by Alison Kent
He met her gaze, held her gaze, breathed in and let his fall to the floor. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?” she asked, slowly reaching over to set her mug on the bedside table. Her hand was shaking, her sheets were clean. She spilled anyway, but just a drop. It soaked into the pristine white cotton, staining it. Marking it. A reminder of the moment her life imploded.
“This,” he said, waving his arm to encompass the room. “With you.”
“What with me?” Because he couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. He couldn’t.
“The sex.”
“You don’t want to have sex?”
“I damn well do want to have sex.”
She pressed a fist to the center of her chest. “Then what—”
“We’re going to have a relationship, a real relationship, or we’re done having sex.”
What? “Boone, wait—”
“No, you wait. Here’s the thing.” He came back to the bed, gripped the footboard with both hands and leaned forward. “I want what Dax has with Arwen. I want what Casper has with Faith. Hell, I want what my parents have. I want what Dave Dalton had with Tess,” he said, pushing to stand. “And I want it with you.”
“We have—”
“We have sex. Most of the time when you want it. Where you want it. The way you want it.”
What was he saying? She didn’t know what he was saying. “I thought you liked having sex.”
“I do like having sex. I goddamn love having sex. But there is a hell of a lot more to a relationship than a pussy and a cock, and if you don’t know that—”
“Of course I know that,” she nearly screamed, her voice breaking, tears spilling before she could stop them.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“We agreed—”
“No. We never agreed. I knew you didn’t want a relationship, but we never agreed.”
“So this is it? We’re done? I’m never going to see you again?” How could she go through the rest of her life and never see him again?
“It’s Crow Hill. We’ll see each other. And we can date, hang out, whatever, but I can’t keep doing this,”—he nodded toward her bed, her rumpled sheets that smelled of the both of them, toward her— “losing myself in you, without knowing we’re going somewhere. I’m not your ex, Ev. I’m me. I’m Coach Mitchell’s son, and Faith Mitchell’s brother. I’m a one-third owner of the broke-down Dalton Ranch.”
“I know all of that—”
“Every day . . .” He dropped his gaze to the floor, rubbed a hand over his eyes before jamming his hands to his waist and staring at her, red eyed, wet eyed. “You’re all I think about. I live for you and I breathe for you and I’m pretty sure you have no idea of any of that.”
Her heart stopped beating. Just for a moment, just long enough to let his words sink in. Just long enough for all of what he was saying to find room in her chest to settle. All of it. Every tiny bit. And then she made fists in the covers and pulled them to her breasts, hiding. “You deserve better than me, Boone. I’m . . .”
“Don’t tell me you’re damaged goods. Don’t even say that.”
“I don’t know if I can give you what you want. What you need.” She blinked to clear her eyes, sniffed to clear her nose and her throat, thought nothing Toby had ever done to her hurt as much as this. “I locked so much of myself away after . . . Austin. Self-defense, I guess.”
“I get self-defense, Everly. I’m not a stupid man. But have you once needed those walls with me? Have I ever given you a reason to feel afraid?”
She nodded, and she could tell by the vein at his temple, the tic in his jaw that she had pissed him off, but he waited, letting her have her say. “I’m afraid of disappointing you. Of hurting you. Of not living up to this image of who you think I am, or who you want me to be. Of not being able to give you what you want. Those half-dozen little ranchers—”
“I don’t have to have that—”
“But you want that. Who am I to take away what you want?” She pulled the covers higher, tighter, used them to catch her tears. “I love you, Boone. I could never take away what you want.”
“I want you, Everly. I want you.”
But nothing about loving her when she’d laid her heart on the line. “And I want to believe that. I do believe that. But I don’t think you’re ready for me. For us. As much as you think that you are.”
“What kind of bullshit excuse—”
“He hit me.”
He stilled, stared at her, didn’t so much as blink as anger rushed from his core to deepen the color of the surface of his skin. “What? When?”
She hadn’t want to tell him like this. She hadn’t wanted to tell him at all. “My ex. He hit me. It’s why I left Austin. It’s why I came to Crow Hill. Faith came to my rescue. Found me the house and the job.”
“Everly—”
“This,” she said while she still had the nerve, showing him the scar on her wrist. “I didn’t slip on a melted ice cube and grab for the stove. This was from the prong of his belt buckle.”
“Fucking hell. Everly. I didn’t know.”
“Of course not.” It was called hiding out for a reason. “I didn’t tell you.”
“Why not?” he asked, moving to her bedside and reaching for her hands. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because that’s not the worst of it.”
He closed his eyes, ground his jaw. “What happened?”
She dropped her gaze to his knee where their fingers were wound together. “He liked his sex rough. It was the only way he could get off. And his getting off was all that mattered. If he hurt me while doing it, that was just the price of sex. At least to his way of thinking.”
“Who was this guy? Who the fuck was this guy?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.”
“He hurt you. That matters. It matters to me.”
“I love that you want to defend my honor,” she said, and felt the stirrings of a smile.
“I want to fucking beat his head into the ground. Nothing about that’s honorable.”
She squeezed her fingers around his. “Please know I’m fine. I need you to know I’m fine.”
“The day in bed when I got rough . . . Criminy. You said you liked it.”
“I did like it.”
“How could you like it when—”
“I liked it because it was you,” she said, pulling her hand from his to cup his face, to stroke her thumb over his cheekbone. “But I shouldn’t have put you in that position. To worry—”
“The scarves,” he said, shaking his head. “They weren’t about you getting off, were they? You needed to be sure I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Everly—”
“I want to be with you, Boone. I want so much to be with you. I’m just afraid of the next step.”
He cupped the back of her head, brought her close, his lips pressed to her forehead as he held her, his heart racing, her heart racing, too. “I really gotta go. I’ve got an ass chewing waiting at the ranch for being late.”
“Go. I’m fine.”
He was shaking his head when he got to his feet. “You’re not fine, but I have to. We’ll talk later.”
“Yeah,” she said, wondering as he left her there if they’d ever talk again.
THIRTY-ONE
EVERLY SAT IN the corner booth nearest the bar and the Hellcat Saloon’s kitchen, her laptop open, her notes spread out on the table. She sat there, looking like she was working, pretending like she was working, but doing the same thing she’d been doing all day. Thinking about Boone’s bottom line. About her confession. About his walking out yesterday morning after she’d opened up and bared her soul. That, more than anything, was what she hadn’t been able to reconcile.
Had she expected him to skip work and spend his day with her because of something that had happened over four years ago? Had she expected her revelation to have him cha
nging his mind about the relationship he wanted? Had she expected him to give up his dreams because she’d told him about Toby’s abuse?
What had she thought would happen once she’d revealed the big secret of her past? What? What? What? That they’d continue to have sex? No complications? No commitment? Years and years of what they had now? Of course he’d walked out. He had a life. One he’d said he wanted to share with her.
So why no reaction when she’d told him she loved him? And why in the world had she picked that moment, of all the ones they’d spent together, to tell him how she felt when even now she wasn’t sure the words were true, or a desperate attempt to keep him with her? And how pathetic was that?
“How much time is Whitey giving you on your Dalton Gang piece?” Arwen asked, replacing Everly’s empty wineglass with a full one, her third of the night. “And this is it, or Dax will be driving you home.”
She didn’t want to go home. It was too quiet at home. Too empty. Like the pit of her stomach. Like the center of her chest. “Thanks,” she said, leaving the wine where it was.
“Hey,” Arwen said, sliding into the seat opposite her. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Is it the story?”
Did Boone’s being part of the story count? “No.”
“Is it Boone?”
Because those were the only two choices? Work and her sex life? Lordy, but she needed to get over herself. One of her best friends was worried about her, and she was being wretched.
She reached for her wine, took a swallow, then met Arwen’s concerned gaze. “Can we talk?”
“I thought that’s what we were doing,” the other woman said, tugging at her ponytail to tighten it.
Everly shook her head. “I mean about something I’m having a problem with.”
“Of course, sweetie. Though I’m going to guess your something is really a someone. And since it’s just you and me here and not Faith, I’m going to guess your someone is Boone.”
“I think I screwed up,” she said, and downed more wine.
“With Boone?” When she nodded, Arwen pressed. “How so?”
“He gave me an ultimatum. He doesn’t want to be with me anymore, unless it’s on his terms.”
Arwen sat back, crossed her arms. “That sounds ominous, except knowing Boone, I can’t imagine him having any evil intent.”
“He wants a relationship. Not just sex.” Everly propped her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, rubbing at the ache in her temples. “And if that’s not what I want, then we’re through. Basically, he’s done wasting his time.”
“Is that what he said?” Arwen asked, after Everly’s statement had settled. “Were those his words?”
“No, but they might as well have been,” she said, reaching over to close her laptop and gather her notes.
“Huh. Are you sure he didn’t say he wanted to be with you because he loves you?”
Oh, the irony. “He definitely did not say that.”
Arwen turned in her seat, crossed one leg, swung her foot. “Did you want him to say that? Is that what’s wrong? His terms don’t include him loving you?”
“He didn’t say it,” she said, stacking the papers before clipping them, “but everything else he said makes me think he does. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“Do you love him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, ready to collapse. “I think so.”
“Sweetie, either you do or you don’t.”
She made it sound so simple. “How did you know you loved Dax?”
“How does anyone know they love anyone? You just do. It’s like, even with all the grief they cause you, and grief is a given with the Dalton Gang boys, you’d rather deal with that than deal with the hurt of not having them.”
“I don’t know if what I’m feeling is hurt as much as, well, confusion. I don’t know what he wants from me. But that’s not true either. He wants what Dax has with you. What Casper has with Faith.”
Arwen smiled, a soft, knowing smile that stirred all of what Everly was feeling into a befuddling fog. “That’s about as close to an admission of love as I’ve ever heard the man make.”
“Then why the ultimatum? Why not wait until I’m ready? Why would he want me if I’m not?” Except even as the words left her mouth, she knew that she was. Boone had given her that, allowed her to see that she loved her life, that she loved him, that it was foolish to give her mistake with Toby any more due.
“Let me ask you this,” Arwen said. “Are you using your ex to judge him? Boone? Are you letting some kind of clock tick, tick, tick, thinking he’s going to strike out?”
“No. Oh no.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t for a minute think Boone would hurt me. I’m more worried about hurting him by holding back. I trust him completely, but I don’t trust me. I’m afraid I’ll always be waiting for the other shoe to fall.”
“Maybe that’s what Boone’s sensing. Maybe he’s in whole hog and knows, even without you saying anything, that you’re not.”
“How am I supposed to make him understand?” she asked, pulling her wineglass close.
“You can’t. It’s just like love. Either he does or he doesn’t. There is no ‘make.’”
Everly groaned. “Since when did you start dispensing Star Wars philosophy?”
“Look at it this way,” Arwen said, ignoring her. “He’s told you about what happened with Penny Upton, right?”
“So you do know—”
“Yeah, I do. I lived here at the time. Do you understand what happened to him?”
“Do I understand that he was having sex with her when her father came in and tried to beat her mother to death? What’s to understand?”
Arwen waited a moment, then asked, “Do you understand what the fallout did to him?”
She nodded, thinking back to Boone sharing his fears about bringing a child into Penny’s family.
“Does that change how you feel about him?”
“No, but his past—”
“Don’t say it’s different than what you went through. I know it’s different. But it’s damage, nonetheless.”
Arwen was right, and Everly should’ve realized that the moment Boone trusted her with his fears. Of course he was damaged. Of course that incident had left its mark on him. He was kind and tender, a vulnerable man, an unforgettable man, no matter how intimidating his size and bearing.
Yet he’d made love with her and not used a condom. Her. No other woman. Her. If she needed a sign that he loved her, he’d given it to her that night, even before she’d known she loved him.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the first full breath she’d managed in hours. “I may have just figured this out.”
“There is no figure,” Arwen said, smoothing her Hellcat Saloon T-shirt as she got to her feet, and adding with a wink, “there only is.”
THIRTY-TWO
BOONE PULLED TO a stop at the edge of the grassy ditch in front of the frame house belonging to Dean Blaylock, hoping the other man wasn’t home. It was hard to tell from the number of cars parked in the driveway and yard who was. For all he knew, the entire Blaylock clan might be inside with shotguns. There had to be at least a half-dozen vehicles, and none on blocks or with their hoods popped for repairs.
That left Boone wondering, as he walked by, if he was walking into a Blaylock ambush, or if they all belonged to Dean. And that took his wondering all the way to what kind of salary Len Tunstall paid. The slaughterhouse might be a good place to apply if the ranch went belly-up, because if that happened, Boone would need work.
As he headed up the driveway, winding his way through the cars, two boys, blond-haired and both under ten, came running from the back of the house, shooting at each other with big colorful water cannons. Not quite the ambush he’d been imagining, but close enough.
They dodged this way and that, one turning down the path where Boone stood, the other coming after the first—and shooting. Since the sma
ller boy had ducked, Boone took the hit from the taller, a splatter of cold water soaking his midsection and spreading out across the lower front of his shirt.
The boy who’d pulled the trigger stopped, his big blue eyes going calf wide. “Sorry, sir. I’m really sorry. I didn’t see you there. Joel, go get Mom.” The younger boy scampered off toward the back of the house, yelling, “Mom! Mom!” while Boone pulled the tails of his shirt from his belt and tried to wring out some of the moisture.
“Don’t worry about it. A little water never killed a man.”
The boy’s cheeks were bright pink, and Boone was pretty sure it wasn’t from the sun or the exertion. “I was looking at Joel, and he ducked right when I was shooting, and there you were. I’m really sorry.”
“You and your brother out of school for some reason?” Seemed strange to find kids running around in the middle of the day.
“Mom homeschools us. We’re on our recess break,” he said, just as the other boy came running back to say, “She’s coming,” then, “Here,” as he handed Boone a clean hand towel.
Penny Upton having kids was one thing; why shouldn’t she have moved on and done just that? But homeschooling them? Hard to believe the girl he’d known would’ve had the initiative, not to mention the smarts to educate these two boys.
“Thanks, kid,” he said to the little one who looked just as guilty as the older. Boone started to say more, but just then the front door opened, and Penny stepped out on the porch.
She looked good. That was the first thing that came to mind. A strange thing to come to mind, but she did. With the part of town she lived in, and the front yard used for auto storage, and Dean working at the slaughterhouse . . . He hadn’t expected her to look good. He’d expected worn and haggard and down on her luck. But those were the things he associated with her father, and she was none of them.
“Why, Boone Mitchell,” she said, one hand going to her cocked hip, a smile lighting up her face as he walked closer, drying his stomach with her towel. “As I live and breathe. And don’t you look like a walking advertisement for Wrangler jeans.”
“Penny,” he said, pulling off his hat when he reached her, not quite sure what to do with her comment. “Good to see you, too.”
