by Cindy Dees
He shrugged. “Happiness is a choice. Not always an easy one, but a choice. Choose to be happy and don’t look back. Do things that make you happy. Your whole life is in front of you.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve already made a new start and are moving forward. I feel stuck in a giant sinkhole and can’t get out of it. Every time I try to climb out, the sides collapse and I slide right back in.”
It really bothered him to hear brave, irrepressible Jessica talk like this. Her wildness might be infuriating sometimes, but it was one of her most appealing qualities. “Tell me this. If there was one thing you could do right now—anything at all—that would make you truly happy, what would it be?”
She answered quickly, without hesitation, “Redecorate your house.”
A burst of reluctant laughter escaped him. “Man. I walked into that one, didn’t I?”
She stood up straight. “I’m serious. I’ve actually had dreams about redoing your place. It goes against my interior designer’s religion for anyone to live in a home with so much undeveloped potential.” She warmed to the topic, speaking enthusiastically. “The bones are great. Classic ranch architecture. It just needs a face-lift. It would look so good—”
She broke off, scowling at his broad grin. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”
“I know you are. You always have had a passion for restoring old, broken things.”
She glared at him. “If you don’t watch out, I’ll restore you, mister.”
“Ha. I dare you.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew better. Jessica had never been one to turn her back on any kind of dare.
“Now you’ve done it,” she replied archly. “I’m redoing your house, and then I’m coming after you.”
Oh, Lord.
Except, in the midst of his chagrin he noticed something else. A tiny sliver of—joy?—had taken root in his soul. What in the world had he just gotten himself into?
Chapter 10
Plans swirled in her head, stacking one on top of another so quickly Jessica could hardly catalog them all. She needed a notebook—and soon—to start making lists. She hurried back to the house and sat down at Wes’s kitchen table, sketching and imagining in a massive rush of excitement.
She demanded a measuring tape and drafted Wes to hold the end of it while she measured his house from top to bottom. She’d never been in his bedroom before and stopped cold at the threshold. His bed was as beautifully carved as his front door, with stylized tree branches and leaves covering the whimsically shaped headboard and tall posts. The piece looked as if it belonged in an enchanted fairy glade.
“Oh, Wes. It’s beautiful.” She ran her fingertips over the delicately carved wood. “I’m going to give you a bedroom worthy of this. It will be amazing.”
“Don’t go too crazy, eh? I’m not made of money.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Trust Fund?”
“I’m not touching that money.”
“Fine. I’ll behave.” And there was no law saying she couldn’t touch her trust fund, which contained many millions of dollars. Her mother had been one of only two heirs to a massive defense-contracting fortune, and money still poured into her accounts every year from the business. Jessica already gave away money hand over fist to historical preservation societies and to groups that prevented animal abuse, and she still had more money than she knew what to do with.
Tapping a pencil against her front teeth, she stood in the middle of the otherwise Spartan bedroom and envisioned what the generous space could be. Oh, yes. It would be magnificent.
“Stop. I can see your mental wheels turning. I just need the basics. A bed. A dresser. A closet. Maybe a chair to sit in by the fireplace.”
“Let me write those down.” She made a note in her book and nodded to herself. “I have enough to get started on the design. I’ll work on it while I finish up your parents’ hunting cabin and will be ready to start on your place by the time I’m done with that.”
He shook his head and muttered, “What the hell was I thinking when I asked what would make you happy?”
She paused in front of him and laid her palm against his cheek. “You’re a good man, Wes Morgan.”
“And a glutton for punishment, it seems.”
She just smiled at him. She was going to give him a home worthy of his goodness whether he liked it or not.
Deep into detailed sketching an hour later at the kitchen table, she was startled when a knock sounded at the front door. Wes leaped up and peered out the window cautiously before opening it to admit a man in a brown uniform and wearing a badge.
“Jessica, this is my cousin, Joe Westlake. And as you can see by the khaki clown suit and tin star, he’s also the county sheriff.”
“Always were a jackass, Wes,” Joe retorted cheerfully.
Jessica rose to greet him and smiled at the way his eyes widened. Most men reacted that way the first time they saw her. But she only cared when Wes’s eyes lit up like that. “How can I help you, Sheriff?”
“I need you to make an official statement describing what happened to you today. If you don’t mind, I’ll record you telling it to me and have it transcribed. You can read over it and sign it later. Most people find it easier to talk with me than try to write it all out.”
She nodded and sank onto the sofa while he sat in the armchair. She recounted the events as she remembered them, shuddering in recollection of how terrified she’d been when she’d finally realized someone was trying to kill her.
The sheriff nodded at the end of her recitation. “That pretty much jibes with the evidence I saw at the scene.” He paused, then asked gently, “Any idea who might want to kill you?”
Jessica sighed and told the story of her drugging and near miss with being sexually assaulted. This time, she honestly described Wes’s part in rescuing her. She left out the bit where Wes nearly killed the guy. That was Wes’s story to tell or not as he chose.
Joe looked grim at the end of her recitation. “You were lucky to get away unscathed.”
“I have Wes to thank for that.”
Joe glanced up at his cousin. “How come you didn’t tell anybody about this when you got home? Your old man thinks you left the military under a cloud. But you’re a hero, dude.”
Wes’s blue gaze went as hard and cold as North Sea ice. “I did leave the military under a cloud. What Jessica failed to tell you is that I beat the crap out of the guy who drugged her. I damn near killed him. That’s why I got kicked out of the Corps.”
She stared at Wes, wide-eyed. Why on earth did he admit that when she’d protected him and left it out?
Wes’s jaw rippled as if he was clenching it. Hard. As if he’d heard her unspoken question, he muttered, “I hate lies and secrets.”
His honesty and directness—to his own detriment—were a blatant slap in the face to her. Her gaze shifted to Joe and she asked glumly, “Is there anything else you need to ask me?”
“I think that’s everything for now. Where will you be staying if I need to get in touch with you again?”
When she opened her mouth to say that she would be at Runaway Ranch, Wes cut her off. “She’ll be here. Where I can keep an eye on her until you catch whoever shot at her.”
Joe nodded. “Glad to hear it. No telling if this was a random thing or if the shooter will come after her again.”
Wes snorted. “I’m not an ex-Marine for nothing. Anyone wants to meddle with Jess, they’re gonna have to go through me.”
The sheriff left quickly after that, leaving the cabin in silence. Jessica turned to confront Wes. “Why do you want me to stay here with you? You hate my guts. Or at least you do anytime we’re not making love.”
He pushed a distracted hand through his shaggy hair, standing it up every which way. “Hell if I know.”
“I can go back to Ru
naway Ranch and stay there until I’m done remodeling the cabin—”
“No! The last thing I want is for whatever danger is chasing you to follow you there!”
She frowned. “But it’s okay if the danger comes here?”
“It’s just me here. And I can protect myself.”
“Your dad is ex-military, and the way I hear it, your mom’s as good a shot as he is. Not to mention there are a dozen ranch hands around at any given time, and I imagine most of them can handle a shotgun, too.”
Wes shook his head stubbornly. “That’s my family. You stay away from them.”
She knew he only meant to keep the danger she’d attracted away from them, but the words still hurt. He would never admit to having had a relationship with her, and he certainly wouldn’t share that they had smoking-hot sex practically every time they were alone for any period of time.
Not that it meant anything at the end of the day. She would never be more than an...outlet...to him. He blew off his frustration with her by having sex with her. It was probably a really bad idea to keep aiding and abetting that habit of his. But darned if she could keep her hands off him when he got near her. She craved him like she craved food or water.
It was probably a really awful idea to stay with him for any length of time. Given their track record, it could only end badly for them.
But darned if she could bring herself to say no to him.
* * *
Wes fed the cows in a bit of a daze. What the hell had he been thinking, insisting that Jessica stay with him? He really was worried about her dragging violence to his parents’ ranch, but he knew as well as she did that it was not the main reason he wanted her here.
What kind of sick idiot asked the woman who was worst in the world for him to shack up with him? He was a masochist, plain and simple. A dumber-than-dirt one.
When he went inside in the gathering dusk, he drew up short at the sight of Jessica in the kitchen serving up plates of sauerkraut and sausage with some sort of green-bean-and-almond sauté on the side. “How did you manage to make something tasty out of the assorted crap in my refrigerator?” he demanded as he sat down to eat with her.
She shrugged. “It just takes a little creativity and out-of-the-box thinking. I’ve always loved to mess around in a kitchen.”
“I didn’t know that about you. We always went out to eat.”
“That’s because you worked long hours and wanted instant food when you got out of the office. I couldn’t plan meals for you because I never knew when my father would unchain you from your desk.”
Live and learn. She hadn’t known about his art. He hadn’t known about her cooking. He supposed they were even. “This is tasty. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Maybe tomorrow we could make a run to a grocery store so I can properly stock your kitchen. I’ll meal plan before we go, if you’d like, so I don’t cook anything you hate.”
He snorted. “After the grub I’ve eaten in the field during military deployments, there’s basically nothing you could make for me that I wouldn’t eat.”
“Still. What’s your favorite food?”
He frowned. “I’ve always liked a good steak. But I really like my mother’s beef Stroganoff. It’s an old family recipe.”
She nodded and looked pleased.
“Are you going to ask me my favorite color and zodiac sign next?” he asked wryly.
“Blue and Taurus. I know when your birthday is, Wes.”
“How did you know blue’s my favorite color?” he asked, surprised.
“Most of your clothes have blue in them, and the few places where you’ve bothered to decorate in your house have blue in them. And your bathroom towels are blue.”
He scowled. “I didn’t know I was so transparent.”
She grinned. “If it would make you feel better, you can think of it as me just being incredibly observant.”
He smiled back reluctantly in spite of himself. When she wasn’t being a total brat, she’d always been pretty good company. Although in her defense, she hadn’t behaved rotten once since she’d come to Montana.
Huh. That was a surprise.
Where, then, had he gotten the impression she was so awful? He thought back and was startled to realize that it had been her father who usually described her in negative terms. Oh, George hadn’t come right out and called her names, but he was forever and always taking little digs at her that added up to a pretty terrible overall image. It hadn’t even occurred to Wes that George had colored his impression of Jessica so heavily until this very moment. Subtle, that guy was. But why would the man sabotage his own daughter like that?
It made no sense.
At the end of the day, Jessica was beautiful, smart, talented and charming—when she wasn’t off being wild and impulsive. George Blankenship ought to be proud of her. If nothing else, his daughter should remind him of his deceased wife. Supposedly, Jessica was a great deal like her mother.
It had started raining during supper, and Wes went out to his carving workshop, which he had set up in an old smokehouse that somebody had closed in a few decades ago. As rain beat a soothing rhythm on the old roof, he absently picked up a chair leg he was working on. The darkness and the quiet and the simple pleasure of carving wood into the shapes he envisioned in his mind calmed and centered him.
His mind drifted back to his earlier train of thought. Where else had Jessica’s reputation as a diva in all the worst ways come from, anyway? Had other people supported George’s vision of his daughter?
He thought back to meeting her friends. They’d tended to be wild children and had often made him feel old and boring. Still, they’d universally adored Jessica. Nope. It had just been George who’d taken subtle potshots at her every chance he got. Why would the man gaslight his own daughter as he had? Was he trying to keep men away from her or something?
“Whatchya doin’?” Jessica asked abruptly from the doorway.
He jumped, startled, and his knife slipped. “Ow!” he yelped. Crap. He’d sliced the index finger of his left hand, about halfway down on the underside, pretty bad.
“Ohmigosh! I’m so sorry!” Jessica rushed forward. “What can I do to help?”
He grabbed a towel he normally used to wipe sawdust off wood and wrapped it around his finger, holding it tightly. “Let’s go to the house and clean it up.”
She hovered worriedly beside him the whole way, and he finally glanced up at her wryly. “I didn’t cut it off, Jess. It’ll be okay. Accidents happen around a ranch.”
She frowned at him. “I startled you. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
He rolled his eyes, annoyed that she was apologizing. Again. He bit out, “I should have been more aware of my surroundings and heard you coming.”
He headed for the kitchen sink to rinse off the blood while he sent her to the bathroom for the first aid kit. A good look at the cut revealed that it was deep and needed stitches.
“I’ll drive you over to Hillsdale—” she started.
“No need. Miranda knows how to set sutures. Take me to Runaway Ranch.”
“Okay. I’ll drive your truck.”
Oh, this was going to be fun. Jessica driving a truck? He climbed cautiously into the passenger seat. “So, this is a lot bigger than your car. You’ll have to take corners more widely, and the brakes won’t be as nimble as the ones in your Corvette—”
“Wes,” she interrupted gently. “I’ve got this. I’ll take care of you. I swear.”
He subsided. Well. This was certainly a change. He was usually the one rescuing her.
She did, indeed, drive carefully to his parents’ ranch and parked close to the main house. She led the way to the kitchen door and rang the bell while he kept pressure on the cut, which was still adding blood to the stain soaking through the towel.
Miranda opened the door, took one
look at his towel-wrapped hand and said briskly, “Sit down at the kitchen table. I’ll go get my supplies.”
Wes honestly expected Jessica to be squeamish about the stitches, but she surprised him by hovering over Miranda’s shoulder, asking copious questions as his mother applied a topical numbing cream and commenced setting tiny, neat stitches in his skin. For his part, he looked away.
In a few minutes, Miranda had finished, wrapping his finger in gauze and taping it carefully with waterproof tape. Jessica listened intently to the instructions Miranda gave her about caring for the wound, and he sensed with amusement that Jessica was going to be a tough nurse and make him toe the line.
They were driving back to Outlaw Ranch, the windshield wipers thunking back and forth in the rain, before he remembered to murmur, “Thanks.”
“For what?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“For taking care of me.”
She shrugged. “You’ve taken care of me plenty of times. I’m glad I was there to help out.”
He leaned back against the seat. It was weird having anyone look out for him like this. He’d been alone for so long, both as a bachelor officer and now as a rancher, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have family and friends around him. For a moment, he felt the burden of being responsible for every single aspect of his ranch lift slightly from his shoulders.
They got back to his house, which looked like a drowned rat in the rain, its warped, mildewed siding black and slick. He just prayed the metal roof would hold up one more season until he could afford to replace it. Maybe after this fall’s sale of feeder calves he could replace the rusted mess.
His finger was starting to throb painfully, and as soon as they got inside, he took a handful of painkillers and headed for bed.
From the doorway of his bedroom, Jessica asked, “Do you need help getting your clothes off?”
He looked up at her, his mouth twitching in amusement. “I’m not an invalid. I cut my finger. Thanks anyway, though.” And Lord knew, he was in no condition for a round of athletic sex with her. Although as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his crotch stirred with interest.
