Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3)

by Alison Kent

  “I’ll bet Faith’s happy Casper’s done with breaking horses,” Everly said, reaching again for her drink.

  “Yeah, well, until Casper’s hand gets put back together, he’s done with a lot of what he used to do.”

  Everly had heard gossip about Casper needing surgery, and Arwen’s tone left no doubt as to her feelings about his recent reckless behavior. “I wondered about that, how he was faring. Is that making things harder for Boone and Dax?”

  “They’ve got Diego Cruz on full-time now. I think Faith’s helping out with his salary, though I can’t say for sure. Her way of covering Casper’s part of his partnership deal with the other two, I imagine. And that with her having quit the bank.”

  “You girls are awesome,” Everly said, blowing out an envious sigh. “Doing for your men like that.”

  “With all they do for us? I can’t imagine not doing for them.” Arwen replaced the damp napkin beneath Everly’s drink. “Well, for Dax. Casper’s all Faith’s. I love him as a friend, but he’s way too much for me to handle.”

  Everly looked down, toyed with the stem of her glass. She’d never had what her friends had. In fact, she’d had such an opposite experience with her one and only serious relationship that she’d sworn off men for years, wondering if she’d ever want to risk her heart again. Or risk her emotions, her body, her mind.

  “Ev? You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m just so happy for you and Faith. And I feel like a fifth wheel these days at lunch. I may have to start eating at the store with Kendall,” she said, laughing at the look on Arwen’s face.

  “I wish Kendall could afford to take an hour once a week and come eat with us.” Then she lifted a scolding finger. “And if you even think about not showing up tomorrow, I’m going to come to the paper and hunt you down.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be here,” she said, loving that her move to Crow Hill had brought her such very good friends—a bit of a surprise in such a small town, one populated primarily with crusty retirees and equally crusty landowners running ever-dwindling herds of cattle. She followed the other woman’s gaze, Arwen turning to take in Boone Mitchell as he approached.

  “Arwen. Everly.” He nodded to both of them, neither their masks nor his fooling anyone. In fact, Everly hadn’t seen a mask tonight that did. A good lead-in to her story perhaps . . . Even their masks couldn’t hide the identities of the generous library patrons determined to make up for the county’s recent funding cuts brought on by the region’s economic blight.

  “Hey, Boone,” Arwen said, one eyebrow arched. “You ride in tonight on a horse?”

  “Almost,” he said, reaching for the designer beer she handed him. “Blame Faith. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I don’t fit in Casper’s clothes.”

  “Uh, I’m not even going to ask,” Arwen said, laughing and tearing off his drink ticket when he offered her the long strip. She nodded toward his bounty. “Thanks for the donation.”

  “This is Faith, too. I can’t afford a pot to piss in,” he said, then looked from one woman to the other. “Sorry about that. I’m not used to having to watch what comes out of my mouth since I’m usually talking to cows.”

  Arwen reached out to pat his free hand where it rested on the bar. “You’re in character. Don’t apologize.”

  He pulled his hand from beneath hers and jerked off his hat, tugging off his black silk mask, then settling his hat back in place. “Criminy but that thing was making it impossible to breathe.”

  And now Everly was the one who couldn’t catch her breath. She’d known Faith in college, but had never met the other woman’s brother until he’d returned to Crow Hill several months ago. She had seen him in passing, at a distance, in a group where she was usually engaged in conversation while he hugged the edge of the room and scowled.

  Up close, he was intimidating. His size, his bearing, his swagger and attitude, and all the things that made him male. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, the sheen of dried sweat there, the beard stubble dark on his chin and jaw, watched him backhand his wrist across his mouth when done, his gaze catching hers and burning.

  She smiled, feeling awkward, and reached for her drink, holding the glass in one hand, fingering her straw with the other. He made her nervous, but it was a nervousness drawn from deep in her belly, a nervousness not of fear or of dread but of unexpected desire.

  It had been so long since she’d felt that sort of primal pull that she closed her eyes and let it consume her, giving in and imagining Boone’s powerful body bare between her legs. Which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to be thinking, because she could feel his heat radiating at her side, and smell the earthy musk of his skin, and oh, but she loved the tingling at her nape, and the tightening of her breasts, and the tickles of pleasure making her wet.

  Arwen picked that moment to break into Everly’s longing. “Do you need another drink before I get back to work? Boone, another beer?”

  “I’m good,” he said, and Everly nodded the same.

  “Okay, then. You two have fun,” the other woman said as she headed through the swinging doors into the saloon’s kitchen, leaving Everly and Boone to deal with the silence enveloping their tiny little space in the very large room.

  Her hands twisted together in her schoolmarm lap, Everly raised her gaze to Boone’s. His longneck was back at his mouth, his eyes still bright as his gaze held hers. She didn’t think he was drunk. At least not too. And she had nothing against drinking. What she did have was too much experience with the liberties taken by those who couldn’t help but let alcohol win.

  She took a deep breath, looking for something to say, but before she found anything that wouldn’t get them into trouble, Boone did that for her by asking, “Would you like to dance?”

  TWO

  “SURE,” SHE SAID, looking down at her skirt before looking back at him, her eyes big and brown, with lashes like a calf’s, or bristles on a broom, or a paintbrush. “But only if you promise not to step on this ridiculous dress.”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” he said, leaving his beer on the bar and offering her his hand. He liked her dress. Liked the buttons straining to hold the front of it closed. He wanted to pop them open, to get rid of her bra, to bury his face between her tits and taste her. She squeezed her fingers around his and he wondered how his calluses felt against her palm, if she’d mind them scraping down her belly. “It’s just long.”

  “Ridiculously long,” she said as he spun her into his arms, her steps kept short by the length of the skirt. She slid her hand from his biceps to his shoulder and held him tight. “I had it in the closet—don’t ask—and thought since I was working tonight, it would be more appropriate than . . .”

  “What Arwen’s wearing?” he asked, though he’d done his best not to notice the other woman’s assets too closely. He couldn’t deny that he’d like to see Everly in the same getup, her tits straining against the laces tying them in place.

  She nodded. “Or what your sister’s got on, though having Casper or Dax hovering might drive me insane.”

  No hovering. He’d remember that. “What did you mean, you’re working tonight?”

  Her laughter punched him in the middle of his chest. “Well, I’m not a working girl, if that’s what you’re asking, though the dress should’ve been a giveaway.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I know,” she said before he could get out the rest of his apology. “I tend to babble when I’m nervous.”

  “Are you nervous?” he asked, wondering if he was doing something wrong, or if he was doing everything right. He liked the idea that he might be. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “It’s complicated.” Her hand at his shoulder slid to his neck. Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair. “Just know I don’t mind that you do.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say to that, but since she wasn’t letting nerves keep her from pressing against him, he moved his hand
farther down her back to the swell of her bottom and kept it there, pushing against her when his touch brought up the corner of her mouth. “So. You work at the Reporter?”

  “I do,” she said with a nod. “I’ve been there about four years.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You knew Faith at school.”

  Another nod. “Finance track for her, journalism for me.” She stopped as if considering how much she should say, and he figured she probably knew about the trouble Faith ran into while there. But she seemed to shake it off, getting back to his question. “It’s not quite as challenging, or as exhausting, as my previous job, but it keeps me busy. Keeps me entertained. Lots of human interest news ’round these here parts.”

  Her exaggerated drawl had him chuckling. “What did you do before?”

  “I worked at KXAN in Austin.”

  “Yeah? That’s pretty big stuff.”

  “Maybe. But I like it here, not being recognized everywhere I go. Not being recognized for being on TV, I mean,” she amended. “Because everyone knows everyone else ’round these here parts.”

  He was having trouble getting a read on her. She liked it here, so was she laughing at herself? He didn’t think she was making fun of small-town life. Not smart to be shitting where one ate. “You’re right. Everyone does. Made it kinda dicey when the boys and I came back. Never knew who we’d run into that might still be holding a grudge.”

  “Did you get a lot of that?

  “Less than I thought,” he said, though he couldn’t speak for Casper or Dax with much authority. He was still waiting for the Big One to land in his lap with the stink of a fresh cow pie. And if he were a bettin’ man, he’d lay odds the shit would arrive courtesy of Les Upton. “Guess time does heal all wounds.”

  She dropped her gaze from his, looked out at the crowd without seeming to really see anyone. And then she finally said, “Some wounds,” leaving Boone to figure he’d scratched open a raw spot.

  He slid his low-riding hand up to the small of her back, not wanting to take advantage. “Sorry ’bout that. Didn’t mean to cause you any upset there.”

  “You didn’t,” she said, wetting her lips as she returned her attention to him. “We all have them, I guess.”

  “Wounds? Yeah, I imagine so.”

  “And you didn’t have to move your hand.”

  “Okay,” he said, and put it back, squeezing just a little and feeling a jolt in his balls when she smiled.

  They finished out the dance without saying anything more. Boone caught his sister’s gaze a couple of times, but ignored the look she was giving him. He couldn’t decipher it anyway. He’d had one too many beers for doing any deciphering. Besides, his dancing with one of her friends was his business—and Everly’s—not Faith’s. And besides again, she’d been the one to make the suggestion back at the house.

  Still, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking his sister had something on her mind, and that something was related to Everly, and it was something he needed to know, most likely dealing with her wounds. ’Course, it could just be that Faith didn’t like seeing his hand on Everly’s ass, but that sure as hell wasn’t her place to decide.

  All too soon the song ended, couples separating, clapping, some making their way back to their tables or to the bar, others staying where they were and waiting for the band to strike up again. Everly stepped out of his arms, kinda reluctantly, he thought, as if maybe she wasn’t sure he wanted her there. Except he couldn’t really imagine her thinking that. Not with the way her nipples had gone hard when she’d told him she didn’t mind his fondling.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he said, wanting to stick around for another, but needing a break before he reached for the hem of her skirt and ripped the fabric to her waist. That was the beer talking. The beer and having her close.

  But it was a thought he couldn’t deny having. And it didn’t stop there. He kept on thinking of where things might go once the dress was out of the way and he could get to her skin. He had a feeling he would love the taste of her skin.

  She reached up then, brushed back some of her long blond hair escaping from the bun thing she’d wound it into on the back of her head. “Thank you for taking pity on me.”

  He frowned. She had to be kidding. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re the first man to ask me without a wife or a girlfriend suggesting it.”

  “I think you’ve got that wrong.” In fact, he knew she did. She might’ve danced with some married guys, and a few who were attached, but she’d danced with others, too, and none of it out of pity. Appreciation was more like it.

  She was fun. She wasn’t on the make. She didn’t give a guy a complex over his two left feet, or give him reason to feel she’d rather not have his hands on her. That part was, in his case anyway, just the opposite. “You’re a great partner.”

  “Well, thank you for that. I’m going to sit at the bar now and make the notes I should’ve been making all this time. Maybe talk to some contributors, get some sound bites. You know. Work stuff,” she said, fiddling with the bow of the silly hat hanging down her back.

  “I’ll walk you on over, then I’m heading out. Morning for us rancher types comes early ’round these here parts.”

  She laughed, and he placed his hand at her back and crossed the room at her side, both of them saying hello to friends who spoke, neither of them stopping for more conversation.

  At the bar, he let her go, and she climbed onto a stool, pulling a small spiral notebook and pen from a pocket in her dress. She clicked the end of the pen, flipped open the notebook’s red cover, jotted down the time and the date. She was ready to get to work and he was hanging around for no reason.

  Unless liking her was a good enough one. He thought it was, but he still needed to go. “Good night then. Good luck with your story. I’ll, uh, see you soon, I guess.”

  “Good night Boone, and thank you.” She clicked her pen off, clicked her pen on, then lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes broadcasting a similar frustration to the one clawing a hole in his gut. “And I hope you do. Because I’d really like that.”

  * * *

  MAKING HER WAY out of the Hellcat Saloon, Everly wasn’t surprised that Arwen had been wrong and she’d been one hundred percent right. Her innocent schoolmarm costume had warded off any and all sexual advances, and most of the nonsexual ones, too. She’d danced with Casper and Dax, and told herself they weren’t pity dances, but she was hard to believe.

  She’d danced with Josh Lasko, who belonged to Dax’s sister, Darcy. They’d had a wonderful time talking about how he’d built out the attic of his family’s feed store into a loft. She had a thing for interior design. But just a thing. No degree. No experience other than outfitting every place she’d ever lived, from her childhood bedroom to the house she now owned in Crow Hill.

  She’d danced with Greg Barrett, the Campbell siblings’ half brother, and his sculpted male-model cheekbones, but there’d been nary a spark. She’d danced with others, too . . . the owner of the local animal shelter, the area’s go-to veterinarian, Coleman Medical Center’s chief of staff. Okay. She’d danced a lot more than she’d realized.

  All the single men on that list were well employed, age appropriate, and drool worthy. But her appreciation for each had been purely aesthetic. There’d been no heat simmering between their bodies when close, no palms dampening, no nipples growing hard. She hadn’t thought about binding any of them to her headboard and climbing on top.

  Hmm. Maybe her post-Toby shields still weren’t ready to come down, she mused, taking off across the asphalt parking lot, the mid-October night still warm. Except that wouldn’t explain wanting to crawl out of her own skin and into Boone Mitchell’s when she’d danced with him.

  Those thoughts . . . Whoa. Kinky and raw and utterly delicious. And having one hand on his shoulder, her breasts crushed to his chest, his belt buckle catching on the fabric of her dress, had only led to others. Ones even more kinky, and so utterly raw her
body responded deliciously at the memory.

  Voices murmuring just ahead had her slowing her steps, the hair at her nape standing on end as she stopped. A male voice, and a female voice, more deep grunts and silly giggles than anything. Obviously she needed to change direction or risk interrupting someone’s dalliance. Not that she was averse to watching. She rather enjoyed watching—something she’d had no opportunity to do since moving, with Faith’s help, to Crow Hill.

  And if that day hadn’t nearly turned her into a basket case . . . The two of them throwing her clothes and shoes, belts, scarves, and purses into big black trash bags, using one carry-on for her jewelry and makeup and toiletries, another for all the appliances she needed to style the vanity that was her hair. Then had come her electronics and their web of cords and chargers she’d never thought she’d untangle.

  But that was it. She’d left the few pieces of furniture she’d picked out to complement Toby’s decor. She’d left all the kitchen gadgets she’d added to his collection, even her beloved espresso machine. She’d left mementos from high school and college and her alphabetical vacations; so far she’d made it up to the Es . . . Ecuador, Egypt, Estonia, Ethiopia. She’d had to leave her piano—she hated leaving her piano—but she had taken the framed photos of family and friends she’d lovingly displayed on top.

  Four years later, those were all still in boxes. Unpacking them meant seeing Toby’s face, his nose red from Africa’s sun, his lips blue from the biting cold in the Andes. Seeing Toby’s face would bring to mind his hands, and his hands would bring to mind her bruises. And those would bring to mind his tears, and his apologies, and the smell of alcohol on his breath, and then the blame.

  She’d blamed herself for staying.

  He’d blamed her for making him hurt her when she stayed.