Cowboys & Kisses

by Summers, Sasha

  “What?” I asked. They’d actually talked about this? About Wyatt living here? “Are you guys serious?”

  “We agree Wyatt needs a base, some security—a home. I know you’re not all that fond of us, but I think we’re better than what he has. There’s not a single reason for Wyatt not to go to college. Your father and I can help with that, too.”

  There was no arguing that they’d make sure he stayed on track. They nagged the crap out of Dax and me. But I knew we’d get accepted to the schools we wanted to go to; they’d been making sure of that for the last three years. As long as I didn’t screw it up, I’d be able to go anywhere I wanted to. I was headed to SMU after high school graduation—or at least that had been my plan. Lindie and I’s plan, anyway. Dax wasn’t sure where he wanted to go yet, but he had options. Music was his life. He wanted to play, and teach.

  “He might say no,” I murmured.

  “He probably will try,” she agreed. “But your father’s not going to take no on this one. And neither will I.”

  I followed her into the sewing room. It was on the front of the house, downstairs. It would totally work for a bedroom and had a decent closet, but there wasn’t a full bathroom downstairs so he’d have to clean up in the bathroom Dax and I shared.

  Grandma’s old sewing table was way too heavy to lift, but we managed to push it into the far corner. Dax and I carried the few boxes we found into the attic. On my way back down, I located some clean sheets and towels. Mom wiped down the large wooden rocking chair and the old wrought iron bed that Grandma had used when her knees hurt too much to go upstairs. Once that was done, Mom and I made up the bed and Dax swept the floor.

  I heard the screen door—it was in serious need of some oil on the hinges—and headed back into the kitchen. Dad was at the sink, alone.

  “Did he leave?” I asked. “He was upset, wasn’t he? I knew he’d get embarrassed—”

  “Allie.” He looked at me, his hazel eyes boring into mine. “Wyatt went home to pack. You and Dax go help him with his stuff. I’m going to start getting the barn ready for the horses.”

  I stood there, staring at him. “Really?”

  “He argued, but so did I.” He looked at me—a long assessing look—and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head again. “Nothing. Come on. Let’s get this done before dinner.”

  Dax and I made the drive to Wyatt’s house in silence. I guess I was still processing everything that was happening. It was all happening so fast.

  We bounced along a rutted dirt road and rounded a large bunch of cedar trees to find a mobile home. It was small, old, with visible signs of wear and damage. The front paneling was patched in places and had several black-rimmed stains. A single air conditioning window unit sat in a tiny window on the front of the house, while the other two windows were covered with plywood. The sagging roof was a patchwork of odd shingles and mismatched sheet metal.

  A lone wind chime hung off a board that had been nailed to the roof. I stared at it. Something about that chime made the place a tiny bit less…depressing.

  The horse barn didn’t match. It was a big, traditional-looking wooden building with a hay loft and two massive open doors. It looked like something out of a movie or children’s book, without the red paint and smiling animals. It was easy to see where Wyatt spent most of his time—keeping Pecos’ home safe and surprisingly neat.

  One of the stall doors was open to the pen or paddock or whatever you called the large fenced-in area for animals. Pecos trotted forward, his caramel-colored ears pricking up as Dax pulled up beside Wyatt’s truck and parked.

  Wyatt came out on the porch, a strange look on his face.

  “Hey!” I was all smiles, jumping from the truck and running up the wooden steps—straight into his arms.

  He pulled me against him, hugging me tightly.

  15 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I sighed, relaxing into him. “We came to help,” I murmured.

  “You didn’t have to,” he answered, his voice against my ear. “Not much to get.”

  “Then it won’t take long,” Dax said, brushing by him and into the house.

  Where the uncertainty came from, or the case of nerves started, I’m not sure. But I had a hard time looking at him.

  He tilted my face towards his, his eyes almost gold in the bright afternoon sun. “You look pretty.”

  I was smiling so big my face hurt. He thought I was pretty? “Mm?” My gaze was fixed on his mouth.

  He smiled. “Mm.” His voice was husky.

  “What’s going and what’s staying behind?” Dax called from inside.

  Wyatt sighed and let go of me, taking my hand to lead me inside. “I wasn’t planning on taking much. It’s not exactly mine to take.”

  I don’t know what I expected to find inside the shabby trailer, but this was not it. It was old but clean. An old cast-iron woodstove sat in the far corner; two ancient recliners sat on either side. Hummingbird-print curtains fluttered over the boarded-up kitchen window, and little china hummingbird knick-knacks lined the built-in shelving on the far wall. I moved closer, looking at the framed pictures sitting behind the porcelain figures. One was of Wyatt when he was little. God, he was cute. Big hat, big belt-buckle, big grin. I smiled, touching the picture.

  Another was Wyatt, his dad, and a woman I knew must be his mother. Then another picture of just her drew me closer. She had Wyatt’s smile, the same light-brown hair. Her eyes were pale, more grey than copper, but she had the same warmth, I could tell.

  What happened to you? Seeing her now, I wondered how she could have left Wyatt. “She looks like you,” I said to him.

  Wyatt looked at the picture of his mother, then picked it up and tucked it into his bag.

  The last picture was Wyatt’s father and mother, at a rodeo. His father was smiling, holding a huge belt-buckle. I frowned. This Travis Holcomb looked nothing like the man I’d met at the rodeo. This man looked normal. Happy.

  “Anything else?” Dax asked.

  Wyatt’s gaze scanned the interior quickly. “That’s it.” Wyatt handed his bag to Dax then stooped to pick up a large wooden chest sitting just inside the door.

  I wanted to poke around, to get a glimpse inside Wyatt’s everyday world. But something held me back. He wasn’t offering to show us around. If anything, he seemed eager to get out of here.

  “Your dad around?” Dax asked the question I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  He shook his head. “Left this morning.”

  “Left?” I asked.

  “A delivery. He’ll be back next weekend. Maybe.” His laugh was short, hard.

  That laugh hurt. How long had it been since his father was the man in the picture? How long had Wyatt lived alone? What had happened to his family?

  Wyatt locked the door behind us and tucked the key into his pocket, balancing the wooden chest on his broad shoulder. He whistled and Pickett came running, barreling into the truck bed.

  “Hey Pickett,” I cooed at the dog. Pickett’s stubby tail went crazy.

  “You know he’s a working dog, right?” Wyatt grinned, sliding the chest into the truck bed next to a worn suitcase I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Who needs love too,” I added, rubbing Pickett behind the ears.

  Dax laughed, then asked, “What about Pecos?”

  “I’ll bring Pecos and Daisy over once we get the barn ready for them.” I could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  “Depends how much help I get.” He smiled down at me, closing the tailgate.

  I love that smile. I love him. I covered his hand, still resting on the tailgate. “I’ll help,” I said.

  “Dad’s already started,” Dax said. “If that’s it, I’ll head back.”

  Wyatt nodded, opening his truck door. I slid in, taking my spot in the middle of the seat. When Wyatt slipped in next to me I reached up, put my hands on his shoulders, and le
aned forward for a kiss. His breathy laugh brushed across my lips right before his mouth met mine. It was a long, firm kiss.

  “Wyatt,” I said against his mouth.

  “Mm?” he murmured, his lips traveling across my cheek to my ear.

  I wanted to talk to him about his father. About his mother. But then his lips latched onto my earlobe and I sort of forgot everything else except how absolutely mind-blowing his lips felt on my ear. Holy crap. My hands went from resting to gripping his shirt, tugging him against me. I heard my breath hitch and grow ragged. Pure, unfiltered sensation was taking over. I wanted to pull away. No, no I didn’t. I wanted to pull him closer.

  His hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, pressing against my bare back, sliding up. When his fingers slipped under my bra-strap—between my shoulders—he shivered, then went completely still. Something about that touch, skin on skin, made him stop. He was breathing hard—like me—when his mouth released my earlobe. He pressed his face against my neck, groaning softly. “Sorry.” His voice was gruff.

  I was gasping. Don’t stop—which was probably the wrong thing to say at this point. But since I couldn’t seem to form actual words yet, it didn’t matter. Don’t be sorry.

  When he looked at me, I could tell that I wasn’t the only one eaten up by this all-consuming need. He dropped a soft kiss against my mouth, then another.

  I wound my arms around his neck. “Don’t be sorry,” I whispered against his lips, the tip of my tongue brushing against his lower lip. I hadn’t planned on doing it, it just happened. And once it had, I knew I was testing both our control. We were moving, lying back on the truck seat, pressed together…

  He made a strange noise then sat up, putting space between us. “Damn.”

  I lay there, panting. “I’m sorry.” My voice shook. He reached out, not looking at me. He didn’t mean to touch the exposed skin of my stomach. But that’s exactly where his hand landed—his roughened palm on my soft stomach.

  He looked just as surprised, his eyes glued to his hand. He was red-cheeked and breathing hard. I covered his hand with my own, lifting it, pressing it over my heart. I don’t know why I did it, but I did.

  He sat there, staring into my eyes, so beautiful I wanted to climb into his lap…or stay right here, staring at him staring back at me.

  He pulled me up, ran his fingers along my cheek, and kissed me once before he started the truck. Once we were off, his arm draped—comfortably—around my shoulders.

  Pickett barked, so I glanced out the back window, the “I Support Second Base” sticker catching my eye. I giggled.

  “What?” Wyatt asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He backed up, shifting the truck into first gear. His arm brushed against my chest, making me laugh again. “You’re laughing.” I nodded. “About?”

  He shifted gears. Another brush.

  “Your bumper sticker,” I admitted, smiling.

  He looked at it. “What about it?”

  He shifted gears again and I shot him a meaningful look. “Um, really?”

  He looked honestly confused.

  “I thought you were kind of a dick when I saw that sticker,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “You’re advertising you’re a boob man.” I felt really awkward having this conversation.

  He shifted gears again, glancing at my chest. “I didn’t know I was.”

  “Good answer.” I smiled, leaning against him. “Why the sticker, then?”

  “My mom put it on my truck.”

  I glanced up at him. “Oh.” That was kind of weird.

  “I told her no pink, but that made her laugh, so…” He shrugged. “She had stickers on just about every car in town before it was all over.” He sounded proud of her. “She went down fighting.”

  I froze, unable to look away from him. Pink. I Support Second Base. She went down fighting. I couldn’t move. Shit. No. Even my heart seemed to stop—before pain kicked in big time.

  I replayed all the snippets of conversation that hadn’t made sense. Tragedy. Heartache. Don’t know how he’s managed to stay so positive.

  Oh God no. Wyatt… It’s not fair.

  He looked at me. “Allie?”

  I nodded, blinked.

  He checked behind us then pulled the truck off the road, onto the brush-covered shoulder of the country road. The truck bounced a few feet before he put it into park. “Allie?”

  I shook my head. Shit. Say something.

  “What’s wrong?” He sounded worried, urgent.

  Breathe, Allie. This isn’t about you. Be here for him. Give him what he needs. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt.” I sounded like I was choking. “I didn’t know.”

  The shift of emotion on his face was intense. Worry. Confusion. Then horrible realization. “Fuck, Allie.” His voice was low, almost apologetic. “I thought you knew.”

  “No, no, I…” I shook my head, wishing my voice wasn’t so high. “I… Oh, Wyatt.”

  He looked through the windshield, his voice soft. “Small town, people talk—all the time. Still, I should have said something.”

  I couldn’t seem to stop shaking my head. “Why would you? It’s…how…” I mumbled to a stop. “Sorry. I’m just…God, I’m so so sorry.”

  He looked at me then, the slight sheen of moisture in his copper eyes my undoing.

  “Wyatt.” I turned to him. “I wish I’d known her. I’d tell her what…what an amazing son she has.” My voice broke. “But she knows…I know it.” It wasn’t enough, even though there was nothing I could say that would ever be enough. “You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You know that?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just me.”

  “Exactly. You are…awesome.” Still not enough. He was awesome—and so much more. “Everything.”

  His hand rested against my cheek, his gaze holding mine. “I love you, Allie.”

  I climbed into his lap, facing him, wrapping my arms around him and hugging him as tight as I could. I pressed my face against his neck, breathing his scent deep. I didn’t know if touching me comforted him the way it did me, but I hoped it did.

  His arms were like steel bands around my waist. His chest rose and fell, unevenly. His breath blew hot and fast against my neck. I wanted to cry. For him.

  The last six months had been all about me. If I was being honest, it had been the last three years. How or when I’d let myself believe that I was the center of the fricking universe, I wasn’t sure. I don’t deserve him.

  He was dealing with a son-of-a-bitch father and the loss of his mother. He was alone and functioning, a kind, positive person. I was surrounded by people who loved me, who were hurting because of me, and I never once thought about them.

  I couldn’t ease my hold on Wyatt. I didn’t want to. He was this remarkable guy-man-cowboy…who loved me. Me.

  I had it all. Everything. It was time I started appreciating it.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you so much.”

  His arms tightened, making it a little hard to breathe. I didn’t mind. How long had it been since someone had held him, loved him, and let him know it? I’d stay like this until he ended it, because this was exactly where I wanted—needed—to be.

  I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. My eyes were burning.

  I don’t know how long we ended up staying like that. Being in his arms was my favorite place to be. His hold eased slowly, his hands smoothing over the fabric of my shirt. When he raised his head, I saw the moisture on his cheeks.

  I kissed him, a soft kiss, and he shook his head.

  “You start kissing me and we’ll never get to your folks’ place.” His gaze traveled over my face, slowly. “We should go.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, slipping from his lap. “Let’s go.” I sat as close to him as I possibly could, not willing to sever all contact.

  He started the truck and pulled back onto the road, driving the short trip to my parents’ house. Pickett jumped out of
the back of the truck as soon as we stopped, barking.

  Wyatt opened his door. “Pickett,” he said softly. Pickett stopped barking. I laughed. “You need to learn some manners,” Wyatt said to the dog as he slid out of the truck.

  “Manners?” I asked, following him.

  Wyatt walked around to the back of the truck, Pickett at his heels. “He’s a good dog. Just gets worked up sometimes.”

  I smiled at the two of them. Pickett was watching Wyatt’s every move. When Wyatt looked at the dog, the dog sat, ears perked forward, waiting. “He sure loves you.” I smiled, following them to the end of the truck.

  Wyatt slid his suitcase to the end of the truck bed.

  “I’ll get it,” I offered, lifting the bag.

  “Thank you,” he said, sliding the wooden trunk forward and hoisting it onto his shoulder.

  “Got it?” I asked.

  “Need help?” Dad was there.

  “No, sir, thanks. Where should I—”

  “This way,” I said, knowing he’d follow me.

  As soon as he put his trunk in the room, he went out to the barn with my father.

  “Help with dinner?” Mom asked. I nodded. “Feel up to making the chicken?” I nodded again. “Everything okay?” Her blue eyes watched me closely.

  “I’m good, Mom. Really good.” I hugged her then, tight. I felt her stiffen and knew I’d surprised her. She hugged me back, enveloping me in her familiar floral scent—her comforting embrace. I pressed a kiss to her soft cheek and stepped back. “I’ll set the table first?”

  “That would be great.” I could tell she was still grappling with my unexpected affection. “Five places.”

  I smiled. “Yep.”

  ***

  “If the whole sports medicine thing doesn’t work out, you can open a fried chicken place,” Dax said, his mouth full.

  “Gosh, thanks.” I grimaced. “I would’ve been fine with you swallowing first.”

  “Really, Dax.” Mom sighed. “That’s disgusting.”

  I glanced at Wyatt, who was smiling as he said, “Main Street doesn’t have a chicken place.”

  I shook my head. “Guess it’s good to have a back-up plan.”