Knotted

by Pam Godwin

  His hat sits low on his brow, his expression a little broody, a little dreamy. It’s hard to get a read on what’s churning in the dark intensity of those eyes.

  When I close the song, I tilt my chin. “What?”

  “I always loved seeing you wear my things.” His gaze lifts to the Stetson on my head.

  “Oh.” I forgot about that.

  “Play Coe.” He kicks a boot up on the coffee table between us, his hands folded on his abs.

  “What song?”

  “You pick.”

  “Hmm.” I consider for a moment.

  If he wants David Allan Coe, I’ll give him the king of cowboy porn.

  As I strum the opening chords of Don’t Bite The Dick, he and Jarret burst out laughing.

  “Come on, now.” My fingers move faster, my mouth loosening into a smile. “You boys used to love this one.”

  Once upon a time, I hummed the entire song while giving Jake head.

  I feel like that girl again as I belt out the raunchy lyrics with a nasally twang in my voice.

  The guys join in, singing and laughing through the words, and I let myself laugh, too.

  I’m finally home.

  The doorbell rings at seven o’clock the next morning.

  I crawl out of the silky, lonely torment of Jake’s bed and shuffle through the room. He and Jarret have probably been in the pasture since before dawn, which leaves me to answer the door in a sleepy-eyed stupor.

  Down the hall, around the corner, I enter the foyer and slam to a stop.

  Miles stands on the front porch, squinting through the screen.

  Okay, I know I left him hanging after that silent call last night, but what the ever-loving fuck?

  He straightens when he sees me approach. “Conor, what’s going on?”

  “I should ask you the same thing.” I pause at the door and narrow my eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “Your text message?” His head tips to the side. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “What text mess…?” I suck in a sharp breath.

  Jake has my phone.

  Boy, do I have a bone to pick with him.

  “Wow, so you drove all the way here?” I run a hand over my sleep-tangled hair and step onto the porch. “You must’ve left before six?”

  “You told me to come as soon as possible.” He purses his lips, his eyes squinting with suspicion. “You said it was urgent.”

  Since I never told Miles what ranch I grew up on, I assume the text included this address.

  In Jake’s infinite wisdom to meddle in my life, it would’ve been nice to give me a goddamn head’s up about this.

  On the bright side, his arrogant, domineering ass is off herding cattle. That means I’ll be able to handle this situation without him hovering in my pocket like a stage five clinger.

  “You grew up here?” Miles looks around, mouth parted and eyebrows creeping toward his perfectly combed hair. “Your family must’ve been loaded.”

  Maybe? I never looked into the inheritance Dalton left when he died. Half of it belongs to Lorne, and since I let my brother deal with the paperwork, my inquiries would have to go through him.

  The deep porch wraps around the front of the estate, providing multiple seating areas. I could invite Miles to sit, have a little talk, and drag a confession out of him.

  I look him in the eyes and wait for the resentment, outrage, or whatever I’m supposed to be experiencing. I feel sadness, I guess. I liked him, but I didn’t love him.

  And I have no interest in dragging this out.

  “I know you’re sleeping with Kendra Forde.”

  “What?” His face pales. “We talked about this. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining! You fucked her in our bed, Miles.” I shake my head. “I’ll move my things out in a couple of weeks. You need to go.”

  I turn to open the door.

  He grabs my elbow. “I can explain.”

  “Let go.” I glare at his grip. Then his hard eyes.

  “You’re ten kinds of fucked in the head, Conor.” He releases my arm.

  A razor-sharp burn hits my throat, and I grab for the door, opening it.

  He slaps it shut and holds a hand against it. My scalp tingles, and icy dread drips down my spine. His breathing sounds too fast, his body too tense.

  “She actually enjoys sex.” He leans in, his expression cruel. “And multiple positions.”

  “I want you to leave.” Needles prick the backs of my eyes as I yank on the door, unable to budge his hand. “Move. Right now!”

  “You need help.” He clucks his tongue, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Gorgeous girl like you… It’s a shame you can’t—”

  He flies backward, off the porch and across the front lawn, with the back of his shirt caught in Jake’s fist. A second later, that fist blurs into swift, punishing arcs that land across Miles’ face over and over.

  Jake lives by a code of etiquette that embodies southern manners, such as inviting in visitors, ma’aming and siring, and tipping his hat at the ladies. But his good ol’ boy upbringing also means he will fuck someone up if he thinks one of his own is threatened or harmed.

  As he lays into Miles with the fury of a thousand fists, I don’t scream or interfere. He knows when to stop, and Miles isn’t worth putting myself in the path of Jake’s swings.

  Miles doesn’t get a single punch in before Jake pulls away from his sprawled, bleeding body.

  “Who the hell are you?” Miles staggers to his feet, his hand flying to his dripping nose and eyes on me. “Conor? What the fuck?”

  “I told you to leave.” I step off the porch and pause beside Jake. “You don’t want me to say it again.”

  His eyes flick to Jake, and he brushes off his grass-stained shirt. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  “Get your lawyer, Professor.” I perch my hands on my hips and tilt my head. “And I’ll circulate photos of you fucking your undergrad student.”

  His behavior isn’t illegal, but it’s a transgression of professional ethics and forbidden by the university. It would wreck his career.

  Jake angles the screen of his phone toward Miles, likely showing him the evidence.

  His blood-rimmed nostrils widen, his gaze silently pleading with mine.

  “Someone will come this week to collect her things.” Jake pockets the phone. “If you vandalize her possessions or fuck with her or her education, then me and you are gonna mix.” He tips his hat, his voice calm and deep. “Best be on your way.”

  I return to the porch as Miles stalks to his car and drives out of the lot. Jake remains on the lawn until the car vanishes over the hill. Then he turns toward me.

  His brown eyes roam my face and lower along my body. The perusal isn’t disrespectful like that of other men. The dip of his gaze is one of concerned examination, but it makes my stomach do its own dip all the same. A giddy, tingly dip that spreads to my thighs and twitches my toes.

  I cross my arms. “How long were you eavesdropping?”

  “Long enough to know…” He prowls toward me. “If brains were leather, Miles York wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.”

  “He has a Ph.D. in Animal Science.”

  “He’s a fucking idiot.”

  Climbing onto the porch, he draws close. Close enough for his scent to tangle with my breaths. He smells like sun-soaked fields, well-oiled leather, and hard work. The kind of work that hones muscle and sharpens reflexes. I want to press up against all that untamed masculinity and roll around in it.

  No, I don’t.

  “I’m mad at you.” I step back. “You shouldn’t have messaged him. That was my call, not yours.”

  “You had that call last night and didn’t take it.” He stays with me, his eyes twin flames of intention.

  “Stop interfering in my life.” I continue edging backward as the heat from his gaze scorches my body.

  Whiskers shadow his jaw, his skin bro
nzed from the sun. He’s a mountain of a man, all shoulders and chest and powerful legs. And those jeans fit so low and provocatively around his hips I can see his religion.

  He has the strength, endurance, and ferocity of a stallion, and I’m the mare within smelling range.

  I retreat another step, bumping into a chair. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ll give you a few seconds to be single.” He bends his knees, putting his face in mine. “But don’t get used to it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re about to be taken.” His expression smolders with red-blooded hunger.

  “No—”

  “You’re mine.”

  “No,” I say louder and push him back. “I’m not yours. You let me go!”

  “I did.” The corners of his mouth twitch downward, but there’s no apology in it as he advances.

  Fuck him.

  I shove him again. “The day I went to Chicago, do you remember what I said? No matter what, we stay together.” Another shove, and another, over and over until my hands grow furious, slapping, balling into fists, and pounding. “We were supposed to stay together. We were better than this!”

  Silent and unresponsive, he lets me pummel him.

  That just makes me angrier. “You ignored me for two years.” The side of my fist hits his chest. “I needed you. I was alone and scared and my dad…” Tears burn my eyes, and tremors shake my hands, weakening my strikes. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

  “Miles, months, cities, years… That’s what you said.” He touches a knuckle under my chin, lifting it. “We’re bigger than anything that tries to come between us.”

  “You threw me away.”

  “I kept you safe.” His hand curls around my neck and drags me closer.

  “You lied to me. You manipulated my life and my feelings.” I grip his shoulders, intending to push him. But my fingers dig in. And pull. “You deliberately hurt me, and I’ve been holding that pain for so long.” I clutch my chest. “Right here. Right where I used to hold you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He works his throat and softens the grip on my neck. “I’m sorry for hurting you, but I’m not sorry for protecting you.”

  He ducks his head and ghosts his lips over mine.

  That tiny touch sparks electrifying awareness through my body. I feel him everywhere—the warmth of his breaths, his arousing scent, the scratch of his stubble, and that lickable, velvety, persuasive mouth.

  “If his lips are moving, he’s lying.” I flatten my hands on his chest and push hard enough to separate us by several feet.

  “You want the truth, Conor?” He steps forward, his eyes sharp as steel. “I love you.” Another step. “I always have.” He grabs my hips and yanks me to him. “I will never stop loving you. Doesn’t get more honest than that.”

  My hands fall to his biceps, my insides twisted into a hundred knots of deceit. I can’t trust him. “It’s too late.”

  “No.” He clutches the back of my head. “Tomorrow is too late.”

  He captures my mouth in a kiss that ignores logic and reasoning. With a hand in my hair and the other on my hip, he bends me into his heat and sets fire to my world.

  Lips gliding and mouths opening, our tongues touch, flatten together, and go wild. I jerk my hands to his shoulders, his neck, pushing him away, wrenching him closer, and rising on tip toes to deepen the kiss.

  We move together angrily, frantically, not in exploration, but in remembrance. I spent the best years of my life kissing the fuck out of this man. I know his techniques, proficiencies, and turn-ons, and he knows mine.

  Rolling in the meadow, tangling in my bed, sneaking off into the barn—we consume and devour in a frenzy of shared experiences. I cling to his mouth, his body, in the magic of our connection, wanting more, needing him closer, deeper, harder.

  His groan vibrates through me, and his hands fall to my butt, yanking me hard against him. My fingers rove his neck and face. His hardness seeks my heat, and we grind into the friction.

  Kissing, panting, and fusing, we’re a stolen moment. A desperate embrace. A beating heart with two mouths and four arms.

  We kiss for an eternity, but not long enough. When we come up for air, our arms squeeze tighter, our feet planted on the porch.

  Breathing heavily, he touches his brow to mine, his mouth slightly open at the edge of my vision. I slide a hand free and touch his pouty bottom lip.

  “That was better than I remember.” He kisses my finger. “Don’t know how that’s possible.”

  “Yeah.” I drop my palm to his chest.

  Push.

  I need to process this.

  Just push him back.

  He’s going to talk about what we just did, and I can’t trust his words.

  I add pressure to my hand, but he’s already stepping back. It’s a reluctant retreat, his arms slowly lowering from my body, his boots scraping in slow motion.

  Pausing just out of reach, he pulls leather work gloves from his back pocket and slides them on, head down and eyes on his task.

  Dust clings to his jeans, and sweat dots his t-shirt. He’s already put in more work this morning than most men do in an entire day.

  The rim of his hat rises, revealing the warmth of his eyes. “Wanna help me buck hay?”

  That’s the last thing I expected out of his mouth. Stacking bales in the field is physically demanding, mindless work that involves chaps and hay hooks.

  Do I want to sit in the house and get lost in my flustered thoughts? Or dive into buckets of sweat and sunshine?

  “Yeah.” I flex my hands. “I’d like that.”

  “Get dressed.” He smacks me hard on the butt and saunters off the porch. “I’ll meet you at the stable.”

  I haven’t taken my eyes off Conor from the moment she mounted Ketchup and followed me to the south pasture. In her silence, I don’t know how she’s processing the breakup with Miles, our kiss, or the view she’s currently taking in.

  Her eyes drift over the eroded land, infestation of noxious weeds, and high mounds of dirt and debris shoved to the side. It’ll take years to remove the industrial waste and return the land to its natural habitat.

  “Your father did this?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly, unable to stifle the bitterness in my voice. “Turns out, this land is rich in oil and natural gas.”

  She shifts in the saddle, and her luminous green eyes assess mine. “And your dad thought to profit from that.”

  He thought to pay off insidious debts with it.

  “This is related to…” Her eyebrows gather. “It has to do with why he wanted me dead? Everything that’s happened is connected to this, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I inch Barnabe closer to her until our legs brush. “I’ll fill in those blanks, but not today.”

  She sucks in an impatient breath and swats a wayward strand of hair from her face. “If my mother saw this…”

  “I know.”

  Ava O’Conor died when we were babies, but we’ve heard the stories about her public protests against big oil and its corruption on the land.

  “The rigs are gone.” She scans the destroyed field and chews her lip. “You and Jarret stopped the drilling and blasting?”

  “Not soon enough. We’re still trying to clean up the mess.”

  “But you stopped it. And now that you own the ranch, you won’t let this happen again?”

  “As long as I’m alive, I’ll fight it, Conor.”

  “Good.” She breathes deeply and adjusts the Stetson—my Stetson—on her head. “How many bales do you need to buck today?”

  “About nine more hour’s worth, with your help.”

  “Let’s get to it, then.”

  As she turns the horse and canters away, I marvel at her remarkable beauty and resilience.

  She’s a vision of windblown red hair, picturesque tattoos, and rugged denim. By the end of the day, those jeans will be ripped and caked with dust. There
will be dirt under her nails, more scars on her hands, and not a lick of complaining from her sweet lips.

  The resentment I expected from her about the drilling didn’t come. Maybe I’ve given her too many other things to be upset about, but I get the sense that she trusts me on this one thing. She knows this land means as much to me as it does to her.

  She leans into the breeze as she rides across the field. Hair whipping behind her, she twists her neck to shout back at me, “Catch up!”

  I swear I see a glimmering smile before she kicks Ketchup into a gallop.

  With a grin that bares my teeth, I do what I’ve done my entire life.

  I chase her.

  That night, I sit beside Conor and Jarret on the back-porch steps. We showered, ate dinner, and finished the daily chores. Sore muscles, stiff joints, leaden exhaustion—I earned every ache alongside my girl, and despite the sweltering humidity, I’m blissfully content.

  Only two things could’ve made this day better. Bringing Lorne home and killing my father.

  Conor reclines between Jarret and me, arms braced behind her and face tilted toward the stars. Beneath her serene expression, the long day weighs heavily on her eyelids.

  I examine the delicate lines of her profile, marking each long, low sigh from her lips. “You’re tired.”

  “Just a freckle.” She holds up a finger and thumb an inch apart and winks. “Is overworking me part of my therapy?”

  She has no idea.

  “Speaking of freckles…” I circle a finger in front of her flawless face. “Where did yours run off to?”

  “Haven’t been in the sun much and…” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I grew out of them?”

  “All of them?” I direct my eyes to her tank top, to the vicinity of her right nipple and my favorite freckle.

  “Not all of them.” She looks away, and the corner of her mouth crooks up.

  My groin tightens, and my breaths deepen. What I wouldn’t give to see that freckle tonight, to hold it in my hand and sink my teeth into it.

  “I was thinking…” She stares out at the dark field and absently picks the dirt from her nails. “I’d like to visit Lorne.”

  “I talked to him today.” Jarret bends his legs on the stairs and drapes his arms over his knees.