by Pam Godwin
“Nothing heavy against my back.” She swallows, her lashes blocking my view of her eyes. “No sex face down or from behind. No anal.”
The only way she knows about those positions is if she’s tried them, and I can’t let myself think about that.
I touch her lower back, wait for her flinch, and gently caress her over the cotton tank top. “Anything else?”
She glances at me and shakes her head. “Those are the ones I know.”
“Thank you.” I run my hand over her back and give her direct eye contact. “Four years ago, I drove you away from here because your life was in danger.”
The muscles along her spine go taut.
I keep my fingers against her, rubbing the tension in her backbone. “Two men were hired to kill you and Lorne in the ravine.”
“I thought they saw me in town and followed me home?”
“Levi Tibbs lied. Someone paid him to go to the ravine that night and take you out. When the attempt failed, others were contracted to finish the job, if you returned to the ranch.”
“Who hired them? How do you…?” A tremble ripples through her, and her fingers start to slip from the branch. “How do you know this? Did Dalton know? Is that why we moved?”
“Put your hands on my shoulders.” I step in front of her and grip her hips. When she lowers her arms, I say, “I have proof. I know who did the hiring. I know why they did it, and I’ve dealt with all of them but one.”
“You dealt with them? Did you turn them over to the police? Why wasn’t I notified?” Her eyes widen. “What do you mean but one? There’s someone out there who wants to kill me? Why would anyone want me dead?”
“You’re safe here. He won’t come anywhere near the ranch. That’s all you need to know right now.”
“That’s bullshit, Jake. This is too important for your mind games. We’re talking about my life. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find the answers on my own.”
“Jarret is with me on this, and Sheriff Fletcher has his own agenda. You’ll stay the fuck away from him.”
“I can’t believe this. What you’re telling me… It’s insane. Are you even listening to yourself?”
“We need to talk about Miles York.”
She sucks in a breath. “How do you know that name?”
“I know more than his name. I know the professor has a long history of fucking his students. I know he’s living with you while sticking his dick in another co-ed on a regular basis.”
Her lips part, and her eyes glass over. I don’t think it’s shock. She’s too sharp to be oblivious to the infidelity. For whatever reason, she’s chosen to ignore what’s right in front of her.
“Do you have evidence?” she asks, without a waver in her voice.
“I hired a PI to keep tabs on anyone who might be following you.” I remove my phone from my pocket and pull up the photo gallery. “For reasons I won’t explain tonight, you were safe as long as you weren’t here. But I couldn’t take that risk.”
She reaches for the phone.
I pull it back, holding it away. “I need you to understand I wasn’t keeping tabs on you. You were free to date or fuck whomever you wanted. This was about your safety, and since I didn’t know Miles York, I didn’t trust him. So I had him tailed.”
“Give me the phone, Jake.”
I hand it over and watch her blank expression as she swipes through the photos. They leave nothing to the imagination and show numerous settings—in a car, in an alley behind a restaurant, and through the bedroom window while the professor fucked Kendra Forde in Conor’s bed.
When she reaches the end, she gives the phone back. Rather than gripping my shoulders for balance, she returns her hands to the branch and averts her eyes.
“You knew.” I study her emotionless expression. “At the very least, you suspected. I think you stayed in the relationship because Levi Tibbs’ release was approaching, and you knew you would come home and have to face me. It’s easier to guard your heart and push me away when you have the boyfriend excuse.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“You forget I know you, Conor. I’m not wrong about this.”
“I’m ready to go back.”
Go back to the house? Or go back to school? I don’t ask, because we’re not finished.
I swap my phone out with hers in my pocket and scroll through her contact list.
“What are you doing?” She reaches for it, teetering on the stump and quickly returning her grip to the branch.
Pausing on Miles, I press Call and put it on speaker. He picks up on the second ring.
“Conor?”
I hold up the phone to her face and hike an eyebrow.
She tucks her lips between her teeth and returns an arched brow of her own.
“Conor?” Miles says. “Are you there?” A pause. “Hello?”
End it, I mouth.
Fuck you, she mouths back.
I hang up the call and power off the phone. “You want to stay with this guy?”
“Take me back.” She delivers a look forged in fire. “In two seconds, I’m going to step off this stump and walk through poison ivy.”
She’ll do it. Or at least try.
I give her my back. Then I give her a ride to the horse.
She resorts to silent treatment, carrying it all the way to the stable, through the tasks of putting away Ketchup, and during the walk to the house.
I let her have her silence, because there’s reflection in it. Soul-searching introspection. Progress. I gave her a lot to contemplate, and like I told her, I don’t need to fix her. I just need to be there while she works through the grieving process.
Tomorrow, there will be more to grieve when the sun shines a spotlight on the south pasture. The well pads, access roads, and total annihilation left behind from oil and gas drilling rigs—it’ll crush her.
I dread the look in her eyes, the one that will ask, Why didn’t you stop this from happening?
I did stop it, but not before it left deep, devastating scars on her mother’s land.
Gutted and rebuilt from floor to ceiling, the Cassidy wing is no more. As I roam through the new master bedroom, turning in a circle and taking it all in, my lungs release a thousand pounds of tension.
Every trace of Dalton is gone, his room replaced with a suite three times the size. There are no painful reminders of the father I lost. Nothing to taint the rugged sophistication and grandeur of the space.
“You did this?” I glance at the imposing shadow at my side.
“A couple of years ago.” Jake rests his fingertips in his front pockets, his dark brown eyes fixed on me. “The wing sat empty for four years. Dad didn’t say shit when I started tearing down walls.”
“Wow.”
The wow factor is the vast openness of it. The bedrooms that belonged to Lorne and me became part of the new suite, the walls removed between the rooms to maximize the square footage.
A buttery leather couch and stacked-stone fireplace sit where my bed used to be. The en-suite bathroom was completely renovated and enlarged, taking up part of Lorne’s old room. A massive bed fit for an overbearing cattle rancher dominates everything around it.
Heavy furniture, stone accents, rawhide finishes, and a rustic cast iron chandelier—it’s a man cave on a triple dose of steroids. Unpolished yet elegant, it’s sexy and virile and oh so Jake.
The ambiance embodies his roughhewn sex appeal, the very air infused with his intoxicating scent of leather and testosterone. But the intricately painted mural on the far wall makes me question who exactly he designed this room for.
Black horses gallop across a rural landscape streaked with every color of the Oklahoma sunset. It’s a swirly, light-filled illustration in an impressionist style. Like the paintings I used to collect.
Like the tattoos on my arms.
I step toward it and caress a hand along the brush strokes. “Why did you add this?”
“I missed you.”
I glance back and find him staring at me. Our eyes connect, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. The subtle movement is so disarming my body inflames with tingly hot flashes.
“Thank you for this.” He holds out his arm and cups a hand around the leather cuff, staring at it with possessiveness and affection.
“I don’t understand you.” I pace along a bay of windows. “You lied to me about Ketchup. Fucked Sara Gilly before you broke up with me. And you’re thanking me for a stupid bracelet?”
He flinches, and the cords in his neck go taut. “I didn’t fuck her. Didn’t so much as kiss her.”
I whirl on him, hating the flutter in my chest. “You’re lying like a no-legged dog. I saw you. You were…were…buck ass naked!”
“I never removed my boxers. You saw what you wanted to see.”
“I didn’t want to see any of it.” My mind swims, and my heart pounds. “I don’t believe you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. So you can stand there, looking all”—gorgeous, seductive, irresistibly fuckable—“aggravating, chewing on your lip and wearing that bracelet. I’m not buying whatever it is you’re selling.”
A crooked grin pulls at his mouth. “I’ll let you get settled in. Jarret put your bag in the closet.” He turns to leave.
“Wait.” I glance at the king-sized mattress draped in linens the color of his eyes. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
He pauses in the doorway and rests a forearm on the frame, facing me. “I’ll sleep in Jarret’s wing tonight. It’s remodeled with two master suites now.” He lowers his arm and straightens. “This was your wing, and this is where you’ll stay.”
I look back at his bed and imagine wrapping myself up in his manly cowboy scent. I want that so badly I shiver.
Because I’m a dumb, pathetic girl who will never ever, ever, ever get over Jake Holsten.
“And Conor?”
“What?” I find his gaze across the room.
“You’re the first woman who’s ever been in this room.”
He strides away, leaving me discombobulated, disgustingly pleased, and irritated as hell.
I take a shower in his ginormous bathroom, blow dry my hair, and put on a clean camisole and cotton shorts. The huge bed beckons, but my mind’s in such a tizzy there’s no way I can sleep.
Am I off base for distrusting every little thing he does and says? Well, I can’t trust him. That’s for damn sure. But I can’t ignore my gut, either. Deep down, I know he can help me.
I’ve felt more in the last few hours than I have in four years. Through our shared childhood and that innate part of him that knows me so well, he has the ability to force me to come to terms with the past. He can give me closure.
If anything, he gave me the incentive I needed to end things with Miles York.
He still has my phone, otherwise, I’d call Miles right now.
I wouldn’t cheat on you, Conor.
I’m so fucking lucky to be the one you want. I wouldn’t throw that away.
“Ugh!” I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands. “That spineless, two-timing dickhead!”
God, those photos… He fucked Kendra Forde in ways he never fucked me. Because I wouldn’t let him. I gave him boring, missionary sex. Of course, he strayed. No man wants to be with a skittish, unadventurous nutjob.
I should’ve broken it off with him when he was on the phone. I wanted to, but not in front of Jake. No matter what happens in the next two weeks, I need to walk away with my dignity.
Standing from the bed, I wander to the dresser and lift one of the Stetsons. Faded from the sun and frayed by the wind, this hat has spent more time with Jake than I have.
I bring the underside to my nose and breathe in the essence of his hard work. If what he told me is true, he’s been running all over hell’s half acre for the past few years. Operating a cattle ranch, dealing with hitmen, renovating a wing of the estate, and stalking me?
How much of it is true? The threats against my life, the charade with Sara Gilly, his missing father—what does it all mean? And where is John Holsten anyway? He wouldn’t walk away from Julep Ranch. Especially not because of a woman. If any of Jake’s claims are legit, his dad is elbows-deep in that shit.
I need answers.
Returning the hat to the dresser, I stare at it for a second, reluctant to let go.
Fuck it. I wriggle it onto my head, shove bare feet into my square toe boots, and clop out of the room in search for Jake.
I find him on the back porch, reclined in a chair across from his brother.
Jarret holds a harmonica to his lips and peers at me from beneath the rim of his hat. Then he closes his eyes and returns to his bluegrass melody.
Jake doesn’t move a muscle to acknowledge my presence, but his gaze is on me. Sharp and invasive, it burrows and plunders.
His elbow sits on the arm rest, his fingers loosely curled beneath his rigid jaw. Jarret continues to hum on the harmonica, the notes cutting. Too angry for bluegrass.
Were they arguing? They’re definitely brooding.
“Is your dad the one you haven’t dealt with?”
My question cuts off the song, and Jarret lowers the instrument.
“Does he want me dead?” I glance from one to the other, searching their similar features.
They exchange a look, and something passes between them.
Then Jake shifts his scowling eyes to mine. “He did, yes.”
“Why?” My voice cracks, and a stabbing pain slices through my insides. “What would he have gained from it?”
“That’s enough for tonight.”
“No, it’s not enough. You know shit about my life, and you won’t tell me. That makes you untrustworthy and manipulative, and it…it…” I put my hands on my hips, bending over him, seething. “It really pisses me off.”
“Your therapy is more important than your anger with me.”
The rumbling calmness in his timbre further enrages me. He sits there all cavalier and unruffled, and I’m shaking to my core with desperation. I need to know what he’s not telling me.
“Look, I’ll do whatever.” My arms flop to my sides. “I’ll go through your therapy sessions without a single complaint. I promise. Just answer my questions.”
“I’m not negotiating with you, Conor.” He reaches behind his chair and lifts a guitar.
Lorne’s acoustic.
An effusion of nostalgia crashes through me. Memories and emotions, so many deep, warm, powerful feelings that have been out of reach for so long. I didn’t even know they still existed.
My hand moves before my brain can process, my fingers curling around the frets and pressing against the strings.
My God, I miss my guitar. I miss playing it with Lorne.
I miss my brother.
Jake releases the instrument, and I pull it close.
“I know you visit him.” I lower into the chair beside Jarret, eyes on the instrument. “I did, too. Once. He didn’t want to see me. Told me to leave Oklahoma.”
I dare a glance at Jake. His mouth forms a relaxed line, saying nothing, but his eyes blaze with answers.
If my life was truly in danger… “Lorne wanted me to leave for my own protection?”
Jake remains silent and watchful. Beside me, Jarret reaches over and rests a hand on my knee.
I stare at his touch in a daze and try to piece together what I know. “When I was in Chicago, all three of you gave me the cold shoulder.”
“We didn’t know about your dad,” Jarret whispers quietly, his voice tinged with pain.
“But you knew something was going on here. Instead of telling me, you alienated me. Sheltered me. Made decisions about my life.”
Jarret glares at Jake, his hand clenching on my knee. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we did.”
“I spent six years wondering. Beating myself up. Because the three people who matter most to me in the world abandoned me, and I didn’t know why.”
“What would you hav
e done?” Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What if I called you when you were in Chicago? If I told you shady shit was going on back home and someone wanted you and Lorne dead? What would you have done?”
“I would’ve come home. I would’ve found a way to get here, to help you.” To be with you.
“And you would’ve been murdered.” He motions between him and Jarret. “We were stupid seventeen-year-old kids. No chance in hell we would’ve kept you safe here. Christ, it took us years to figure out the who’s and why’s of the situation.” He breathes in and out. “We kept you alive by keeping you away.”
“You could’ve called me and not told me anything. I just needed to know I wasn’t alone.”
“Fuck, I hate this. I hated it then, and I hate it now.” He gnashes his teeth. “If we were in communication, we would’ve made plans. Plans to see each other. Not only that, do you really believe I could’ve talked to you every day and kept secrets from you?”
“No.”
He’s right. We knew each other too well back then. I would’ve heard the restraint in his voice.
With a squeeze, Jarret removes his hand, sits back in the chair, and blows a shaking, soulful melody on his harmonica.
I guess the conversation’s over.
Stunned and overwhelmed, I close my eyes and concentrate on the southern rock vibrato. He’s playing the warm-up song we wrote together as kids.
After a few beats, my hands move, trying out the strings on Lorne’s guitar. Plucking here. Tuning there. Eventually, I drift into the rhythm, my fingers inching over the frets like they never stopped.
The song ends, and I slide into another, and another. I stick to mostly outlaw country—Cash, Jennings, Wilson—searching my roots and strolling down memory lane.
Beside me, Jarret follows my lead just like old times. Lips gliding along the mouthpiece, hands cupped, and head lowered, he wails through the harmonies.
The music does what it’s supposed to do. It transports me to another time, another life, lifting my spirits and freeing my heart to simply sit back and enjoy the moment.
We play until the mosquitoes stop biting and my fingers lose feeling, and through it all, I share lingering glances with Jake.
