’ll always feel a little bit guilty for following my own dreams instead of hers.”

“What did she say about coming to Wyoming?” I asked.

“Waste of time. She has been keeping up on my social media pages, though—sending a few messages when she likes something and a lot more when she doesn’t.”

She sighed and was earnest when she said, “But she’s a good mom. And my dad is a good dad.”

“Tell me about him?” I asked.

Ada seemed to think on that for a moment. “He’s quiet, doesn’t really love people, but he’s a dedicated provider. He worked a lot while I was growing up, so he wasn’t a hands-on parent, but I know he would do anything for my mom.”

I nodded and reached across the table to grab her hand. I liked that she’d told me all of that. I loved feeling like I knew her.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she said, “Now I get to ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” I said.

A smile stretched her lips. “Why do you have flour all over your face?”