His eyes flick to mine, and the emotions I see swirling there almost make me regret asking. The anguish, heartache, longing for home. There’s one reason I recognize it within him; I know it too. Even though I had the best years of my life after moving in with my grandparents, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world, I know what it’s like to leave.
“The eagle,” he nods to it, releasing his hold on me to tap it. With my legs locked around his waist, I don’t move from my spot. “Is because Boone sees everything and tries to bring peace to it. If he let himself soar, he’d fly so damn high in whatever he wanted to do.”
Wyatt points to the wolf next. “Gage is loyal, to a fault. It’s why he’s still on the ranch, why he won’t ever leave, even though my dad and him don’t get along. He’s an asshole, which sometimes makes him the lone wolf, but he’s also smart and trusts himself and what he knows.”
“The wolf looks haunted,” I say, almost absently as I trace myfinger along its snout again.
“Nailed it. When I told the artist what I wanted, that was what I told him.”
My gaze jumps back to his, and I find a smile that’s almost a grimace waiting for me. It looks unnatural on his boyish face, like it has no place being anywhere near him. This man that’s usually full of laughter.
“Beau wasn’t happy when I gave him the cougar,” he tells me, the grimace transforming to something slightly happier. It still looks out of place. “But he’s fierce like them. Quiet and cautious. He keeps to himself, doesn’t rely on anyone else, but he’d defend any one of us. As long as it’s not against my dad.”
Wyatt rubs his shoulder where the tattoo for his dad is, drawing my attention to the snarling animal with razor-sharp teeth.
“I guess that’s why Beau is the cougar, and my dad is the bear. The bear wins nine times out of ten, and the cougar backs down.”
Reading between the lines makes me want to know more about his family, the dynamic, what it was like for him. Growing up and now.
“And the hummingbird?” I ask, touching the tail of the bird. It’s shaded in, not colored, but I can imagine it if it were.
“My mom is constantly going, always moving. She hums her way through life, literally and figuratively. She’s love and fun and has always reminded me of someone who is joy personified,” he says.
Joy that she obviously passed to her son.
His face transforms again, a true Wyatt smile finally gracing his lips. The love shining in his eyes and the reverie in which he talks about her makes me certain he misses her like I would miss Gran if I wasn’t near her.
“They’re also her favorite. She gets them in her garden everyyear, and plants specific flowers just for them,” he adds, rubbing his hand over the bird.
Tracing my fingers up his arm, over all the tattoos again, I study each of them for another minute, taking in details I didn’t see before. The intricacies of the feathers on the eagle, the wisps of fur on the wolf, the delicate whiskers on the cougar. The detail that went into all of it makes my heart both warm and squeeze at once.
“You have another piece on your back,” I remember, bringing my eyes back to his.
His free arm loops back around my waist. “Yeah.”
“Can I see it?”
Dropping my legs from around him, my feet find the rocky bed of the river while Wyatt gives me his back.
It takes my breath away. If I thought his forearms were nice, it’s almost nothing compared to his back. Considering I see multiple backs in a day, I consider myself educated on a nice one, and Wyatt gets full marks for how impressive his is. The different groupings of muscles, the layers that pop out as he adjusts, his shoulder blades moving beneath the skin. The V shape that his broad shoulders to his trim waist make.
And if that wasn’t enough of a work of art, the tattoo across his upper back would be.
The day I massaged him at the station, I didn’t appreciate this like I should have. I was too nervous, too thrown off by him being there. But now I slide my finger along the top beam of the ranch gate over his left scapula. Three thick wooden bars make up the gate, and on either side are blocks of different sizes, creating pillars that stand halfway up the beams. Two wooden swinging gates close off the landscape beyond, which has a wide-open field behind it filled with rolling hills and mountains rising above.
“Is this home?”
“No.” His answer is immediate, and I glance up, but his head is facing away from me, so I can’t see his expression. “It’s the ranch, but that’s not home anymore.”
Sliding my fingers along his skin, I watch goosebumps pop up on his flesh. I follow one of the hills to his other shoulder blade where a horse stands tall in a pasture. She’s a beauty. Warm, intuitive eyes that remind me of Wyatt, seeming to see all my secrets. Whoever his artist is has captured this horse perfectly, making it feel real and tangible even though it’s inked into his skin.
“Who is this?” I whisper, because anything more in this moment seems like too much. My nail trails over her mane, and a fresh wave of shivers appear before my eyes on his skin.
“Rosie,” he says, matching my cadence. “My other love in life.”
Firefighting being the other one, I’m sure.
“She’s beautiful,” I remark. “Quarter horse?”