Country Nights

by Winter Renshaw

  “You don’t seem the least bit bothered by any of this.”

  Our gazes intersect, and I don’t see a hint of emotion—good or bad—in his.

  “I’ve lived through far worse than this,” he says. “Far worse.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  River

  “I used to hate cattle drives,” Leighton says, reins gathered in her left hand as she rides Domino. “They were always work. My father loved them, and I never knew why. Now I do. They were relaxing.”

  Our horses stride behind a herd at a cow’s pace, and Leighton squints into the sun beneath one of my old Stetson hats. It’s a sight to see, her in a pair of designer jeans, oversized boots, and one of my old hats, but the early morning sunrise paints her in warm colors and she wears them well.

  Birds chirp from the trees that line the old dirt roads and the cows’ heads bob with each step, moving along like they know exactly where to go.

  “This takes me back,” Leighton says, sporting a wistful smile. “It’s my last day here, you know. At least my last full day. Going home tomorrow.”

  I’d almost forgotten.

  The last week I’ve spent so much time loathing the fact that I had to keep an eye on her all the while finding random shit to keep her busy that I lost track of how long she’d been here. In a lot of ways, it felt like she’d been here forever … like I’d known her forever. And I’m not quite sure if that’s a good thing or not.

  “You going to miss me after I’m gone, River?” she asks, fighting a chuckle.

  “What’s it to you?”

  She shrugs. “I’m just curious. Long after I’m gone, are you going to remember this? Are you going to remember me?”

  “Would be pretty hard to forget some random woman knocking at your door with a suitcase in hand saying she rented your house for the summer,” I say.

  “It really means so much that you let me stay here.” She looks my way. “I wish there was a way I could make it up to you.”

  “No one’s keeping score.”

  Leighton steers her horse to the left, going after a wayward cow who seemed to get distracted by a patch of alfalfa growing in the ditch.

  I try to wrap my mind around what it’s going to be like after she’s gone.

  All these years, I was sure silence and solitude equaled some form of comfort and peace, but now I’m not so sure.

  I’d never admit this out loud, but having her around this past week wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Hearing someone else’s footsteps in the morning, having someone ask how my day was, the sound of another person’s voice filling this big, lifeless house … somehow it wasn’t all that terrible.

  I think I’m going to miss it.

  I think I’m going to miss her.

  “So what’s next for you?” she asks. “After I’m gone, what’s River McCray going to do with himself?”

  “Same old.” The second I answer her, I feel a flash of dread in the pit of my stomach, and I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to feel that. “You?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t want to go back to Scottsdale. That never really felt like home to me. Don’t really want to intrude on my sister’s newlywed life in San Francisco. My brother is in college, so moving into his frat house isn’t exactly an option. My mom lives in Kansas City, but I don’t really want to be that twenty-seven-year-old who moves back home. Plus we don’t really see eye to eye. Our relationship is more cordial than anything else. Less fighting that way.”

  “So you have nowhere to go?”

  She pulls in a lungful of clean, country air and lets it go. “Yeah. I guess now that you say that … you’re right. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “So when you book that flight tomorrow, where’s it taking you?”

  “I’ve got a few friends in Scottsdale I can stay with until I figure it out. And maybe I can get my job back, work a little bit and save up some more money until I decide my next move,” she says. “I don’t want to go back to Arizona, but right now that’s going to be my best option. It’s the lesser of all the evils.”

  “What about your ex? He going to bother you if you’re there?”

  “He shouldn’t,” she says.

  “And if he does?” I ask.

  “He’s kind of the least of my worries right now.”

  Dragging in a contemplative breath, I make an offer. “You can stay here a bit longer if you need.”

  Her gaze whips in my direction. If she’s shocked, that makes two of us.

  “I appreciate that, River, but it won’t be necessary,” she says. “You’ve already been so generous, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

  Her rejection of my offer stings more than I thought it would, but I don’t dwell. I don’t let it consume me. I brush it off, telling myself it was a good thing I didn’t let myself get attached. I knew from the moment I saw her that letting myself feel a damn thing would be dangerous for me, so I held my cards close and kept her at a distance.

  Looks like I made the right move.

  Come tomorrow, she’ll be long gone, and it’ll be for the better.

  And even if I were in a place of moving on, I wouldn’t deserve someone like her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Leighton

  “Come with me to The Oasis tonight.” I wash a dinner dish and hand it to River to dry Thursday night.

  “I don’t go out.”

  “I know you don’t go out, but I’m asking if you’d go out with me tonight,” I say. “Since it’s my last night in Bonesteel Creek … probably forever … I’d really love it if you’d join me.”

  I wash another dish and hand it off, our hands brushing in the process.

  “There’s no convincing me,” he says. “I’d rather shoot myself in the hand than step foot in that hellhole.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “I don’t drink there.”

  Draining the sink, I grab a dry towel and pat down my arms. “I figured you wouldn’t want to go … which is why I grabbed a few things when I went to town earlier.”

  I head to the mudroom and return with a brown paper bag containing a bottle of red, a bottle of white, and a six pack of beer.

  “What’s that for?” he asks, stacking a dried plate in a cupboard.

  In the week that I’ve been here, I’ve yet to see a single appropriate wine glass, so I take two floral printed iced tea goblets from a cabinet and pour us each a glass of red.

  “Cheers,” I hold mine up, nodding toward his.

  His eyes move from the goblet to me and back before he finally humors me. Lifting his glass to mine, we clink and sip.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asks.

  “My last night in this house. The end of a very interesting week for … both of us.”

  River takes another drink, and I follow suit.

  “We can’t stand here all night sipping and staring at each other,” I say. “Do you have any music? Wait. Hang on.”

  Taking my phone from my purse, I pull up a music app and select a country station. Pulling him by the arm, I lead him to the center of the kitchen before shoving the table out of the way.

  “Dance with me,” I say.

  River stares at me like I have two heads.

  “Dance with me,” I say again, shouting above the music. Sitting my wine aside, I reach for his and place it on the table with mine. Next, I take his hands and move them to my hips. “Don’t act like you hate this.”

  “I do. I hate dancing.”

  “Tonight you don’t. Tonight you love to dance.” I smile, lifting my hands to his shoulders and swaying to the George Strait song playing from my little white phone. “I’m a terrible dancer, if that makes you feel any better.”

  Staring, our eyes hold and I resist the urge to run my fingers through his thick, dark hair. Everything about him is so distant, and yet something in me is desperate to dig beneath that surface and see what I find. Or at least try. One last time.

>   “You’re not dancing,” I say, playfully smacking the side of his arm. He picks up his feet, moving in time with the melody. A few bars in, I realize he’s a perfectly fine dancer and maybe he just didn’t want to dance with me.

  I imagine the last woman to wrap her arms around him in this kind of way was Allison. I imagine this is difficult for him, but I want to believe this will only help in the long run. And I want to believe she would’ve wanted this for him … some semblance of a life after her death.

  “You’re such a liar,” I say when the song ends.

  “What’d I lie about?”

  “You said you hated dancing, but you’re actually pretty freaking amazing at it.”

  “Never said I couldn’t dance—only said I hated it.”

  Rolling my eyes, I pull myself away and return his wine to him. “Drink up. The night is young.”

  He takes another swig, then another, drinking until his glass is empty. I waste no time pouring him another before topping myself off.

  “What’s your favorite song, River?” I ask a moment later. “I’ve spent almost a week with you and I’ve yet to hear you listen to music.”

  “Not a fan of music,” he answers without hesitation.

  “Bullshit. Everybody likes music.”

  “And you know this because …?”

  “I’ve never met a single person who doesn’t like music.”

  “And now you have.” He takes another drink, eyes locked on me.

  “Why don’t you like it?”

  He shakes his head, frowning. “Too many songs remind me of things I don’t want to be reminded about.”

  “Then only listen to the new ones.”

  “Most of them made my ears bleed.”

  I point my glass in his direction. “When I get back, I’ll make you a CD of songs that are guaranteed not to cause bleeding of any kind.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Sarcastic ass.”

  River’s second glass is already empty and so is our first bottle of wine. I don’t hesitate before uncorking the second, and I stick the beer in the fridge to chill in the meantime.

  I pour us more and play a different song on my phone, one a little less romantic and a little more along the lines of something a wedding DJ would play to get the party started.

  “I’m going to make a total ass of myself, and I fully expect you to do the same,” I say, pulling him back to the center of the kitchen. It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to kick back, let loose, and dance like no one’s watching. River makes me feel like I can be myself around him, a position I never really found myself in with Grant.

  Taking his hand in mine, I twirl beneath him as he stands perfectly still, like a stubborn bump on an immoveable log.

  River’s head is cocked to the side as he studies me, and I can’t tell if I’m annoying him or if he’s trying his hardest not to crack a smile, but I don’t let it deter me. I keep dancing and twirling and singing completely off-pitch.

  By the time the song ends, I’m dizzy and warm. I peel my shirt off, revealing a plain white camisole underneath, and I toss it to the side. Hair sticks to my forehead, but I brush it off, smiling as the song changes and I return to his side. Bumping my hip against his, I dance circles around him like the crazy drunk cousin at everybody’s wedding.

  “You’re seriously just going to stand there while I do all the work?” I balk at him, my jaw hanging.

  Threading my hand in his, I lift his arm over my head and duck beneath it, belting out the words to “I Will Survive,” which seems strangely fitting for both of our situations.

  My god am I feeling this wine.

  But my god, I haven’t a care in the world.

  When that number ends, I take a moment to catch my breath and finish my drink, but when The Rolling Stones’ Beast of Burden begins to play, I hop up, instantly revitalized.

  “This is my all-time favorite song.” I wear the dopiest, alcohol-induced grin as I run my hands through my hair, messing it up without a care in the world. With my back toward him, I lower myself, hips swaying, and then return to a standing position as I sing along.

  “You’re completely insane,” he says, brows lifted. He speaks slower now, like the wine is finally doing its thing.

  There’s something different in the way he’s looking at me though. I see it, even through the wine-colored lenses obscuring my view.

  “And you’re completely uptight,” I say. “I’ve never met anyone as buttoned-up as you. It’s like you’re allergic to having fun.”

  “It’s not a crime.”

  “You’re right.” I press my finger against his chest. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to smile once in a while. Or let yourself laugh at something. Or do one thing that makes you feel really, really good and not act like it’s going to kill you.”

  I close my eyes as Mick Jagger sings about “making sweet love” to him, and I brush the hair from my face one more time, readying myself to sing along, only my vocal stylings are interrupted by a warm sensation on my lips.

  River’s hands wrap around my hips, pulling me against him, and his mouth works mine. His kiss is hungry, desperate, impatient. My body becomes limp and malleable in his arms, my hands moving to his face.

  Hoisting me up, he carries me to the kitchen table, pulling his lips from mine. Our eyes catch, our bodies breathless. Every part of me is on fire, confusion mixing with desire, curiosity mixing with a craving I never expected to have.

  His shoulders rise and fall as he moves in close, his hands cupping my face as his mouth crushes mine again. His tongue parts my lips. I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop kissing this beautiful, broken man.

  And then he stops.

  River takes a step back, looking at me as if I’m some crime he’s committed.

  “River,” I say, breathless and reaching for him.

  “I can’t.” He turns from me, and I slide off the table.

  When I move to him, I can barely feel my feet on the floor. The room spins. I reach for him and he pulls away.

  “Why’d you stop?” I ask. “We were just having fun …”

  He faces me, his breathing heavy and his eyes flashing dark. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “And I shouldn’t have let you, but I did,” I say, stepping closer. I place my hand on his heart, feeling how it’s racing at my touch. “And I enjoyed it … while it lasted, anyway. I don’t think—”

  He doesn’t let me finish my thought, kissing me again. Harder this time. Needier. His hands slide all over my body, helping himself to every curve, every forbidden peak and valley. Yet there’s something tender in the way he touches me, like I’m breakable and precious.

  River’s lips burn against mine, sending an insatiable ache between my thighs that’s impossible to ignore.

  I didn’t come here to meet anyone.

  I didn’t come here to hook up with anyone.

  I came here so I could feel something again, something I hadn’t felt in ages. I thought that feeling was “home” … I never thought it would come in the form of a rugged, brooding cowboy. I’ve known him all of one week, but it feels like much longer than that.

  Pulling himself off of me once more, he exhales. Our eyes hold, the world stops, and my fingertips brush my swollen lips.

  “I’m sorry…” His hands lift to his temples and he glances down. “It was a mistake. A huge fucking mistake.”

  “River.”

  With that, he heads outside, letting the screen door slam. I follow but stay inside, watching from the doorway until he disappears into the obscure cover of a South Dakota country night.

  I stand by the front door until I can’t see him any longer, and the moment I turn to climb the stairs, my phone begins to ring in the next room. A second later, I’m staring at Grant’s name flashing across my screen.

  I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail for the millionth time. When the alert plays I see the message is almost two minutes long. I don�
�t have to listen to it to know what it says. I’m sure it started out sweet, turned nasty, then warped into some desperate, whiny apology. All of Grant’s voicemails are exactly the same.

  He can present one hell of a case in a courtroom, but I’m one battle he won’t be winning.

  Adrenaline has worked its way through my system, and I know if I go upstairs now, I’ll just be tossing and turning, so I consider waiting on the front porch for River to come back, hesitating with my hand on the door knob.

  But he left for a reason.

  He needed space.

  I’m guessing I’m the first woman he’s kissed—the first woman he’s felt an ounce of emotion toward—since Allison.

  We can talk tomorrow over breakfast—I don’t want to leave here on an awkward note. I don’t want this experience to be tarnished by a guilt-laden kiss.

  It was a beautiful kiss shared by two broken souls, and I’ll remember it always.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  River

  I stand at the top of the stairs Friday morning, listening to the sound of Leighton’s voice as it travels from below.

  I made a mistake last night. A grave mistake.

  I never should’ve kissed her, but I got caught up in the moment. She was singing and dancing and laughing, and she looked so damn beautiful, so fucking carefree … and I felt it.

  I felt it all.

  I felt better than I had in five long years, and I let it get the best of me.

  But she’s leaving today, and I know deep down that I made the right decision by not getting carried away last night. After kissing her a second time, I forced myself to stop. And I left. I went for a walk to clear my head. When I came back, the house was dark and she was in bed.

  “There’s got to be a mistake,” I hear her say. “Can you check one more time?”

  I take the steps one by one, each one creaking.

  “Is there any way to check pending transactions?” she asks. “I know you did, but can you just check one more time? My boss has never been late with a paycheck.”

  I round the corner, approaching the kitchen, and I see her sitting at the head of the table, her phone pressed against her ear and her head in her hands.