He cracks a smile then, a gorgeous, aching thing. “I’ve got to be there before sundown.”
“Take me with you,” I insist. “Take me with you, Wyatt. Wherever you’re going right now, take me with you.”
Something in his expression changes, grows more serious. “If I do that...” His husky voice. Jesus, his husky voice is doing things for me, deep down at my core, like nobody else’s voice ever has. Not the series of jackasses I dated in college. Not the overconfident men at the young professionals mixers I’ve long since given up on. Nobody. Wyatt pulls his hands out of his pockets, and I get an eyeful of his hands—big, strong hands. I want them on my body. Now. “If I do that, you’re going to find out why I told you to stay away.”
“I want to find that out.” I flick my tongue out and wet my lips. “I need to find out.” It occurs to me in this moment that Greg the Bartender is still here, that there are a few other patrons watching us. A few weeks ago, the prospect of being this wantonly desperate in public would have killed me. I’d have crumpled into a ball on the floor and died where I lay. But something about him is different. Something about him is making me brave.
Wyatt closes the distance between us until there are only six inches of space left between the front of his t-shirt, tight across his chest, and the front of my tunic. I’m either hardly breathing or hyperventilating—hard to say.
He raises a cautious hand, showing me his palm before he brings it closer, then brushes a loose strand of my hair back from my cheek. He tucks it behind my ear, the gesture so familiar and intimate that I tip my head into the touch. I can’t help it. I couldn’t help coming here, and I can’t help the way I feel when he touches me. “Christ, you’re beautiful.” He says the words low and soft. “This is a mistake.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but a wild hope leaps a fence inside my heart and gallops around the space in my chest. Does it mean he’s going to take me with him? Does it mean he’s going to stay here? If he stays here, I’m going to need hasty access to a place where we can be away from prying eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
I put my hand on his and he lets it linger there for a solid heartbeat before he drops his hand to his side. His nostrils flare, like he’s an animal on a hunt, and his eyes sear into my skin, searching my face.
I’m going to perish from the anticipation. I can’t contain it for another second, another heartbeat. I open my mouth to say as much—to beg him for an answer—but at the last possible second he speaks.
“Well,” he says, like he’s lost some internal battle, defeat and hope mixing in his voice. “Come on, then.”
Wyatt
I’ve made mistakes before, but none of them have looked like the redhead who hops into the passenger seat of my Silverado, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and yanks down her seatbelt like she’s strapping on a rifle. She’s locked in with a zip and a snap, and then she flicks her blue eyes up to mine. It’s like getting a faceful of the ocean after you’ve spent your entire life hemmed in by mountains and green fields. I know, because I spent most of my life in a pen made up of the Mission Mountains one side, the bay on another, and the reservoir behind. Lots of water, I suppose, but none of it with the power of the ocean.
I feel like a man about to drown with it, but I turn the key in the ignition nonetheless. My flesh is weak, damn it, and all this time I’ve tried so hard to make it strong.
Well. Nothing to do for it now but drive her back to the ranch.
I head through town, seeing all of it in crystal clear definition, like it’s the first time I’ve ever set foot in the place. I see every loose piece of siding, every faded awning, and every curl of garbage nestled up against the curbs. Christ, if I’d known she was coming, I’d have powerwashed all of Paulson just so it shone.
Or would I have burned the whole place to the ground, just to save her from what’s coming?
“So,” she says, and the word is like a pebble dropping through the surface of the water, scattering my thoughts like a spray of rainbow minnows. “You brew beer? I thought—” She laughs, and the giggle sends sparks of joy twisted up with desire through every inch of my chest. “I got the impression you were a cowboy.”
The thought of her looking at me, taking me in, and turning me over in her mind makes me hot under the collar. “I’m a rancher. My brothers and I inherited Bluebell Ranch from my dad when he died.”
Her eyes light up. “You have brothers?”
“I do. Two of ‘em. Twins.” A hot sting of jealousy whips across my back, but I do my best to tamp it down. Everybody loves my brothers. I’m the lone one out, and it’s because they’re better at keeping their desires under the surface, where nobody in Paulson can see them. I don’t know how they do it without agonizing over every second of their lives. I sure as hell can’t. Every woman I’ve met...
Every woman I’ve met doesn’t matter. What matters is Emily, watching me from over in her seat.
“Wow,” she breathes. “Twins.” A catch another radiant smile out of the corner of my eye, and my stomach twists. “Are they older or younger than you?”
I have half a mind to tell her to find her own ride back into town. We pass the last of Paulson’s outbuildings and keep heading south. It’s five miles back to my place, and I’m not sure I’ll survive it. “Younger. Two years younger.”
She sighs. “They must look up to you.” Emily goes quiet for a minute. “What’s that like, having brothers?”
“Obnoxious as hell.” I steal another glance at her face. She’s wearing a funny smile. Is that envy I see? “You serious? You want to know what it’s like having brothers?”
“I want to know everything about you.” She pouts, and those lips almost do me in. “But I’m also interested because I’m an only child.”
Oh, god. An only child is the most innocent of all kinds. Thinking of her as innocent—which she is, I can see it in her eyes—makes the fit of my jeans painfully tight in the crotch. “Well, I’ll be,” I say lamely.
She scoops her hair back from her face, lifting it up from the delicate curve of her neck. My palm throbs like it’s been pricked by a thorn, but there are no thorns in sight. I want to put my hand on the back of her neck, like I would if she were mine.
I picture it, only for a split second. If she were mine, I’d want my hand wrapped around the back of her neck, yes. I’d want her on her knees on the floor, yes. And as I loomed over her, I’d want to press that pretty little face toward the floor and watch her bend and arch for me.
“Wyatt.” This time, my name is a whisper. I look at her long enough to know that she’s seen at least some of my desire reflected in my face. I don’t bother hiding the front of my jeans.
But that sweet thing doesn’t cower against the door of the truck. She raises her fingertips to her lips and brushes them across, the movement tender and light. When she drops her hand, her bottom lip disappears between her teeth. “Wyatt.” A little louder this time. “What are you thinking about right now?”
“Can’t say.”
The fields rush by on either side of us, lush and green, with ranch entrances dotting the landscape and the Mission Mountains a blue rise to our left. I can’t tell Emily about the images running through my mind like a film reel because if I did that, if I uttered even a single word, I’d have to pull the car over and take her right there on the side of the road, with her knees in the ditch and her clothes abandoned god knows where. Let them all drive by. Let them see the real Wyatt Kentworth.
“Can’t say or won’t say?”
“Both.”
I suck in another breath of the superheated air inside the truck and try to force my penis to stand down. It won’t. It’s a battle we fight as we pass the entrance to the Bliss Ranch, a full three miles away from my own. Grew up with those guys, and then everything went to shit between us. I always hoped we’d be able to let bygones by bygones, but you never know.
Even thinking about the other set of brothers in town
does nothing for the state I’m in.
Several eternities later, I pull into the entrance of Bluebell Ranch, passing under the big wooden sign and bouncing along down the gravel driveway. It’s a long thing, almost half a mile, and at the end of it sits the farmhouse, as pristine and white as the year my great-grandfather first had it built.
I’m sure he never thought it could shelter a man like me.
I throw the truck into park, but I don’t turn it off. Emily swivels her head from the farmhouse back to me. I clear my throat and get my voice to work. “Last chance,” I tell her. “We go inside, all bets are off.”
Emily
His low growl is totally at odds with the cute farmhouse we’re parked in front of, and for the first time, a tendril of real fear snakes up the back of my neck and whispers you are so stupid in both my ears. All bets are off. God, I love the sound of that. I’ve always been so careful, so cautious. I felt like the world’s biggest goody two-shoes at my friend Sophie’s wedding back in June, when her brother’s best friend on earth saved her from being stood up at the altar. He did more than save her. Mallory told me what they did before they were married, and it made me blush almost as much as the books I’ve been reading in secret on my Kindle.
And maybe it was those books that made me feel like I could do this—hop a plane to find Wyatt and throw myself at his feet. That’s the kind of thing that happens in those books. Women, on their knees, legs spread...
But this isn’t an Arrow Birch novel, something filthy and beautiful that I can cover with my hand when I take the bus to work. This is reality.
Still...is that what he wants from me? Is that what he means when he says all bets are off? Or does he mean that he’s a serial killer, and what I’ll find inside is a trap I’ve walked into like the naive idiot I am?
It’s just such a cute farmhouse. Bright white wooden siding, tended flower boxes under the windows...he even has a rocking chair out on the front porch. A rocking chair. Is that the home of a serial killer? I think not.
I look back into his eyes and get a shock. I don’t see guilt there—remorse in advance for what he’s about to do—I only see a steady consideration. He is waiting. He is waiting for me to decide.
“If I said I wanted to leave...”
He puts his hand on the shifter of his truck. “Then I drive you back to the Riverbend right this instant. Or anywhere else you want to go. The airport, even.” Wyatt means it. I can hear the truth ringing in his voice. The fear withers and fades, replaced with the same kindling desire that’s kept me awake at night for almost six weeks.
My heart beats faster, racing like the industrial printer at the law office where I work back in Denver. That thing can spit out a hundred pages a minute. My heart could give it a run for its money.
“I don’t want to go.” I say it loud and clear, so there can be no mistake.
Wyatt watches me for another long instant, and then he turns off the truck.
It stops, and I realize the rumble of the engine was a grounding force. Now I’m ready to soar into the sky at the slightest touch. They could make an exhibit of me in the HISTORICAL MUSEUM—the woman who burst free of gravity because she was so wound up.
The cowboy I’ve come to find hops out of the truck and comes around to open my door. He offers me his hand.
I take it.
There’s a finality to it, a thudding promise, and when my feet are on the ground I don’t let go. I stick my phone in my back pocket with my free hand and let him lead me up the stairs, across the wide porch, and into the house.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we step into the foyer, and Wyatt notices. “Were you expecting something else?”
“Maybe. Not really.” The foyer of the farmhouse is cozy and light and airy, with a staircase leading up, a doorway on the left and the right, and a narrow hall leading back to what looks like a kitchen. I can see the feet of a chair and the curve of a round table with a red tablecloth falling neatly over the side. Everything gleams, clean and bright, and the air I pull into my lungs has a familiar scent. Which is weird, because I’ve never been in a farmhouse before. Definitely not this farmhouse. Maybe I’m remembering it from the HISTORICAL MUSEUM. But no...that place was not half as fresh as this is. It’s...lovely. I look up at Wyatt. “Why didn’t you want me to come here?”
He takes a long look around. “It’s not the house I wanted you to stay away from. Or even Paulson.”
“What was it, then?”
“Me.”
My throat goes dry. “Why? What’s so bad about you?”
He breathes in, and there it is—that tiny flare of his nostrils, like I’m cornered prey. “The things I want to do...” Wyatt’s voice has taken on that raw edge. “They’re not for women like you.”
I stand up to my full height and square my shoulders. “That’s not for you to say. I want...” I can’t put into words what I want. I’ve had the filthiest fantasies imaginable over the last six weeks, and every single one of them has involved Wyatt, the too-honorable cowboy who kissed me while fireworks exploded overhead and left me before the sun had risen. My pulse flutters at the sides of my neck. “I want to know what it is that’s so bad. So dangerous.” My nipples rise and peak at the thought of all those dangerous things, sensitive against my bra. “Tell me,” I demand, lifting my chin.
Slowly, deliberately, he takes one step toward me. I see his hand rising from the corner of my eye. Slowly. Deliberately. If I wanted to run, I’d have time, but I don’t. I stand there, head held high, breathless. He wraps his hand around the front of my neck and tips my head back so I have to look into his eyes. My lungs can’t fill themselves, except in short, wild pants.
“Do you feel this?” He murmurs. I can’t do anything but nod. “That’s me, with your freedom in my hand.” Every word is as measured as that single step he took. “What’s so dangerous, sweet thing, is that I want that freedom all to myself. I want every little gasp...” He tightens his grip ever so slightly, and I let out a gasp. “I want every little cry, and every little shudder you make with that gorgeous body of yours. I want you on your knees. And if I have you like that...”
“What then?” I can hardly get the words out.
“Then I might not be able to let you go.”
Wyatt
I’ve got my big hand wrapped around her tiny throat, and I can feel every breath underneath my palm. Christ, I wanted this. I wanted it the moment I saw her in that bar, and when our eyes met over a basket of peanuts, I knew she’d be on my mind for days to come. Weeks.
I never knew I’d have her like this.
“Then...then don’t.” Emily’s words are just above a whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
I dip my head down and breathe in her scent. She smells like moonlight and clear water and the budding greens in the springtime. “You can’t stay here. You don’t know what you’re asking.” I straighten back up and look down into her eyes, forcing myself to study the color. Truly study it, like a man trying to fix a tractor with written instructions. Emily’s eyes are the color of the stream under the sun, shot through with streaks of the sky. I’ve got the entire world in my hands—water and air and earth.
Lighting flashes through her eyes. “I do know,” she says, her voice still soft. “I want this. Please, I want this.”
“What is it, exactly, that you want?”
She wraps both hands around my wrists. “You’re kinky, aren’t you? You want to tie me up and have your way with me and make me...and make me...”
I remind her who’s in charge with the slightest twitch of my fingers. “Say it.”
Her face floods with color, a brilliant red like the last rays of sunset over the mountains, and her eyelashes flutter down to meet her cheeks.
“Look at me when you say it.” I let more command color my voice, and her eyes fly back up to meet mine.
“You want to make me come,” she says, voice shaking. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I take a
long, slow breath. “I want your submission,” I tell her. “And it’s more than ropes and orgasms, Emily.”
“I know. I’ve...I’ve read about it.”
“You’ve read about it?”
Her face goes an even deeper red. “My favorite books...they have these kinds of things in them.”
My pulse thunders in my veins like a stampede. “Are you a virgin? Swear to Christ, Emily, if you are...” My jeans are going to bust open. They can’t contain how I feel right now. I’m surprised the farmhouse hasn’t gone up in smoke.
She shakes her head, as much as she can with my hand around her throat and my fingers on her jaw. “No, I’m not. I don’t have much...” She bites her lip. “I don’t have a lot of experience, but I know what I want.”
“I’ve asked you before, and I won’t ask again. What do you want?”
“I want to be yours.” There’s a hitch in her voice, a little break. “Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. And before you tell me that I don’t know anything about you, just...just know that isn’t true. We talked for hours that night. I didn’t know what you did for a living but I know how you sound when you’re really listening to someone, and you listened to me. God, you listened to me for hours, and you’re so...” Her hands are tight on my wrist. “You’re so strong. I want someone strong. I need someone strong. I need someone who...”
She’s breathing too fast, getting out of control. “Hush,” I tell her, and her body quiets instantly. I feel it beneath my palm. It sends a surge of twisted need through every inch of my body. Even if she’s as innocent as I thought, she wants this. I can feel how much she wants this hanging in the air around us, settling over us like a knitted blanket.
“I feel so out of control sometimes,” she says, once her breathing has settled into a normal pattern. “All of the men I’ve met...they can’t contain that feeling. I know you can. I know you can, Wyatt. And I need it from you now. It’s why I came.”
Cowboy’s Conquest: A Big Sky Short Story Page 2
