by Zoe Dawson
His voice was gruff when he said, “No! I would never ever give up on him. I’m talking about therapy.”
Trace rubbed at his tired eyes, anger still spiking. “You know the VA list is a mile long, and we’ll have to come up with something financially creative to send him somewhere on our own. I’m going to have to think about it. The garage has been declining in profit over the last year and a half.”
Reese leaned back against the doorframe. “I can get a ranch job or something else to help. I don’t mind working another job. Whatever it takes.”
“You already work hard enough,” Trace said.
“We both do.” He clasped Trace around the back of the neck. “I know why you won’t even discuss this. It’s your guilt. You’re not responsible for his actions. That kid always had a mind of his own. You know what he was like, a freaking Boy Scout, couldn’t stand any hurt or stray animal, took that Hudson kid under his wing. He’s a protector and warrior. Nothing you can do about it.”
“Maybe, but we stand by him.”
“One hundred percent. I’m not arguing that. I’m just being realistic and telling you what I think. It’s the best thing for him, Trace. If we do nothing, we run the risk of Harley becoming even more unstable, getting suicidal, or going off the grid. Guys like him end up muttering to themselves, living in their filth, and homeless. I won’t see that happen to my little brother, if I have to work ten jobs.”
“Then why does it sound like we’re abandoning him?”
“Trace…listen—”
“This isn’t about me, Reese.” He pushed back those damn memories of a laughing, carefree Harley when he’d taught his brother to play baseball. Only a few years later, he was coaching softball. Making an impact in young girls’ lives. Now there was darkness, fear, guilt, and pain in those eyes, the laughter gone, his brother hollowed out. Trace wasn’t sure how to fix it. Maybe it wasn’t up to him, and that scared him even more.
—
In the bathroom, Trace stripped down. He was blatantly avoiding his brother’s advice. Harley would be better at home. He would get well. It had only been a week, and that wasn’t enough time for Harley to even get fully healed. What had happened in Afghanistan was laid out for him in black and white, but to Harley, he’d lived it, and something about the whole harrowing incident had lodged deep inside him and wouldn’t let go. It was the only combat experience he kept reliving. The death of Brian Harris, his best friend.
Harley wouldn’t talk about it though. He was tight-lipped and angry whenever Trace tried to suggest it. His kid brother had taken on twelve insurgents and killed them all, even after having been tortured, starved, and dehydrated. His kid brother was getting a medal for saving the base and the marines on it.
He set the water and got under the spray, washing off all the dirt, sweat, and grime from the grueling day, scrubbing at his fingernails with a brush he kept in the shower to get the muck out from under them.
His thoughts went unerringly to Rafferty Hamilton. What a name. Sounded as hoity-toity as she looked. Maybe he was typecasting her, but that made it easier somehow to keep his own interest in check.
He was dismayed when he’d talked to the British guy over the phone and he’d sent the schematics to Trace’s laptop. After he’d looked at those and got the lay of the engine, it wasn’t long before he’d discovered the problem. Transmission. It couldn’t just be a damn radiator hose or a bad battery. He could have had her up and running in hours. Now she was going to be here for at least a week, maybe two.
Well, she was out of his sight for the night, anyway.
After drying off, he donned a pair of soft gray sweatpants, white stripes down the sides, tapering down to his ankles. He had to cinch them a little tighter at the waist. Harley wasn’t the only one who’d lost weight. His chest and feet bare, food was the only thing on his mind. He towel-dried his hair as he approached the kitchen. The aroma of freshly baked cupcakes wafted to him, setting his stomach a-grumbling. When did Reese have time to…He stopped as he rounded the corner and saw Rafferty standing at the counter removing cupcakes from the pan.
He grasped the towel around his neck with both hands and said, “What are you doing here?”
She turned at the sound of his voice coming out harsher than he intended. He chalked that up to fatigue. He was struck again at how expensive she looked. Reminded him much too much of his wayward and coldhearted mother. His mom, before she left them for good, had that same kind of look about her. That she didn’t belong with some mechanic in the middle of nowhere. Altogether, that made the grease on him seem dirtier somehow.
She hadn’t let his dad forget that, either. It had broken his old man, and Trace was determined that would never happen to him. He was all surface and no substance with women. That’s why they paraded through his garage like a beauty pageant lineup.
Rafferty Hamilton was, unfortunately, different from anyone he’d ever met. She, for one, was under his skin already, and the lingering look she threw him didn’t help.
She knew how to handle herself and he had to say he liked that about her. His mother wouldn’t have ever gotten her hands dirty, never thought to pick up the slack when it was needed. Yet, here she was baking for an almost stranger.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said with a growl and closed the distance between them. She popped in the paper cups and started filling them with batter. “One more batch and you’re set. They just have to be frosted.”
She didn’t just have New York City written all over her, it was Upper East Side Manhattan if he was any judge of her designer everything. That car out in his bay was valued at more than his whole net worth.
From the moment this bombshell had stepped out of her ridiculous car, his whole body and mind had been on red alert. He’d seen some boots in his time, but they were usually Western and either working boots or dancing ones. Those high-heeled boots she wore were elegant, encased a delicate foot, the tops accentuating some nice, slender calves, changing the terrain from red suede to tight blue denim. He’d seen plenty of jeans, but nothing like the ones that gloved her legs and backside, all of it hitting him where it hurt. The simple navy blue top did nothing to hide the most dangerous set of curves Trace had ever seen since…since he didn’t remember when. She’d shucked the pretty coat, hung it on a peg near his black hat and Reese’s jacket like she was part of his family.
He blew out a breath. No woman like that had ever been happy here.
He had to wonder if that is how his dad got roped in by his mom.
Had he been blindsided by a set of blue eyes that looked lit from within?
She was beautiful, but she didn’t flaunt it or use it. Her delicate features enticed him to want to get a better look, lean closer, get all up in her grill. His gut told him that she was the most dangerous female he’d ever met. Maybe that was what had called to him about her all along. That, despite appearances to the contrary, something wasn’t what it seemed with Rafferty Hamilton. It was disconcerting for a man who’d always found it easy to dismiss any woman.
She was take-charge, had a high-powered job, as he sensed she wasn’t of the trophy-wife variety.
Sure, there was no doubt he was attracted and it was difficult not to flirt with her all day. He liked playing the slow-pokin’ brawny hick. But he was uncomfortable that she had been privy to his family’s private business. To Harley’s pain and instability. That hit too close to Trace’s personal life. Way too close.
“Why didn’t you head back with Dr. Hudson?”
“She didn’t offer and I…wanted to do something. Cadie needs these for tomorrow.”
“I can bake cupcakes. I’ve been doing it most of her life. I can handle this.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it. I’m just pitching in. To help.” She just kept filling the wells in the tin.
“I reckon you’d have your own pitching-in-type people to do that for you.” He grinned his good ol’ boy grin, waving his hand, realizing that he
was being an a-hole. It was partly fatigue making him contrary, being hollowed out, worry over his brother. All that lowered his defenses, and, with her, he needed the barrier. That part was annoying because he liked this woman and he didn’t really want to. Trace, the charming a-hole, was a better choice. Of course, she was here for only two weeks, until her car was fixed. There was no danger of getting too involved with her.
She returned his grin with a tight smile. “You helped me with my car. To be completely honest, I like your sister’s spunk and, man, she can cook.”
“You’re paying me for that. It’s a job. This isn’t your job,” he said flatly.
“I like to cook.”
He snapped a little, turning reckless, not enjoying the sensual freight train that had run over him at light speed from the moment he’d met her.
“Do you?” he drawled, his tone patronizing. “You rustle up your grub in your fancy apartment with your fancy stove with those pretty hands?” He meant to sound very sure of himself and impertinent. The little lady was pushing buttons no woman had ever pushed, and that made him want to push back.
She turned again and this time he saw the corporate executive: cool, calm, collected, and tough. He welcomed it. He didn’t want her soft, patronizing him.
“You’re laying the cowboy on a little thick.”
That forced a quick, unexpected laugh out of him. She had some sass. “Am I, ma’am?”
She quirked her brow at the ma’am and huffed out her own laugh, cute as all get out. Using a look that would probably have cowed a lesser man.
“You getting back at me for that shotgun-in-your-truck thing?”
At his blank look, she continued. “You know. Stereotyping. It’s not flattering and often very untrue.”
He walked to the back door and sent the towel around his neck into the laundry room, hitting the basket near the washer. Then he was back, sidling up behind her, bracing his hands on either side of her. “I guess you’re used to ordering people around.” He leaned in, which was his first mistake. His second was to breathe anywhere around her. The exotic scent of her gut-punched him, but she turned at his up-close-and-personal proximity. She was so striking, her skin like satin, the curve of her nose elegant, her cheeks flushed with the heat, her mascara melting a bit, giving her a sultry, woman-coming-undone look. Her move brought him face-to-face with the most downright gorgeous eyes, thick-lashed and luminous, blue shot through with light blue swirls, the outer circles rimmed in navy, reminding him of breaking waves.
They locked gazes and his intimidation plan backfired and sent heat scalding all over him, stunning him, making him feel like a nineteen-year-old instead of a seasoned, been-around-the-block-a-few-times man.
“Maybe you should get something to eat. I haven’t seen you even take a break today. With all your customers, you’ve been so busy.”
That wasn’t the only dig she threw his way. She elbowed him in the ribs just hard enough to make him take a step back. And, damned if she didn’t make him laugh again.
“I bet Mrs. O’Neal’s stew and a nice hunk of that French bread your brother brought back from the market would taste good.”
Oh, he knew what would taste good about now, as his eyes involuntarily dropped to her lips. She wet them and he took a breath and acquiesced. He grabbed a bowl, using his wrist against her hip to push her out of the way and snag a spoon out of the silverware drawer. She jumped to the side as if she’d been burned.
As he set the bowl on the counter and went to the fridge, she pulled open the oven and set the tin inside.
“After you finish eating, you can help me frost,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“I even got little sprinkles,” Reese said as he rounded the corner. Trace reached for another bowl and spoon. He frowned at Trace, saying under his breath, “I’ll get this. Go put a shirt on for God sake, stud. There’s a lady present.”
In his room, he donned a gray-and-black two-toned long-sleeved T-shirt, pushing up the sleeves. On his way back to the kitchen with the enticing aroma of Mrs. O’Neal’s stew, he poked his head into Harley’s room. He was sleeping soundly, his breathing even and deep, but he’d pushed off the covers. Trace slipped in and covered him up and he didn’t stir. He stood there for a moment, his throat thick.
Back in the kitchen, Reese was laughing at something Rafferty had just said. They were frosting the cupcakes, and Trace got an unexpected twinge of anger at his brother. What did he think he was doing?
The microwave beeped and Trace got both bowls out and on the counter. “Grab the bread, stud.”
Reese gave him a quick look and a sheepish smile. Rafferty just kept frosting. Damn, if she wasn’t getting further under his skin.
By the time he’d finished inhaling two helpings of the delicious, hearty stew and a piece of apple pie, the second batch of cupcakes was done. While she removed them, he rinsed his dishes and placed them in the dishwasher.
“Let’s go, princess,” he said. “I’ll take you over to Dr. Hudson’s.”
“If I asked you to call me Rafferty, would that be too bossy?”
He rolled his eyes and grabbed his hat, smoothing back his hair to set it on his head. He shrugged into his coat. Unable to help himself, he removed her coat from the peg and held it while she slipped into it, the wool soft against his hands. Cashmere. The woman beneath it warm to the touch.
They stopped by the dark and quiet garage to pick up her luggage, and he carried two cases while she rolled the largest one over the cracked sidewalk.
They passed the general store and he took her around back where the Hudsons accepted their friends and guests. He knocked, his breath fogging the air.
As they waited, she said, “I didn’t mean to step all over your toes, Trace.”
“I’ve got things covered, Commander Princess.”
Her brows rose. “Commander Princess?”
“Yeah, some Patton and a whole lot of royalty. I took orders in the marines, but I’m not in the marines anymore.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I’m sure you do have everything covered. It’s just that…”
“It’s all good.” He cut her off. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. It was hard enough to hear it from his brother. He was saved when the door opened.
“Oh, I was just about to go over to your house. Anzu just told me about offering a room. Hello, we met briefly, I’m Eden.”
“It’s good of you to take me in. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.”
“Of course, you’re welcome.” She ushered them in out of the cold, and she waved to Trace. “Take her bags upstairs.” As he walked away, she said, “Can I get you anything?”
“A cup of coffee would be fabulous.”
He felt a twinge. He’d totally ignored her needs, and it wasn’t how he was raised or the way the people of Laurel Falls treated visitors. He had been mired in his crap. It was something he regretted, but it was for the best. Let her think he was some kind of a crass hick.
As he passed Anzu’s room, he stopped when he saw the light under her door. He knocked, but there was no answer. His heart broke for the kid.
He went back downstairs and popped his head into the kitchen. “I’ll be heading out.”
“Trace, won’t you have a cup of coffee?”
“No, I can’t. I gotta get back. Have a good night.” He tipped his hat to Eden and purposely avoided Rafferty’s eyes.
Back home, Cadie was in the kitchen, and he was relieved to see that she had heeded his orders and changed her skirt. She was frosting the last of the cooled cupcakes.
“How was your night?” he asked, and she gave him a blinding grin.
“I had a phenomenal night.” She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “The tips were good, but I got a hefty one from that fancy city woman, Rafferty. She said I was a great cook and gave me a hundred dollars.”
Cadie was elated, giving him a knee-jerk reaction.
Did Rafferty think his family was some kind of charity?
—
“Your room’s in here,” Eden said. She closed her eyes, fighting for calm, remembering how he had smelled all shower-fresh good when he’d pressed against her. A little pushy and high-handed, but she got it. He was defensive about his family and she couldn’t help but admire that. No one, not in such a short amount of time, had ever made her react like that. She was reserved. She remained calm in the face of adversity. But there was something…something intensely arousing about Trace in both a sexual and nonsexual way.
She’d spent the day seeing his character, from the way he treated the townsfolk to the way he’d handled that heart-wrenching incident with his brother. It was like he was two different men. His brother, who obviously had severe combat stress, had twisted her up, wrenched her emotions, and she had wanted to do something to help them. Anything. Baking cupcakes was such a small thing, but it was clear that Trace didn’t want her inside. Her heart was raw with the pain and full of compassion for the way he had handled his lost brother. There was a story there, but she wasn’t going to be here long enough to hear it. She had to get some perspective.
“He can shake up a nun,” Eden said, setting her hand on Rafferty’s arm and drawing her inside the room.
Rafferty laughed. “I bet, but I’m no nun.” A Commander Princess, though, she thought with amusement. She liked that.
Eden chuckled. “I’m guessing that Trace is glad about that, too.”
She blushed, but sidestepped the comment. “He’s the rock of that family, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. No doubt you witnessed what happened to my daughter.”
“Yes, I did. That must be hard on her. I don’t have any siblings, but I can imagine what it must be like to…see someone in pain like that.”
The room she entered had a definite hominess about it that Rafferty liked right away. She was used to expensive hotel rooms and posh apartments, but the room felt immediately comfortable. All the woodwork around the windows and doors was oak, the color darkened to a deep mahogany shade by repeated varnishing. The window ledges were wide and old-fashioned, one with a beautiful window seat with a comfortable pad and filled with throw pillows, the curtains airy lace with sturdy blinds. The windows looked out to the back where the dark outlines of the mountains towered, limned in white moonlight. A big, overstuffed chair upholstered in a cheery blue sat near one of the windows. The glossy plank and peg wood floor was covered with colorful hand-braided rag rugs.
