by Pam Godwin
One of the girls clears her voice and points an acrylic nail at something behind me.
Oh no. I straighten from the table, blank my expression, and turn.
Jake towers over me, so close and threatening the sheer intensity of his presence eclipses everything around him. I step back, but there’s nowhere to go except up and over the table, and that would be embarrassing.
The short sleeves of his black t-shirt expose the tanned definition in his arms. Frayed jeans hug low on his hips and cling to the strength in his thighs. Stubble darkens his chiseled jaw, and the line of his perfect lips promises pain.
“What are you doing?” he asks in his deep, rumbling voice.
I’m doing the exact thing I despise. I’m openly and shamelessly checking him out.
Lifting my gaze up, up, up, I tilt my head back to meet his fathomless brown eyes. “I’m just shooting the shit with your buckle bunnies.”
His nostrils flare.
“Shannon here is ready for another ride on your tailgate.” I give a low whistle of disbelief as my stomach curls in on itself. “Seventeen orgasms? Impressive. You’ve come a long way from your days of premature ejaculation.”
Coughs and gasps sound from the women behind me.
Jake blinks and angles his head to the side, tilting his hat. Studying me. “You’re jealous.”
“Nope.”
“You’re grinding your teeth and locking your knees.”
Shit. I relax the offending joints and break away from his assertive eye contact.
That’s when I see it. The wide leather cuff with the horseshoe charm on his wrist. Why is he wearing that? Am I the butt of some kind of sick joke?
“I have a boyfriend.” I raise my chin. “Even if I didn’t, jealousy requires interest. I can assure you I have zero interest in this.” I gesture between him and his bed partners. “To be honest, it makes me puke a little in my mouth. And not in the way you’ve been puking in theirs.”
He doesn’t look at them. In fact, he hasn’t moved his eyes from me since I turned around.
“I’m here on business.” I hold my palm up in the sliver of space between us and wait for him to glance at the scar. “If you want to talk, I’m staying at the Dew Drop Inn.”
I inch a boot forward, indicating my desire to leave, but he doesn’t move.
Him and that goddamn leather bracelet.
Does he wear it when he fucks them? Does the horseshoe stroke quivering skin while his hand thrusts between their legs?
“Let me by.” My face tingles, and a white-hot current of awareness arcs through my body.
It’s his scent. It’s everywhere. The salt of his skin, the mint on his breath, the dark, predatory bite of his essence. I taste it on my tongue and feel it in my blood. I tremble through and through, drugged by his rugged beauty. He’s too close, too compelling, too damn Jake.
It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and those years have hardened his edges, deepened his scowl, and darkened his eyes. But he’s still the man I remember. Rough and burly from the Stetson on his head to the mud on his boots.
That beat-up hat has more stories to tell than the so-called cowboys at OSU. He didn’t buy those jeans with holes. He earned every rip, catching his legs on barbed wire fencing. And the crud on his boots? I know every trail that dirt came from and how it got there.
Jake Holsten is the real deal, and my body recognizes every strapping inch of him. My heart threatens to combust from the potency of his nearness, and if I stand here much longer, I won’t survive.
“Move.” I anchor my hands on my hips.
He flexes. Not his muscles. He flexes his damn aura and stares me down like he’s aiming to hogtie and brand me.
I don’t look away, but I should. My eyes are more than windows to my soul. They’re telling him exactly what’s happening south of the border. He knows he affects me, every achy part of me, and fuck if that doesn’t put a sly smile on his face.
Glowing with that smirk, he steps aside and tips his hat at me. “Catch you later, girl.”
Fighting the urge to run like hell, I measure my strides to the door and step into the night air.
A fat black cowboy truck sits beside my motorcycle, and reclining in the passenger seat is the other half of the Holsten twins.
Jarret watches me approach, leaning toward the dash to get a real good look. I expect him to jump out and intercept me.
He doesn’t. As I strap on the helmet, he sits in the truck with the windows rolled down and says nothing. The few feet that separates us might as well be 928 miles.
I’m just as guilty for putting that distance there. Nothing’s stopping me from asking him how he’s doing.
Except fear.
Fear of rejection.
I fire up the bike and head back to the motel. Going after Levi Tibbs on my own would be naive and reckless. But I’m certain I won’t be doing it alone.
Jake might not give a fuck about the pact, but he made it clear in the bar he’s not done fucking with me.
He’ll make sure I don’t leave town until I’m chewed up and spat out.
I park the truck beside Conor’s motorcycle at the motel and kill the engine. My pulse roars in my ears as I scan the single-story row of rooms and hone in on the only illuminated window.
There she is.
Curtains block my view of her, but shadowy movement flickers behind them. Is she pacing? Anxious? Or does she prevent herself from feeling things, even when she’s alone?
She thinks her emotions are incognito, but she doesn’t fool me. I see through the standoffish exterior, beneath the wounds and fractures, and deep inside the nucleus of her soul.
I know her blueprint. The intricate, complex design of her. My beautiful girl is still in there, kicking and spitting to break free, and I’m going to help her do that.
My methods may not be conventional, but I know her better than anyone. I know exactly how to reach her, and I’m highly motivated.
I’m fucking starving without her.
“She looks the same.” Jarret taps his fingers on the console between us. “Even prettier, if that’s possible.”
Pretty doesn’t even come close. There’s a distinctive something about Conor that no other woman has. Her physical beauty is indisputable and transcendent, but it’s more than that. The multi-layered facets of her nature, the intelligence in her green eyes, the charismatic, outspoken attitude—she’s a deep well of intrigue and allurement. A dangerously seductive woman. And she doesn’t even know it.
“She gave me the cold shoulder when she came out of the bar,” Jarret says. “I guess I deserve that, but she seemed especially withdrawn.” His voice hardens. “What did you say to her?”
“She ran into some of my mistakes.”
“Ah. Did you take care of it?”
“They won’t antagonize her again.”
Before I left the Big Sugar, I made sure every leaky mouth in the joint understood that Conor Cassidy’s here to stay. With me.
It’ll take more time and infallible finesse to make Conor understand that.
I return my attention to her motel room and consider what I’m about to do. This is the fulcrum on which our past and future come together in a dance of spinning, fighting, and forgiving.
Forgiveness is the biggest hurdle, but it’s not the only one. I need to deal with the boyfriend, her PTSD, her completion of veterinary school, and all the shit poisoning the ranch and our families.
I spent the last four years uncovering trails of deceit that stretch miles. The oil and gas drilling, the corruption in the cattle operation, the blackmail, and the bodies buried in the ravine—there’s so much she doesn’t know.
I’m prepared to tell her everything.
But not here.
I have two more threats to worry about. One will be released from prison in two weeks. The other one skipped town.
Her return to Sandbank is a risk, but my patience has run out. Her schooling’s almost complete
, and I have a damn good handle on the danger against her. There isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting her go this time.
“Remember that time we locked her in the tack room?” Jarret glances at me, rubbing his jaw. “When the coyotes got past the fencing and killed all our calves?”
“I remember.” I narrow my eyes.
“She banged on that door for hours while we helped Dad clean up the slaughter. She was only what? Six? Seven? We didn’t want her to see the carnage or know what happened. But God, I can still hear her crying to get out. She didn’t understand why we locked her up. Didn’t know we were just trying to protect her.” He thumbs his ear, and his face tightens. “Sometimes I think we shouldn’t have made that decision for her.”
“Don’t do that.” I glare at him. “We have a plan. You were right there with me when we agreed on every detail.”
“I know. I am with you. But she’s not going to understand.”
“She will. Not right way, but she’s smart. She’ll come around.”
I’ve watched my brother kill men without a hint of hesitation or remorse. When it comes to Conor, however, he’s a soft and squishy teddy bear. It’s maddening.
“Let’s go.” I slide out of the truck and meet Jarret at the door to her room.
He knocks, and a second later, she emerges in the doorway, head cocked and red hair tumbling in sexy tangles to her hips.
Expressionless, she shifts her gaze between us, studying, probing, trying to read our intentions. “Did you hear about Levi Tibbs?”
“Yes.” I hook a thumb beneath my belt and wait for the invitation inside.
She glances at the bracelet she gave me and quickly looks away. A breath in. Out. Again. Then she steps aside and lets us pass.
“Are you going to honor the pact?” She shuts the door and leans against it. “Or are you chickening out?”
“I’ve waited six years to finish this.” I exchange a look with my brother. “We both have. The three of us are going back to the ranch to talk about—”
“No. Absolutely not.” She squares her shoulders. “We’ll talk now.”
“Do you think it’s wise”—I lower my voice—”to discuss murder plans here? The walls are thin, and the room’s too small.”
I motion at the cramped space, lack of seating, and amount of room Jarret and I take up. I don’t expect her to accept my bullshit reasoning, but it’s worth a try before I change tactics and do this the hard way.
“There’s no privacy at the ranch.” She juts her chin. “Your dad—”
“He doesn’t live there.”
“What? Why not?”
“He got tangled up with a woman. Ran off with her a few months ago. We haven’t heard from him.”
The woman is the same age as me, and that’s not the only detail I’m leaving out. John Holsten cut and ran because I gave him no choice.
“What about the ranch?” Her brow creases. “He left the business?”
“Yes. Jarret and I own and run the cattle operation now.”
“Did you buy it from him?”
We blackmailed him for it.
She takes in my unresponsive expression, and her lips press together, trapping all the questions she wants to ask. She deeply cares about the ranch, even though she won’t let herself believe that.
As a case in point, vivid impressions of horses and landscapes completely and permanently color her arms from shoulders to wrists. Her ink represents the terrain of her childhood. It’s what matters most to her.
“Those are your paintings.” I nod at her tattoos. “The ones you collected when we were kids.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
And I mean it. The vibrant colors and uniqueness of the artwork exemplify her spirit and add a sexy, rebellious edge to her natural beauty. She’s the ultimate jeans and t-shirt girl. So the motorcycle, tattoos, and brazen glare—all of it suits her.
“Thank you.” Her glare narrows suspiciously.
She doesn’t trust a word that comes out of my mouth. I bet her mind’s whirling to reconcile the cheating asshole she encountered in my bedroom four years ago with the one standing before her now.
I’m the same man who loves her. It’s the circumstances that have changed.
“Pack up your things.” I widen my stance. “You’re staying at the ranch.”
“Hm.” She straightens from the door and laces her arms beneath her perfect tits. “Is this another set up? Will I find a lover in your bed? Or am I supposed to be the one you’re knocking boots with when some other poor lovesick girl shows up?”
I love the way her wicked mind works, but she’s completely off the mark.
“Don’t give me that look.” Her fists clench, and her cheeks twitch, eager for a fight. “I’m not going.”
She’s so damn feisty she could start an argument in an empty house. I’m all about wrestling and getting rowdy with her, but we’re not doing it here.
I give Jarret a nod.
Then I lunge.
My chest collides with hers. My hand covers her gasp, and I pin her against the door, restraining her with my weight.
Her huge green eyes go impossibly wide, and her vocal chords vibrate against my palm. Clawing and pulling at my arms, she’s nowhere near strong enough to move me.
A glance over my shoulder confirms Jarret is gathering her things. I return to her and adjust my hand over her mouth, ensuring she has plenty of breathing room.
“I know you have triggers.” I center my face in front of hers. “So I won’t bind your wrists.” Not yet. “Think about that while you’re scratching the hell out of my arms.”
Her chest heaves, stretching her nostrils as she squints at me furiously. She’s wondering how I know about her triggers. Or maybe she’s silently arguing that if I released her, she wouldn’t have to draw blood.
I’m not releasing her. Not ever.
Every shift and grind of her body feeds my hunger. I’ve gone too long without touching her, and the feel of her struggling and restrained beneath me awakens cravings. Dark cravings I reserve only for her.
She drives a fist into my ribs, and I bite down on my smile. She punches me again, and my dick jerks. Pissed off and worked up, with her eyes glaring and her arms swinging, she’s never been more insanely gorgeous.
It’s unreal being this close to her, smelling her and feeling the shape of her curves. My smile breaks free, and boy, does that make her hit harder. Which makes me harder.
Christ, I’m a sick son of a bitch.
“Jake.” Jarret grabs her keyring from the nightstand. “Focus.”
Right. I need to transfer her to the truck without touching her wrists, crowding her back, or drawing attention. To do that, I have to manipulate her.
A cruel lie expedited her departure from the ranch four years ago. The truth will bring her back home.
“Conor.”
She slaps and thrashes and scores my skin, wearing herself out.
“I lied.” My announcement makes her flinch.
Her eyes find mine, and she goes still, her nails digging into my arms.
“I lied about Ketchup.” With a hand over her mouth, I use the other to brush the hair from her face. “She’s alive, and I’m taking you to see her.”
Her expression twists against my fingers, devastation clashing with hope and hardening into pained fury.
“I’m sorry.” I pour every ounce of my regret into my eyes.
I regret the anguish I caused her, but I’m not sorry for the decisions I made. If I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I lost six years with her, but now we have a future. She’s alive because I broke her heart, and she’s going to stay alive while I put it back together.
“Are you going to scream?” I relax my fingers on her lips.
She shakes her head.
“Are you going to come with me without making a scene?” I lower my hand, freeing her voice.
“Why?”
It�
�s a loaded question. Why did I lie about Ketchup? Why does she have to come with me? Why am I sending her so many mixed signals?
“I have answers. Follow my lead, and you’ll get them.” I step back and hold out my hand.
She stares at my scarred palm and wraps her arms around her waist. “I won’t survive this.”
“You already have.”
Her gaze darts through the room, her shoulders tight and tendons standing out in her neck. I assume Jarret packed everything.
When her focus returns to me, it’s a slow, reluctant climb along my face before meeting my eyes.
“I’ll go.” She reaches back and grabs the door handle. “But I’m not holding your fucking hand.”
“After you.” I motion toward the door.
In the dark parking lot, I open the door of the truck for her and shut her inside.
Jarret approaches and slides her phone into my hand. “Good luck.”
With a pat on my back, he heads to the motel office with her travel bag. After he checks her out of the room, he’ll ride her motorcycle back to the ranch.
Step one finished. Ninety-nine thousand more to go.
As I pocket her phone and climb behind the wheel, the weight of the day catches up with me. Cattle herding, bookkeeping, trailing Conor since she arrived in town—all of it seeps into my weary muscles. It feels like bedtime, the stars bright against the velvet black sky, but it’s only nine o’clock. It’s going to be a long night.
Pulling onto the street, I drive in silence until I hit the first dirt road.
“Do you still play guitar?” I know the answer, but I need her to talk through it.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t have time for it.”
“When was the last time you played?”
“Chicago.”
“You miss it.”
She stares out the passenger side window, her voice a vault of hollow sound. “I don’t let myself miss it.”