by Shannyn Leah
She flashed the light in his face, blinding him. “Why? And if I tell you, how do I know you won’t stop me? I can’t have that. I’m here on a mission and I won’t be frightened away by you.”
Her stubbornness drew a deep laugh from him, rumbling up within him and lightening the tension in his chest.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said. “It really depends on why you’ve broken into my grandpa’s shed.”
“I didn’t break in,” she said. Her hand dug into her pocket, and flashed the beam of light on a gold key. “I borrowed this from Eddie and planned on returning it tomorrow.”
“You stole it.”
“Borrowed.”
“I invited you into my grandfather’s home and you stole from him.”
Cheyenne groaned. “You’re impossible. I’m stealing his ladder.”
“You’re what?” He laughed. “Why do you need my grandfather’s old ladder when Millie has a perfectly good and functioning ladder, which we discovered at dinner. Thank you for that rather entertaining, moment.”
“Shut up,” she said. “I’m trying to save your grandfather from climbing up this deteriorating ladder ever again.” She stepped toward him. “You know, I don’t understand why you’re not worried about this ladder.”
Booker hated that ladder.
“I’m going to get rid of it,” Cheyenne said. “I can’t stand him up on this ladder. It’s old and rickety and it’s only a matter of time before it falls apart. I might not like you, but in some oddly strange way I like Eddie and I don’t want him back up on this ladder.” She stopped and dropped her hands to her side with a sigh. “I planned on buying him a new one and anonymously leaving it in the front yard.”
“Nobody likes Eddie.”
“Do you?”
“I love the miserable old man.” Booker smiled. “What exactly is your plan?”
Silence crept around them, softly invaded by the outside wind slapping against the old shaking windows.
“Because my car broke down on the way into town and they’re so busy at the shop that it still isn’t fixed, I can’t load it in the trunk and drive it away,” she said. “So, I plan on carrying the ladder and an axe to the bush to chop it up so badly that even if someone finds it, Eddie won’t be able to piece it together and use it…ever again.”
“That’s surprisingly destructive for you and a lot of unnecessary hard work.”
Her hands flew defensively to her hips. “Do you have a better solution?”
“We could chop it up here, in the warm shed and let your grandmother burn it in her fireplace. We won’t tell her of course…she wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret, but we will put it in her wood pile and she’ll think it’s her wood.”
Cheyenne’s eyebrows knitted together just below the rim of her hat, her full pink lips puckered together and curled the slightest upwards. “That is not in the holiday spirit,” she said, but he could see she enjoyed the plan. “Practically aiding them on,” she added, her smile rising. “Okay. We’ll go with your plan.”
“Good. Let me grab my jacket and a pair of gloves.” He paused at the door on his way out. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
“I’m literally staying next to you. Besides, you’re the one who runs away when things get tough.”
Ouch. But it was the truth.
Booker wasn’t convinced she would stay put and didn’t want her wondering around in a bush at this late hour in another snow storm. Quickly, he darted back into the house, grabbing a hat, too.
***
CHEYENNE WAS NOT waiting around for Booker to return. Sitting next to him during dinner had been difficult enough to endure. Not sliding her hand under the table and onto his lap like they’d done a million times during meals had been insufferable. She couldn’t look at him without missing the feel of him and then that kiss in the kitchen. That wildly hot, delicious tasting kiss that reminded her of what she was missing.
Now he wanted her to watch him in action? Chopping wood like a lumberjack would defeat her restraint. Absolutely not. She would cave. He’d walked out on her reminding her that her heart was better off alone where no one had the access or ability to inflict pain on her. But she wanted him, oh, how she longed for him. Day and night, from the moment he’d left, she’d wished she’d told him the truth, even knowing deep down if she’d faced the same situation with him again, she wouldn’t hesitate when it came time to deny her past.
I’m stronger than my weak mother and her pathetic men. I don’t need a man, especially one who has the ability to hurt me.
Weak women equaled reckless thoughts. Following through on a promise she’d forgotten when she allowed Booker into her heart, never to let her emotions overtake her good sense, Cheyenne now scrambled to center the ladder in the small area of the shed.
As her hunt for the axe began, her eyes darted out the frosted windows at Eddie’s back door and back inside the shed until she spotted the axe hanging on the wall.
Ah-hah!
Still no sign of Booker. A pleased snicker danced in her chest. Ambition lifted the axe in the air, and she breathed triumph, but mid-swing she paused, leaving the axe suspended above her.
Eyeing the condition of the ladder she decided an axe unnecessary to do the job.
She rested the ladder against a workbench.
Stabilizing her footing, she lifted her leg and plunged down through the first step. The wood groaned, splitting in the center and creating a jagged wood edge her grandmother would question.
Shoot.
Directing her next kick at the sides of the step, she broke each section free before moving onto the step above. Each blow drove harder than the last, her hands fisting at her side, her anger at Booker multiplying, a rage looming inside her at her inability to move on from him.
Was it normal to have feelings for a man who could walk away without a word? Miss him? Want him?
The steps rose higher, as did Cheyenne’s leg, kicking further up, up, up. When the remaining steps were above her reach, she grabbed the ladder and started swinging.
Coming to Willow Valley had turned into a Christmas circus and she and Booker were the main attraction.
Infuriating. Mortifying.
Her last swing landed awkwardly. The frame of the ladder shifted, the bare wood boards sliding sideways, and breaking free from the top step. The wood came crumbling on top of her.
Cheyenne hands flying above her head to protect damage from the collapsing ladder. The shed echoed thunderous crashing sounds around her petrified screams.
“Cheyenne!”
Booker didn’t make it to her before a wood board slammed against her, shooting pain up her back. Her legs buckled, sending her knees scraping against the cement floor. One hand reached to steady her fall, and a board whacked her head so hard she saw stars. For a brief moment, she thought she might pass out. Her body swayed. Her eyes drooped shut as she combated the instant pain pooling in her head while struggling to settle her spinning stomach.
It all happened so fast and left Cheyenne curled in a ball shielding herself from further injury.
She felt Booker moving the wood off her, but couldn’t face him. Not yet.
Humiliating.
She stilled as his hand touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?” His husky whisper soothed her.
Shoot. No.
The whack to her head was like an eye opener. Exhaustion from months of fighting her longing emotions for him and now seeing him every day had taken their toll on her.
Cheyenne’s deep breaths didn’t give her the strength she’d hoped for, but she looked at him anyway. Hunched down beside her, real concern danced across the angles of his beautiful face.
His fingers gripped her chin and moved her eyes to give his better access to look at her. “Cheyenne, are you okay?” he repeated.
“Please don’t ask something you don’t actually care to know.” She tugged her face away.
Booker yanked her face back, his eyes dar
kening like they always did with his emotions. “Do you think my feelings for you just turned off after I saw the report? After I left?” She wished he’d sounded angry or spiteful instead of…sad. “What do you think happened in that kitchen tonight? I can’t get you out of my thoughts. No matter what I do, or where I go, I hear your laughter, I see your smile and all I want is to hear your voice.”
“You don’t trust people and truthfully, neither do I, which makes us both unable to do whatever this is.” She waved her hands between them. “Don’t make it more difficult than it already is. You walked away. Stick to you plan and please move.”
His tapered eyes battled something inside him.
What? His feeling for her? Anger?
She didn’t want to know, and was grateful when he finally started to move away. She needed the space to breathe fresh air and not the pine scent that made her wild for him.
He stopped.
No.
His warm fingers grazed her forehead, pushing her hair aside.
Her breath caught in her chest, hovering there, waiting and wondering what he would do next. Lean in and kiss her again? Soft like the many nights he kissed her before they fell asleep in each other’s arms? Or hard like the days when they hadn’t seen enough of each other and finally had gotten a free moment? She wanted it all and none at the same time.
Weak Cheyenne. You’re mother’s gene’s are popping up like nasty weeds.
Her mouth parted, letting her tongue escape to dart across her lips. Her middle warmed and tingled. She’d swear she leaned in a bit, positive her eyelids shut in anticipation.
His thumb traced her hairline sending goose bumps over her skin. His touch was electrically charged, her skin absorbing the voltage. Without warning, pain jerked her back to the present, breaking the spell-binding haze she’d fallen into.
“You’re cut,” he said.
Humiliation intoxicated her. She’d practically thrown herself at him and he’d bent down to examine a cut.
Kill me now. Please. Strike me dead. Or at least send another chunk of wood to officially knock me out cold.
Nothing came.
Great.
Before she could say she was okay, the godforsaken words would not produce themselves, the flashlight from Booker’s phone blinded her.
Closing her eyes, Cheyenne groaned. “Stop. What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out if you need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
I need a shovel to bury myself.
“It’s pretty deep,” he said, so close his warm breath kissed her face.
So is my hole of shame.
“I doubt it,” she muttered, closing her eyes to stop staring at his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat. Her mouth watered at the casual action.
“I can’t tell,” he said, his fingers magically taking the pain away with each movement and stroke. “You need to wash it and let me look. The emergency room is open—”
Cheyenne’s eyes flew open and she jerked away from him, falling flat on her rear end. She wasn’t going back there. Ever. She couldn’t face the inside of Willow Valley’s hospital and the nurses and doctors who had saved her all those years ago. She should be grateful, but disgrace seized the position. She wouldn’t go back. Not tonight. Not ever.
Booker leaned back on his feet, his legs still bent to her level, watching her, analyzing her.
She climbed to her feet, stepping on the opposite side of the broken ladder. “Are we doing this or not?” Her tone left no room for further debate about her wound.
Booker stood, brushing his pants off before pulling his gloves on. He gave her one last curious look, the reporter in him always digging for a story, one she would never give him, before he began chopping.
Cheyenne stood back, now fully aware of her stinging wound and curious how deep the cut, but didn’t dare move to look.
They worked in silence. The tension was thicker than the snowflakes on the walk to Millie’s back door. Booker chopped the wood and Cheyenne piled the pieces into the wheelbarrow. Afterwards, they stacked the wood inside Millie’s closed-in back porch.
Booker offered to carry an armful to the fireplace inside and Cheyenne declined, tiredness consuming her pounding head.
She discovered his request hadn’t been a question. Leaving his boots at the back door, he filled the log holder to its max, adding a couple pieces to roar the dwindling fire back to life, just like his presence did to Cheyenne’s insides.
Sitting on the sofa, she curled her legs beneath her and watched Booker with wary eyes.
What was his angle? Was he curious about why the mention of a hospital sent her into a panic? He might as well put his boots back on and stay on the Banks’ side of this house, because he could never pry that answer out of her.
Her eyes grew drowsy and she blinked rapidly, watching Booker as he finished. She wished he would leave so she could close her eyes and drift into the sleep beckoning her.
Finally, when Booker disappeared into the kitchen, she let her eyelids close for a rest. Besides being physically beat after a long day, her mind was beyond mentally pooped. Booker could show himself out, after all, he’d shown himself in.
She let sleep take her away, into a dream world easier than her current life. Besides, in a dream world, she could spend time with Booker without feeling fragile, weak…pathetic.
Chapter Eight
BOOKER RUMMAGED THE bathroom cupboard for first aid ointment, a bandage and a washcloth. After dampening the washcloth, he caught sight of his troubled reflection in the mirror. He had dark circles around his sunken eyes.
He looked like death.
Discarding the supplies on the counter, he splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing his hands over his tight features, and then moving down the tense muscles of his neck. He leaned over the sink, needing to calm down before going back into the living room.
She is okay. Nothing a little cleaning and bandage won’t fix.
The ladder collapsing on Cheyenne had scared the shit out of him, but that wasn’t the only culprit driving his nerves wild now. Her attempt to conceal the moment of panic that had flickered across her face at the mention of a hospital, only revved his curiosity. And “panic” didn’t justify the severity of fear she’d accidentally exposed to him. It was a familiar fear, the same as the day back in her office when he’d found the note. Were the two related? Or was there more? He had the feeling she was still hiding something.
Booker’s insides felt like a ticking time bomb on the edge of explosion. A need to protect her consumed him, unlike any other he’d ever felt for another person. A need to know what had nothing to do with his journalistic side. He could have demanded a straight answer, but he knew it would have wedged more distance between them…if that was possible.
Booker wished it was as simple as a dislike of hospitals, doctors or needles. But a bitter feeling inside told him there was another story lingering deep in Cheyenne. One he didn’t dare touch, or have a right to inquire…not anymore.
Taking a deep breath, he gathered the materials, readying himself for her instant argument, and headed across the hall into the dining room. He paused under the living room archway and his heart skipped a beat.
He felt the shift in his body move from worry to affection and he couldn’t rid it no matter how betrayed he might feel. How did she do that without a word? The mere sight of her brought a rush of emotions he would rather dismiss from his memory.
Looking comfortably snuggled in a sitting position at the far end of the couch, her legs tucked tightly underneath her, and her mouth slightly dropped open—she’d fallen fast asleep. She didn’t hear him or sense his presence. One of her favorite oversized knitted sweaters hid all her sexy curves.
His fingers itched with desire to stroke her bare skin beneath the sweater, unable to forget the nights when he had. She had fit into his arms like the missing puzzle piece of his life, filling an empty void he hadn’t thought
could be satisfied.
Tonight, trying to prevent Eddie from climbing his old ladder again, was another example of Cheyenne’s acts of selflessness, the part of her he’d fallen in love with. Love was messy, complicated, hard and usually sent him running in the opposite direction. Cheyenne was the only woman he regretted running from.
Booker sat down on the edge of the couch beside her. She didn’t stir and Booker wondered about a concussion. Gently he touched her shoulder. “Cheyenne,” he whispered.
Her forehead scrunched, creasing her eyebrows together. “Ouch,” she said, reaching for her cut.
Booker caught her hand. “Let me look at.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She stared at him, perhaps thinking about his suggestion. Her eyes glanced at his supplies sitting on the coffee table and she said, “I thought you went home.” She tugged her arm free to clasp her hands together on her lap.
Slowly, he pushed her hair aside, trying to avoid direct contact with her skin. Dried blood clumped at her hair line as his finger automatically traced around the wound. “How do you feel?” he asked, more concerned about a concussion.
“Fine.”
“Tired?”
“Why?” His low, amused chuckle made her lips tighten in annoyance. “Yes,” she said.
Using the damp washcloth, he gently rubbed the area around her cut, blotting the blood away to examine the wound thoroughly. Outside, it hadn’t looked deep enough for stitches. Not having to worry about taking her to the hospital only left more room to fret over her reaction at his mention of the hospital. He wanted to ask, but he anticipated a run around answer.
“Hold this.” Booker positioned her hand holding her hair in place while he reached for the ointment and bandage. “You could have a concussion.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Have Millie or Lily wake you up throughout the night.” He squeezed a glob of clear goop onto his finger.
“I’ll set a timer,” she said, wincing and jerking away as he blotted the area. “It’s cold.”
“If you have a concussion, how do you suppose you’re going to wake up to your own alarm?” he asked.
