by Dahlia West
“Come here,” he whispered. “Come to me.”
She hesitated, but her need for solace seemed to win out over her anger. She moved across the bed and into his embrace.
Sawyer, for his part, held her as gently as he could, so as not to hurt her. “Sleep,” he ordered. “Sleep as much as you can.” He was fairly certain he was talking to himself as well.
Cassidy’s hair fanned out over his chest. Her breathing slowed to a steady, soft rhythm. Eventually, Sawyer closed his own eyes, and soon after that, his breathing matched hers. He’d never slept with a woman before, actually fallen asleep beside one. Despite the horrific circumstances, there was no place on Earth that he would rather have been in this moment. “Sleep, Princess,” he whispered, because he knew she already was. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter Ten
‡
CASSIDY WOKE, STIFF and sore and unsure of her surroundings. Underneath her lay Sawyer Barlow, and everything about the night before came flooding back with brutal clarity. Palmer’s attack, Dad’s refusal to intervene—all of that hurt worse than the actual pain in her body at the moment, though it was a close race.
Sawyer was still asleep, and she watched him closely, fascinated by the sight of him. He was shirtless, but she didn’t seem to recall him getting undressed. He must’ve gotten up after she’d fallen asleep and changed out of his clothes. He hadn’t shaved, apparently, since the day before, and the scruff that was already shadowing his features made him look even better than he usually did at The Spur.
Now that his mouth wasn’t making that infuriating grin, his lips looked even more kissable, but Cassidy didn’t dare. As she was in the middle of a personal meltdown, Sawyer had agreed to take her in for the night. That didn’t necessarily mean he’d want her here now. It might be better to slip out and leave, so as to avoid having to be told to go. Cassidy had already suffered enough humiliation at this point. She really didn’t want to have to face that, too.
Carefully she drew back the covers and started to slip out of the bed. He caught her instantly, though, startling her. He sat up and reached for her, causing her to draw back without thinking.
Sawyer frowned at her. “I’m not going to hurt you, Cassidy.”
“I…I know. Sorry.”
He swept the hair off her shoulder and touched her presumably bruised face. “Do you want to tell me about this?”
She turned her head, away from his touch. “There’s nothing to say.”
“You know, in the rodeo we put cow patties on our bruises,” he told her.
Cassidy’s head snapped back to him, and her mouth dropped open. “Ew!”
“We put them in Ziploc bags first.”
“Still! That’s disgusting! I’ll stick with makeup.” She slid off the bed, located her shoes on the floor, and carried them to the bedroom door. Before she even got a hand on the knob, Sawyer was up and out of bed, as well, and standing right next to her. He followed her outside and even reached for the car door for her, holding it open. He didn’t move away, nor did he let go.
“I’m not going to leave,” she told him.
“That’s right,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Under normal circumstances his arrogance would cause her to argue, but that would mean arguing in favor of leaving. And Cassidy was surprised to discover she really didn’t want to go. She allowed herself to be herded back inside. “Is this…your bunkhouse?” she asked, looking around.
“Yep.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she swiped at her hair, which must’ve been a mess.
He laughed. “Relax. We’re alone. You slept a long time. Everyone’s already up and at work.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said with more than a little relief.
He showed her to the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean for one shared by a bunch of men. She had a small brush in her purse, along with some basic makeup, but no toothbrush. She had to settle for rinsing out her mouth since there was no way to know which brush was Sawyer’s. She slathered on cover-up, using nearly half the bottle, then, of course on the opposite side of her face so that it looked even. And clownish. Her father would’ve said she looked like a French whore, and Cassidy had to agree with the sentiment. The look wasn’t flattering. But screw him and whatever he might think anyway.
She emerged cautiously from the bathroom to find Sawyer stretched out on the couch, clad now in jeans and a T-shirt, looking every bit as good as he had the night before. Cassidy had the vague sense that it wasn’t fair and glared at him. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her skirt. Here in the harsh light of day she felt ridiculous wearing that, too, and didn’t like Sawyer looking at her scraped knees.
“How about we track you down some clothes that’ll fit?” he offered.
“Where do—?”
“Dakota will have some. You’re both pretty much the same size. I don’t know about the shoes, though,” he said, eyeing her high heels.
He took out his phone and sent a text, and as they stepped out of the bunkhouse, Dakota emerged from the barn across the large driveway. She looked angry, which made Cassidy scoot a little closer to Sawyer, since he was her only legitimate reason for being here.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dakota said as she stomped toward them. “She needs my clothes?”
Cassidy frowned, but Sawyer smiled.
“Now, Dakota,” he said. “Just looking for a little Christian charity this morning.”
“Christian?” Dakota snorted. “Tell me why I’m making her walk of shame any easier? And why is she staying? Shouldn’t she just go home now that you’re done with her?”
Cassidy bristled, and Sawyer’s arm instantly wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her close. His smile disappeared entirely. “Enough, Dakota. You’re being rude. Get her some clothes, and she’s staying because I want her to stay, and that’s all there is to it.”
Dakota glared at her, taking note of Cassidy’s scraped knees. “Trip in your heels?”
Cassidy hid her broken nails behind her back and said nothing.
“Dakota,” Sawyer warned, a bit more severely this time.
The young woman grimaced but led them to a house about the same size as the bunkhouse, farther along the large gravel circle. There was no one else inside as Dakota led her to a back bedroom and opened the door. As she rifled through dresser drawers and then the closet, Cassidy waited, trying to figure out the best way to express her gratitude. It was all awkward and unexpected, and under the circumstances, Cassidy supposed she wouldn’t be any happier about having to accommodate a near stranger.
Dakota passed her a pair of jeans and a shirt.
Cassidy hesitated, clothes in hand. She didn’t want Dakota to see the damage Palmer had done to her. The bruise on her hip alone was awful look at.
Dakota snorted. “Well, I’m sorry they’re not fancy enough for you, Cassidy. You know, maybe if you put on less makeup it would help!” She turned and stomped out of the room.
“That’s not what I—!”
Dakota slammed the door behind her.
Cassidy sighed and sat down on the girl’s bed to take off her heels. As she undressed she inspected the bedroom, which was smaller than her own but clean and tidy. On the walls and shelves there were awards, real awards, for real things, not just tiaras and sashes. Dakota showed horses apparently and had won a barrel racing competition at least once, according to a trophy that was as big as anything Cassidy had ever “won.” Even though Cassidy was older than Dakota, she felt woefully inadequate.
The jeans fit well because Dakota was slightly curvier than Cassidy. The shirt was tight, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. The sneakers fit, thank God, and Cassidy stood up to look at herself in the mirror. There was a complete stranger looking back at her.
Chapter Eleven
‡
SAWYER WAITED IN the Vasquezes’ living room, glancing periodically at the closed bedroom door. Whatever happened between Dakota and Cassidy, Dako
ta wasn’t saying. She just strode out the front door, presumably back to the barn, where she preferred spending her time anyway. Sawyer watched her go for a moment before turning back to the door. He debated whether or not to knock.
Gabe had seen them enter the house and had followed them inside. Standing next to him, the man frowned. “Was that…Cassidy Conroy?” he asked.
Sawyer nodded. “She’s in Dakota’s room.”
A bark of laughter escaped from Gabe’s throat. “Why?”
Sawyer didn’t answer.
Gabe scoffed. “I can’t believe you brought a fresa home with you. Not a smart move, Sawyer. You know you can’t make it work with a woman like that.”
Sawyer pressed his lips together and said nothing. True, Gabriel had not been able to make it work with a woman from New York City, but that didn’t mean that Sawyer and Cassidy couldn’t work, if it was supposed to. She might be a little rich girl, but she was pure Wyoming stock through and through, and Sawyer had the notion that the queen of the Lincoln County Fair was reluctant to leave for greener pastures.
If Cassidy had wanted to leave Star Valley, she could have, years ago. But she’d stayed, and Sawyer felt certain that meant she always would, or at least be open to the possibility. He wasn’t sure there was actually anything between them to try and make work, but Cassidy Conroy wasn’t going to leave Star Valley. Of that he was certain.
Right now, she needed help, though, and Sawyer wasn’t about to turn her away. Regardless of whether or not they made sense as a couple, she needed a friend, and he could be that.
“She got hurt,” Sawyer finally told the man.
Gabriel’s mouth closed, and his eyes widened. “Hurt?”
Sawyer was about to explain, when Dakota’s bedroom door opened and Cassidy emerged. She was wearing a pair of the younger girl’s old jeans and a T-shirt. Cassidy had a bit more up top than Dakota, though, and her breasts strained against the black fabric of the loaned T-shirt. Dakota only had one pair of boots, so Cassidy had on a pair of her old canvas sneakers.
Gabriel had grown up with the Barlows, was essentially their brother from another mother. He had the good sense and the respect for Sawyer not to ogle her. He merely touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Cassidy,” he said evenly.
“Gabe,” she replied, barely making eye contact.
They knew each other from high school, of course, but then again everyone from school knew everyone else.
Sawyer slung one arm around her shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Everything okay?”
Cassidy nodded.
He led her out of the Vasquezes’ house and back outside. He might have left her so that he could work, but she seemed lost in the large driveway, and Sawyer could afford to take one day off, at the very least. “All right,” he said, casting his eyes about. “How about we get out of here for a while?”
Cassidy blinked up at him. “And go where?”
“For a ride.”
He watched her consider the idea, then she nodded.
She sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll get my purse.”
He blinked at her. “What do you need your purse for?”
She stopped, brows knitting together. “You just said we were going for a ride.”
He jerked his thumb toward the barn. “I meant a horseback ride.”
She followed his gesture with her gaze and frowned. “Oh. No.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun. You need a distraction, and I—”
But she shook her head. “No,” she repeated firmly.
“Well, you can’t sit inside all day licking your wounds. A ride is the perfect—”
“I can’t,” she told him.
Sawyer paused. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“I mean, I can’t ride a horse.”
His gut twisted a little. She must be more banged up than he’d suspected. Sawyer vowed to find whomever had raised a hand to her and raise one of his own—both of his own. And he might not stop there. “Princess, if you tell me who hurt you, I—”
“What?”
“Tell me who hit you, Cassidy. Tell me who hurt you so badly that you can’t even ride.”
She gaped at him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Princess, I’ve been in a few bar fights defending Court’s honor. I know a shiner when I see one. Someone hit you, and the sooner you tell me who that was, the sooner I can take care of the bastard.”
“It has nothing to do with that. I can’t ride a horse, Sawyer, because I don’t know how.”
Sawyer barked out a laugh, because he’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. “You live in Wyoming.”
Cassidy shrugged.
“You’ve lived in Wyoming your whole life,” he pointed out.
“Horses are dirty.”
“I’m dirty,” he countered. “And you rode me.”
She blushed and looked away. “My mom liked it better when I wore dresses and sat still.”
“Did you like it better? Wearing dresses and sitting still?”
He watched her think about it.
“I liked my books,” she said, surprising him.
“Your…books?”
“I can read, Sawyer,” she snapped. “Believe it or not. I read every day. I finish two or three books a week.”
“I…”
“You what?” she replied. “Go ahead. Go ahead and insult me. Tell me I’m a princess, a good-for-nothing, absolutely fucking useless princess. Go on. Say it.”
Sawyer’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know who in your life told you that, Cassidy Conroy, but it isn’t true.”
“You don’t know me,” she replied.
“I know no one is useless. No one on this Earth. And if they are, it’s only because they haven’t found the thing they’re useful for.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He simply took her hand and led her away, away from bunkhouse, away from the barn. He led her to the Big House instead and ushered her inside. He took her upstairs, found the door to his old room, and reached for the knob.
She hesitated before following him in, but her eyes widened once she was fully ensconced in the room. “Oh,” she said simply, gazing about.
Sawyer had no room in the bunkhouse for books. His childhood bedroom had been retrofitted for shelves in his youth, Dad having recognized Sawyer’s aptitude for reading and accommodating it accordingly. The small bedroom sported floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, making the room a bit smaller but more attractive, to him, at least. He still spent several evenings a week in this room. Television, he found, was much the same as he’d left it when he’d gone on the road for the rodeo, and it hadn’t interested him before, either.
“It’s like a tiny library,” she exclaimed and moved forward to read the titles.
“I don’t have any Romance novels,” he told her. “If that’s what you read. We can buy you some, though, in town.”
Cassidy shot him a dirty look. “I prefer the Russians,” she snapped.
Sawyer grinned. “How very un-American of you.” He walked to another shelf and pulled out a collection of Pushkin’s poems and held it out to her.
Even Cassidy Conroy, the Ice Queen, couldn’t hide her smile.
“I won’t lie,” he said. “It’s mostly Westerns. Historical fiction. There are some mysteries, though. Christie, Doyle, Hammet, Poe.”
Cassidy scanned the shelves. “I think you might have every Western novel ever written.”
“When I want to know a thing, Cassidy, I make it my mission in life to understand everything about it, down to the tiniest detail. And I like to be entertained while doing it.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and licked her lips nervously.
It was nice to melt the Ice Queen.
“I’ll still teach you to ride,” he told her. “Every self-respecting Wyoming girl knows how to ride a horse.”
“I don’t need to know how to ride a horse,” she replied, running her hands over the s
pines.
Sawyer caught her around the waist, turned her, and yanked her against him.
She gasped.
“But you do need to learn some self-respect, Princess.”
Before she could protest, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. It wasn’t a kiss, per se, not of the kind he was used to giving, at any rate. With Cassidy, though, she seemed so shocked that anyone would take their time with her and not just maul her whenever they got her alone. Sawyer loved the way she melted against him when he took her mouth slowly. He’d kissed a lot of women but none in this way. The scary part was, Sawyer wasn’t certain he ever needed to again. At least, not with any other woman.
Chapter Twelve
‡
CASSIDY SHIVERED IN his arms. She might never know how Sawyer Barlow could make a kiss, not even a kiss, the idea of a kiss, the suggestion of a kiss, seem like the only thing that mattered in the world.
“I should go to work,” he told her, setting her away from him.
She sighed in disappointment.
He grinned. “I can’t laze about all day. Even if I wanted to. And trust me, I do want to.”
Unsure if that was a dig on her, she said, “I…I could work.” She couldn’t stand the thought of Sawyer having a bad opinion of her.
He eyed her warily, which made her bristle.
“I can,” she insisted.
“Fair enough. What do you do for Conroy Cattle?”
Welp. He had her there, didn’t he? He’d called her bluff in just one question. The infuriating grin on his face told her that he knew it, too.
“There’s plenty of basic chores,” he said. “Nothing glamorous, but we could always use an extra set of hands. If you can handle it.” He took her hands in his own and inspected the scrapes.
“They’re nothing,” she said, because to say anything else would inflame his curiosity. “I can work.” She was eager to get out of this room before he gave her the third degree again.
Sawyer peered at her closely then finally gave in. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
She took the book of poems with her and dropped it off at the bunkhouse on their way to the barn.