by Laura Wright
Cole’s face scrunched up into a mask of utter bewilderment. “Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“Sheridan. As in Deacon’s assistant?”
“That’s her,” James confirmed, opening the front door as wide as possible. Get the hint, Champ, he thought.
But Cole was dead-set on being a squatting pain in the ass. “Why?”
Releasing a breath, James leaned back against the open door. The morning air was slowly making its way inside, along with a few beams of sunshine. “You know she was attacked.”
“’Course I do,” Cole said. His black eyes glinted with menace. “That asshole should be burned at the stake. Putting his hands on a woman. Fucking up people’s lives. I heard he even tried to get his wife and daughter to run with him. Poor Natalie. She was always a bit odd when we were kids, but a decent sort. Sure doesn’t deserve a piece of shit father like that. But what does it have to do with you?” He shrugged. “I mean I know you and Sheridan are friends. Maybe you have a little crush on her—”
“No,” James cut in. It was more than a crush. But he wasn’t sharing that with Cole. “It’s none of that. She could stay up at the house or in town, but she seems to feel safe with me or something.” The words fought against him, yet made his chest fill with heat.
“Safe from what?” Cole pressed. “The asshole’s in jail, right?”
“Doesn’t stop the fear, Cole.”
His brother didn’t say anything to that for a minute. Then he nodded his understanding. “All right, but I thought she’d want to go back home to Dallas.”
“I thought so too.” And had been dreading hearing her say it. “But she doesn’t. She wants to be here for Mac and Deac’s wedding, wants to stay in River Black. And she asked to stay with me.”
“Wait.” Once again, Cole looked perplexed. It wasn’t a good look for him, and it was really starting to wear on James. “Staying here wasn’t your idea?”
“No,” he ground out. “Shit, I’d never tell someone they’re safe with me.” The words were bitter on his tongue.
“Why the hell not?” Cole pressed, his gaze intrusive now.
James didn’t answer.
“Oh, come on,” Cole pushed with the delicacy of a bull through a glass window. “This ain’t about Cass, is it?”
A flicker of tension snapped in James’s jaw.
“That was a long time ago, J,” he continued. “You were a kid.”
“Yeah,” James agreed. “And if this was just about Cass, I’d agree with you. But it’s not.”
Coming to stand in the doorway, Cole asked, “What do you mean?”
“Dammit, Cole, why are you pressing me?”
The man didn’t say a word. Just stared, waiting. It was irritating as hell.
Finally, James relented in the form of a gruff exhale. “There was a girl in college, okay?”
No confusion this time. Just interest. “Someone you dated?”
Dated? The girl was going to be his wife. But once again, he’d failed in his responsibilities to care for a loved one. He should’ve been with Tori that night. College parties could get wild. But he hadn’t wanted to go and she’d insisted she’d be fine.
She’d been anything but fine . . .
She’d been destroyed.
After the attack, James had lost his mind, went after four of the guys who’d been around that night and had done nothing—said they saw nothing. Battered and bruised and broken, he’d gone to Tori—begged her to forgive him, let him help her—do whatever it took. But she wouldn’t even look at him. She didn’t want anyone near her, anyone touching her, especially him. A week later, her parents had come to get her, to take her away from school, from the hellish memories—from him. James had tried every which way to see her. Calling, e-mails, letters, traveling to her house, staying close by . . . but she refused any contact. After a few months, she’d written him one cold e-mail saying she wanted him to leave her alone, that she never wanted to see him again. A couple weeks later, he’d left school too.
Two years ago, James had heard she got married. That she had a baby. It had given him some sense of peace. But it never removed the stain of failure and shame on his soul.
Until now, today, he’d never told his brothers anything about Tori or what had happened. When he left school, they’d all thought he’d hated studying and wanted something different for his life. Wanted to go back to ranching. And he’d never corrected them.
“Well, what happened with the girl?” Cole asked in an almost gentle voice.
James shook his head. He didn’t want any more of this. Not now. Not today. Sheridan was coming, and he needed to focus on her and what he could do for her. How—God, help him—he could keep making her feel safe.
“I got shit to do, little brother,” he said, knocking his chin in the direction of the great outdoors. “Let me know where you end up, okay?”
For a few long seconds, Cole didn’t move. His eyes were filled with worry and curiosity. But he knew James, knew better than to push for an answer he was clearly not going to get at that moment. So he shouldered one of his bags and pushed away from the doorframe.
“Probably stay up at the house,” he said. “Elena’s cooking will be my new roommate.”
“Sounds good,” James said, giving the man a quick salute.
Cole was halfway to the porch steps, when he glanced over his shoulder and asked, “You picking her up? Sheridan?”
“Was. But Mac insisted. And you know Mac.”
Cole snorted. “Sure do.”
“So, she and Deac are bringing Sheridan over.”
“You call me if you need anything here.”
The words weren’t flowery or soft, but they were heartfelt, and James appreciated them more than he ever thought he would.
He gave Cole a clipped nod. “Thanks.” Then he headed back into the bunkhouse and straight for his brother’s room. He had a lot to finish up before Sheridan got there. The room she was going to be staying in especially. Fresh sheets on the bed, some flowers, soap and towels in the bathroom. He wanted her to feel good as well as safe.
But most of all, he realized as he started stripping the bed, he wanted her to feel at home.
Thirteen
“You sure you want to stay there?” Mac asked, staring at Sheridan in the vanity mirror as Deacon passed through the Triple C’s main gates. “Two guys smelling up the joint with their feet and dirty laundry, and all those weird things they eat.”
“They eat weird things?” Sheridan asked, deadpan, from her cozy leather bucket seat in the back in Deacon’s truck.
“Hell, yeah. Strange sandwiches with condiments that make ’em burp and f—”
“Darlin’.” Deacon grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m trying real hard not to take offense at what you’re saying.”
“Oh, baby,” she nearly cooed. “I’m not talking about you.”
“I am a guy.”
“Yes, but you smell amazing, your feet are sexy as well as clean, and I love when you cook. No weird condiments have ever been introduced.”
He laughed, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “I can’t wait to marry you.”
“Me either,” she agreed. “And you know that if your feet did smell or you had a strange obsession with Sriracha, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“If you two would like to be alone, you could drop me here,” Sheridan offered, pressing back into the seat with a smile. “A nice walk. A nice chat with a cow or two.”
Deacon chuckled. “Apologies, Sheridan. I find it difficult to hold on to my office manners when I’m in River Black and around this beautiful and very infuriating woman.”
“Infuriating, huh?” Mac said wryly. “I’ll show you infuriating.” She leaned in close to his ear and whispered loud enough for
all to hear, “Later.”
Sheridan cleared her throat. “I understand, sir.”
Mac dropped back into her seat and groaned. “Here she goes again. Deacon, I’m beggin’ you people, can we please have a moratorium on the sirs and misses while we’re all working on the wedding?”
“I have no problem with it,” Deacon said, rounding the drive and coming to a stop in front of the main house. He glanced back. “Sheridan, for now, if you’re comfortable with it, I’m Deacon, and Mackenzie is Mac.”
“I’ve already gone there with you on Mac,” Sheridan pointed out to the bride-to-be.
“True,” Mac agreed. “Now, you’ll just have to work doubly hard on Deacon. Or better yet,” she grinned and wiggled her eyebrows, “Deac!”
Deacon chuckled, and Sheridan grimaced. She wasn’t sure if she would ever feel comfortable calling her boss by his first name. But she appreciated the gesture. Deacon Cavanaugh had been incredibly kind and supportive from the moment he’d heard about what had happened to her. Visiting her in the hospital, making sure she had the best care—making sure she understood that not only did she have a job to return to at Cavanaugh Group whenever she felt up to it, but a raise to go with it. He’d said he felt responsible, as Palmer had been his choice. Sheridan had tried to assure him it wasn’t his responsibility, but he wouldn’t budge, even going so far as to tell her that he’d not only had extensive background checks done on the new contractor he’d hired, but that every bill and receipt was going through him.
Mac undid her seat belt and turned around to regard Sheridan. “You sure you don’t want to stay up at the house with me and Deacon? Dance party every night.”
“That’s a private thing, darlin’,” Deacon said, humor threading his tone.
“Oh, right,” she agreed, her blue eyes twinkling. “Fine, then. Movies, popcorn. And Elena’s a great cook. You’d love it there.”
“She’s staying with me,” came a gruff voice.
Sheridan’s heart pinged and she turned to see James, his head framed by the open window. He hadn’t shaved yet today, and his jaw was darkened with stubble. She liked it. She liked it a lot. It made his blue eyes brilliant and sexy. Maybe he’d like to host a private dance party for the two of them.
She smiled at him. “Hi.”
His expression warmed as he turned to look at her. “Hi.”
“You ready for this?” she asked him.
He nodded, slowly, almost seductively, his eyes pinned to hers, and Sheridan’s insides started heating up.
Then he turned back to Deacon and gave him a quizzical look. “Where are her bags?”
“In the back,” Deacon said, opening his door and coming around. “Why don’t I give you a hand?”
“Not necessary,” James said, his tone resolute. He eyed Sheridan. “You all right to walk? I could grab one of the horses and ride you down.”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’d actually love to walk. I’ve missed the fresh air and the sun.”
“Big mistake, girlfriend,” Mac whispered when the men were out of earshot. “You should’ve held out.”
Sheridan leaned into her. “What do you mean?”
“Another minute of that sexual tension, back-and-forth thing you two were doin’, and James Cavanaugh would’ve offered—no, insisted—on carrying you.” She grinned wickedly. “Frankly, I think the only thing that stopped him was the idea of me or Deacon following you guys down to the bunkhouse with the bags.”
Sheridan laughed. She hated to admit it, but Lord, she hoped Mac was right.
“Call me later,” Mac said as James opened the back door for Sheridan to get out.
“Will do,” she returned warmly. “Just not during private dance-party hours.”
Mac’s laughter followed her as Sheridan slipped out of the truck and took James’s waiting hand. He had her bags over one broad shoulder, and after another quick good-bye, they headed across the drive and past the barn.
The day was exquisite. A blue, cloudless sky and miles and miles of green Triple C Ranch land. Sheridan had been to the bunkhouse a couple days before, but this would be a very different kind of visit. She wasn’t staying for an hour or two. She was staying for a few weeks. As they walked down into the lush valley that served as the bunkhouse’s backyard on one side, a calming warmth moved through her at the thought. And something else too. A deliciously unsettling kind of heat that hummed inside her every time she looked at James Cavanaugh.
But as they came around the side of the bunkhouse and up the porch steps, she remembered that it wasn’t going to be just her and James living here. Not that she minded. She liked Cole. But she did feel a little guilty taking some of his space away.
“I hope Cole doesn’t feel too put out,” she said, realizing, much to her delight, that James was still holding her hand. “I’m great on the couch.” I’m just glad to be here with you. Be close to you. Just for a while.
Until some of the fear subsides, anyway.
“Cole actually decided to stay up at the house,” he said, shoving the door open with his hip.
“Oh, no.”
He turned to regard her. “What’s wrong?”
“I just feel like a jerk, that’s all. This is his home.”
James dropped the bags on the porch and ever so gently took her by shoulders. “He was thrilled to get away from me.”
“I don’t believe that.” Seriously, who would want to get away from this man?
He smiled. “It’s true. Wanted to be properly fed. Said I was taking weight off him with my burned salmon and dry turkey burgers.”
“Well, maybe he should’ve cooked something then,” she said defensively.
James’s smile broadened. “With the fight coming up he couldn’t afford to lose an ounce. Elena will take care of him. And I think there was something about me snoring too.”
She laughed. “You don’t snore.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She blushed at the very same time that he added, “Walls are pretty thin in there.”
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “I think I snore too. So we’ll cancel each other out.”
He gently, lightly, moved his hands to the middle of her back. “This hurt?”
She shook her head, almost laughed again because his touch was featherlight. “Not so much anymore.” And not when you touch me.
He dropped his hands, glanced past her to the creek. “I want to kill him,” he uttered blackly, his nostrils flaring.
The loss of his touch and the sudden ferocity of his statement made Sheridan’s belly clench. “Please don’t talk like that.”
He turned back to face her, and his eyes were an amazing combination of stormy and hot as they moved over her face. “Any man who hurts a woman should have his life extinguished.”
Sheridan didn’t know what to say to that. Conflicting emotions were swirling through her. She worried about his anger toward Palmer, but also reveled in it because it meant he cared about her. And she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t want that. That she didn’t want James Cavanaugh to see her as more than his brother’s assistant. That she didn’t want him to change his mind—and maybe hers right along with it—about love and marriage.
“Should we go inside?” she asked, trying to break some of the tension.
He nodded. “It’s not much,” he warned her, scooping up the bags. “But you’re welcome to it.”
“I’ve been here before, remember?”
“Yeah, but not like this. Not coming home.”
Oh, those words. His words . . . they wrapped around her like a soothing, protective blanket. And when she did step inside, she allowed herself to see the bunkhouse with fresh eyes. High beamed ceilings above and that one lovely, large room below with everything accessible: living area, kitchen, dining area. She saw the hallway to
the right, knew there was a bathroom down there, and guessed a couple of bedrooms as well. But her absolute favorite thing was the wall of windows in the living area that opened out to the backyard and the creek. It was all so comfortable, so—She gasped suddenly as her eyes caught on the dining table.
“Is that Indian paintbrush?” she exclaimed, heading straight for it.
“I found a patch ’bout a half mile down the creek,” he explained. “You like them?”
She didn’t turn, just stared at the beautiful red wildflowers. Her heart pounded inside her chest and tears pricked behind her eyes. Like them? Did she like them?
James came up beside her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noting her silence, her expression, which was no doubt worrisome. “Sheridan?”
Her gaze moved covetously over the flowers. She couldn’t believe it.
“Shit,” he cursed. “Is it the flowers? Are you allergic? I can toss them out. Not a problem.”
He reached for the vase, but just as his hand wrapped around the blue glass, Sheridan stopped him.
“No,” she said.
He turned to look at her.
She felt like an idiot for getting so worked up. Making him worry. But . . . “I love them,” she managed to get out.
Studying her, he shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it. Can you tell me what’s gotten you upset?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Not to me.”
Her heart squeezed. James was such a good man, a kind man. Honestly, the fact that he resembled a young Robert Redford, with just a little darker hair, was just a bonus.
She leaned against the table slightly. “When I was a kid I found a bouquet of these on the mat outside our front door.”
“Okay.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound stupid to me.”
“Every day for a month,” she added.
“Oh. Boyfriend?”
She smiled. “Yes. But not mine. I wanted him to be. I was so excited when they showed up and the card was from him.” She shrugged. “Seems that they were meant for the girl who lived next door. He’d gotten the house number wrong.”
“Ah,” James said with understanding.
