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Sapphire has long symbolized truth, sincerity, and faithfulness.
It was time to sit down and write his monthly letter to Kit.
Chance did it like clockwork, no matter where he happened to be. Kit had always said he liked the idea of emails, and he loved phone calls, but letters meant someone gave a damn. If you took the time to sit and write something out by hand, you thought someone was worth the work.
Kit was worth the work, even if it had been nearly five years since Chance had left town, left his one true thing to do what he was called to.
Clicking the little top of the ball point pen he held, Chance contemplated the paper. He was in Denver for the stock show, which meant he'd be in one place for at least a month, and he'd rented a place out toward the mountains, despite the snow and ice.
It was fucking beautiful, and Kit ought to see it in more than pictures. Chance was a great photographer, and that wasn't misplaced pride. It kept him paid and traveling. But some things a man needed to see for himself.
Finally, knowing he was about to sound like a broken record--because, damn, hadn't he begged to Kit to come, every month for years?--Chance put the pen to paper.
Hey, Kit. Sitting in my little cabin in the mountains. Denver is fucking amazing at this time of year. You ought to come see it. I miss you, huh?
Okay, so Denver was cold. Not snowing or anything, but bitter fucking cold. Cold like he'd never imagined before.
Kit Hanson tugged his jacket tighter around him, chewing his bottom lip as he killed the truck engine and looked around. Man, Chance did know how to pickplaces. The cabin sat in the lee of a hill, all log home and snow-covered deck. The place looked calm and inviting, warm and safe. There were aspen trees and shit, and he kind of expected to see deer tracks.
Chance had to be home. There was smoke coming from the chimney, and a big old SUV sat parked up by the deck, with Texas plates. Still.
Okay. Okay, he could do this. He was invited, wasn't he?
He headed up to the door and knocked, letter in hand, along with the pictures Chance'd sent.
The door opened a few seconds later, Chance standing there, big as life, wearing sweats and a weathered, long-sleeved shirt. Bright blue eyes went wide, Chance's mouth dropping open like a landed fish. "Kit?"
"You asked me to come." Kit wasn't sure that was what he'd meant to say, but it sure as shit was what'd come out. He held the pictures up, eyes eating up his cowboy, those broad shoulders, lean hips.
"I did. I've asked you to come every month for five years."