Never the Cowboy’s Bride

by Wilde, Amelia

  “Yeah, sweet thing?”

  “Don’t make me hate you.”

  “I think it’s too late for that.” I kiss my way up over her hips, up over her navel, to those pink nipples, dusky in the light of the lantern. She rolls her hips again when I get to her collarbone. Once more when I get to the side of her neck. “Unless I’m mistaken.”

  “Please,” she breathes into my ear, and my hips jerk forward in spite of themselves. “Please,” she says again. I can’t see her face from this angle but I can hear the satisfaction in her voice.

  I have to have her.

  I’ve been controlling myself for so long. I haven’t touched the money in the bank account. I haven’t taken Connecticut and ridden into the sunset, the way I want to at least twice a day. I haven’t gone back to New York, taken Roman Bliss’s shirt in my fists, and told him to stop this nonsense. And I can’t control myself anymore.

  I line myself up with her opening again and Brooke wriggles down, trying to do the honors. I catch her with one hand and trace a soft path over her jaw. “Not yet. You be good and get what’s coming to you.”

  She spreads her legs wider.

  And I thrust home, claiming her all in one stroke. I take her so hard it shakes the stall around us, startling the horses. The straw should be doing a better job of cushioning us. The straw is no match for me. Brooke, though—Brooke is a match. She takes all of me, but I feel her stretch. I’m doing it. She makes a muffled, babbling sound beneath me and her muscles clamp down.

  I can’t stop. I’m a man possessed. I take her like I’ve always imagined in my darkest dreams. Those are the dreams I won’t mention to anyone. I won’t admit to myself that they exist. But they do, and they’re coming true right now.

  She’s stronger than I thought.

  The lantern on the hook goes out. Even the lantern can’t stand up to us.

  She wraps her legs around me, urging me in, urging me to go harder, faster, and it’s not just her body saying it. It’s her frantic whisper in my ear. Brooke gets what she’s asking for and then some. I fuck her speechless. And then I fuck her some more.

  My release is a stampede coming closer, too out of control to stop. “Brooke—damn it—”

  “I’m on the pill,” she gasps, nails digging into my ass. “Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  So I don’t. I empty myself into her, hips rocking against her again and again and again until I’m seeing stars. Hundreds of stars, thousands—the night is full of them, and the two of us are burning up just like the pinpricks that hang in the sky above this stable. The wood could fall down around us and we’d still be here. I’d shield her with my life.

  I drop my head against her collarbone and suck in one breath, then another. “Brooke.” I test it out one more time, and she murmurs happily.

  The stable door opens with a bang against the outer wall. “Austin? You in here? Did you pass out?”

  I freeze, still inside her, covering her mouth with a hand. Damn Luke. Damn him to hell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brooke

  The light of the day seems pretty damn judgmental the next morning, when I’m padding down the stairs in bare feet. When I woke up I couldn’t decide what to do. Run into Austin’s room and throw myself into his bed? No. Not a chance. Act totally nonchalant? I tried acting normal in the antique mirror that hangs on the wall in the guest bedroom. You guessed it—I looked foolish, to say the least. So I split the middle and took a shower, put on fresh jeans, and slipped a t-shirt over my head. A normal t-shirt. Not the kind of t-shirt that says I Just Got Railed By Austin Bliss. Not that they make that kind of t-shirt. Not that I would buy it. I shake my head to rattle these thoughts out of it.

  Clinks and hisses emanate from the kitchen, floating up to where I’ve found myself frozen on the stairs. Keep going, Brooke. Can’t hide from this forever. Can’t hide from the fact that Austin and I literally tumbled in the hay. Last night. Technically, this morning. Mere hours ago, he was inside me.

  And I liked it.

  Oh, God.

  I loved it.

  I put a hand over my galloping heart and take a deep, steady breath. All I’m doing is going down to the kitchen. That’s all. If it’s too much, I can walk right past. If it’s Austin’s brother in there, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.

  The stairs let out a few feet from the front door and the bannister is cool and smooth under my hand as I make the slow turn back to the kitchen. I’m going to have to be a creep. Creep right up to the door. I pass the sitting room on the right. One step, then another, then...my foot comes down on a creaky board. Damn it.

  “Brooke? That you?”

  Play it cool. Play it really really cool. I play it cool and saunter into the kitchen like I wasn’t trying to sneak up on him. “Hey. It’s me.” He’s standing at the stove, hair still damp, a black t-shirt stretching over his biceps. And the jeans. The jeans are a work of art. Truth be told, Austin’s ass is the work of art. His jeans are just the frame. “A picture’d last longer.” He throws a grin over his shoulder at me and my face gets an indoor sunburn.

  “I was lost in thought, not staring.”

  “Sure.” He winks. The floor beneath my feet shudders under the strength of that wink. Who knew a man’s eyelids could have such an effect on me?

  Austin turns back to the stove and the rest of my senses stop flooding me with last night last night last night and haul me into the present. The present is bacon. The present is eggs. A spatula jumps into the air with a flick of his wrist. The present is...pancakes?

  “Are you...cooking for me?”

  He doesn’t look back this time, too focused on the frying pan and the skillet in front of him. “Only seems right. You’re hungry.”

  “Who says?” If I stand in the middle of the kitchen any longer, I’m going to be forced to run my hands over those hips. I might even be forced to put my hands in his front pockets from behind. I’d have to wrap my arms around him. I’d have to feel his firm, muscular ass against me. I bite my lip too hard and get a grip on myself.

  The kitchen table is safer. Four wooden chairs crouch neatly around the wooden table, each with a cloth placemat in front of it. Two of the placemats have small, narrow glasses in the upper right corner. It’s very precise. A napkin holder in the same cherry wood perches on top of a neat red table center. I run my fingertips over the edge of the cloth while my heart tries to make a hasty escape through the front of my ribs. Someone had to keep this table in pristine shape after Austin’s parents passed away, and it wasn’t Luke.

  I know better than to think housekeeping skills are an indication of a good person, but combined with everything else...

  Austin didn’t just save me from the burning house. He let me move in with him. He let me partner up with him, even if he thinks some of my ideas—probably all of them—are ridiculous. He let Goatie come to the cattle competition. He was wrong about Goatie—that goat is a true crowd-pleaser, especially with a big ol’ bow around his neck—but he still helped me load him into the truck and parade him around in front of the Who’s Who of Paulson.

  All these thoughts come to an abrupt collision with the delicious reality of Austin’s kitchen when the plate floats down in front of me, connected to his big hand. My stomach doesn’t growl. It roars.

  “Heard that,” says Austin, setting down another plate in front of the chair across the table. He settles in, the chair solid beneath his weight. I’d never have guessed these chairs were big enough for the Bliss brothers, but they are. They’re the kind of sturdy antique furniture people pay a fortune for in the city. And these have probably been right here in the Bliss kitchen since Austin was a little kid. Sadness bands across my throat. My antique chair is a pile of ashes. I was never the kind of girl to get overly sentimental about furniture, but I pictured it. That’s how I imagined my future. And now I’m in a weird high-stakes ranch competition with my longest-ever enemy.

  Nothing makes sense.

>   Especially the way that sadness recedes so quickly under a rush of heat. My memories from last night have a hazy quality to them. The ranch hand’s faces in the firelight. The bubbly flavor that canned fruity alcohol. The crickets chirping. But Austin’s body on mine—that’s sharper than any tack that’s ever seen the light of day.

  “Bacon’s getting cold.” I glance up to find that Austin’s halfway through his own plate, working methodically from one side to the other. He hasn’t skimped on this meal. My stack of pancakes is three high, and it’s nestled up next to perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs and three strips of crispy bacon. “The rest of it’s getting cold, too.” His eyes settle on me like I belong right here in his sight. The air in the room thins. I could get lightheaded from this. Instead I snap off a piece of bacon and pop it into my mouth.

  “Oh, that’s good.” I tip my head back and close my eyes, savoring it. Everly and I took turns cooking. She was the only one who could make truly excellent bacon.

  “You’re gonna do that to me right now? Right here?”

  It doesn’t take much out of Austin’s mouth to turn up the gas on the furnace in the center of my core. It spits fire against my ribs—the most pleasant fire I’ve ever felt. Why does it have to be him?

  He watches me put a forkful of scrambled eggs between my lips. Ugh. Even the scrambled eggs are perfect. A hint of salt, a hint of pepper, and is that— “Do you put cheese in the scrambled eggs?”

  A half-smile lights up his face. “Kraft Singles.”

  A knot releases somewhere deep in my chest. I had no idea it was there until this moment, when the tension released and floated away along with the dust motes in the sunbeam from the window. “I’ve never known anyone else who did that.” I’m not sure whether I’m going to laugh or sob. “Except for my mother.”

  “Just across the yard, yet worlds apart,” intones Austin, and I laugh. There. Laughing instead of sobbing seems like a good idea. Better than breaking down in front of him. Thinking about that rocking chair and my mom and even my completely misguided dad is too close to thinking about how I have nothing left of them. All of it rose into the sky and scattered across the land. Austin leans back in his seat, plate empty. “You know, there’s another option.”

  My mind creaks and groans. “Aside from what?”

  “Being enemies.”

  Tension like molten steel threads itself down the length of my spine. “What do you mean?”

  “We could be friends.”

  I swallow a laugh that feels more like a curse. Austin and I are not going to be friends. I’ve never experienced aftershocks like this from sleeping with a man. The electric ghost of his touch is all over my skin, every second. The room is practically buzzing with it. We might not be mortal enemies, but the one thing we’ll never be is just friends. “What do you think we’d do if we were friends?” I choke out. “Hang out together in the library? Read—read stories to each other?”

  One eyebrow rises, a flash like heat lightning in his eyes. “That’s not what I had in mind.” Austin’s voice takes on an edge of meaning that sends my heartbeat into overdrive. It’s a too-enthusiastic cymbal player, smashing them together out of time.

  “Care to share?” My hand trembles and I stab the fork too hard into the plate.

  “You know, I think sometimes showing is better than telling.” He pushes back his chair and stands up, every movement deliberate. Measured. He’s giving me time to fight back, an open space. I would do that. I would say something cutting, say something to suck the life out of the moment. But nothing comes to mind. Austin’s stocking feet are soft on the kitchen floor.

  I look up at him automatically. It’s never been my way to back down from a challenge, and here he is, close enough to touch. I can’t resist it. I hook a finger through the loop at the front of his belt. But I don’t pull. No. There’s a certain power coming off him in waves. I’m not a weak woman, but I don’t want to resist this. I can’t.

  “Like this.” Then his hand is under my jaw, tipping my head back, and Austin goes down on one knee. He’s so tall that this doesn’t quite bring us even. He’s still taller, even on his knees, and his mouth on mine tastes like authority. No, no, no. I cannot be thinking that about Austin Bliss. But here we are.

  My body melts into his grip. He’s not touching me anywhere else, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His hand on any part of me is enough to keep me steady. For the first time in my life I feel pliable. I feel—oh, I feel—it’s too hot to touch, too big to name.

  The front door opens with a determined crack and shuts a second later, the screen door swinging home a beat after that. I shove my chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor and stand up. My half-eaten plate of food is abandoned. On instinct I open the sliding door and step onto the back porch. Air. I need air.

  “You guys in here?” Luke’s voice is clear as a bell, even through the sliding glass door. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s in the kitchen. “Where’s—oh.” I brace for the sound I know is coming. Why the hell am I out here? What am I hiding from? “Hey, Brooke.”

  “Hey, Luke.” I will myself to turn around and my will power, for once, rewards me. Luke has his head out the slider, most of it still closed.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” A grin steals across his face and disappears. “There are some folks over at your place.”

  “Folks? Like Everly?” What I wouldn’t give to have my sister show up right now. She’ll put everything back where it belongs.

  He grimaces. “Folks like the insurance reps. Miller sent me to run and get you. It’s about the house.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Austin

  The man from the insurance company flips through the stack of papers in his hands, snap snap snap. I stick my hands in my pockets and pretend this isn’t awkward as all hell. Never once in my life did I picture myself standing by while Brooke gets read the riot act by some fool in a polo shirt who’s come all the way from Missoula to give bad news.

  Fine. It’s not the riot act. He licks the pad of his thumb and flips over another sheet. “Right here.” Morton—I didn’t know people were still named Morton—peers at the words like they might change, then holds out the stack for Brooke to see. She clenches her teeth and scans.

  “So you’re telling me the claim’s denied?” The only reason I know she’s nervous is because the pitch of her voice has gone up ever so slightly. The things you learn about a person when they live in your house—I tell you, it’s something else. “I can’t get my house rebuilt?”

  Morton surveys the remains of the Carson farmhouse and sniffs. The only part that isn’t rubble is a piece of the slating that used to be on the front of the front porch. It’s a miracle it’s still standing, what with the wind and the rain lately. As we watch it bends back and forth in the breeze, the white paint marred by smoke damage. I want to step between him and Brooke. I want my body between her and those dull, beady eyes. Instead I press my hands into my pockets, fingernail catching on a thread at the seam.

  “You can rebuild any time you want, but at this time, your claim’s denied. Yeah.”

  “How can you deny it?” A smile flutters across Brooke’s face. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Still, she’s trying, and it cracks my heart open like an egg. “We’re a two-generation family with you guys.”

  “Unfortunately,” says Morton, “legacy doesn’t change the fact that we have no records of any updates being made to the house in at least twenty years.”

  “That’s not true, we’ve made updates. We’ve...freshened the interior—”

  “But nobody’s checked the wiring, which was said to be the cause of the fire. Is that not true?” Morton looks Brooke up and down and purses his lips. “If there was some other cause, best to tell me right now before this goes any further.”

  Brooke bristles, shoulders going up. “Goes any further? You’re already telling me that the insurance policy we’ve paid on for years isn’t going to deliver.”
>
  “I hate to get technical, ma’am, but you did have a stretch in the last five years where the policy lapsed due to non-payment. We have to take that into consideration—”

  “My dad died.” Brooke’s tone is deadly, with a shake that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve never been in a barfight but I could lay this Morton guy out, right now, and he’d deserve it. “We didn’t know where the documents for the policy were. As soon as we knew—”

  “Regardless—”

  This is too much. My hand comes out of my pocket against my will and damn right I want to punch him. I settle for grazing my fingertips across the front of Morton’s faded blue polo shirt. He jumps back like I’ve shocked him. “Don’t say that to her,” I growl. “It’s not regardless when someone’s parent passes, you unholy piece of—”

  “Austin.” Brooke wraps both her hands around my bicep. It’s not enough to lock her grip, but it’s enough to make me settle. The snapping anger that’s been building heels like an obedient wolf. “He’s not going to change his mind.”

  “That’s right.” Now Morton’s voice is the one trembling. “It’s not my decision. I’m—I’m only relaying what the company told me. It’s our policy to deliver the news in person.” He clears his throat and latches back on to some script he probably learned in a windowless cubicle, far from the open fields of our ranches. “As members of Montana Confidence, you’re entitled to challenge the decision by submitting a formal request within the next ninety days. Our team has a sixty-day window to review—”

  It’s all legalese bullshit and most of it skims off the surface of my mind, dancing like a water bug. The parts that sink in are the days. Ninety days. Sixty days. Days, days, days. Days where Brooke won’t have a spot to live. Ninety days alone, if she waited that long, would take us through the end of the year. The weather will turn, and get colder. It’ll make Brooke’s cheeks pink. It’ll give her a cute red nose. When she comes inside from feeding Goatie the snow will be caught in her blonde hair, tiny glittering crystals. It’ll melt under my fingertips. She’ll laugh, push me away. Get your hands off me, Austin Bliss, she’ll say. As if you deserve to touch me. And I’ll touch her anyway. I’ll put an arm around her waist and pull her close, pressing her puffy jacket between our bodies, and I’ll pull a wrapped gift out of my back pocket—