Home.
He suddenly ached for it. It was May. The plains would be carpeted in a hundred varieties of yellow wildflowers. Amarillo was called the Yellow Rose of Texas for a reason. Butterfly bush and Russian sage would be scenting the night air. The strong southerly winds carrying the warmth of the Gulf Coast northward and the wettest season of the year coaxing the land to bloom with soft rains or rolling thunderheads. Back home the winters were dry and cold, the summers warm and wet. Give him a nightjar call or a screech owl hoot and he’d feel right at home at one in the morning.
He wanted to show Kara the grasslands and the canyon country. He wanted…so much.
But now was not a time for dreaming. Not of home, not of the woman beside him.
He found a white oak with a heavy, low branch reach
