And now, as I run my hand over the door that leads to the room that used to be my studio, I feel the hum beneath my skin for the first time in years.

  Fletcher robbed me of that. First with his anger at how I pissed off the citizens of Lone Star when I wrote that article and made life harder for him. Then it was because money was tight and he needed me to help out more on the ranch even though he barely let me do anything. When I could find a moment to sneak away to shoot, he would become enraged. Back then, I didn’t know it was because he didn’t want me talking to anyone in town. I didn’t realize he was afraid that if I did, someone would confront me and tell me about the overdue accounts and mounting debt.

  The anger and rage he’d fly into every time I grabbed my camera became too devastating.

  The fights became not worth it.

  So I gave up.

  And like everything else I had previously cherished in my life, I gave up photography to keep Fletcher happy.

  Twisting the knob, I push open the door and steel myself against the onslaught of emotions I know will come when I see the space again.

  And they come. The tsunami fueled by rage, betrayal, loss, and pain hits me the minute the room comes into view.

  The photos of things I loved about Fletcher that had been hanging on my mock clothesline across the far wall are torn into pieces and thrown around the room. Images that depicted a life of happiness and honesty but unbeknownst to me covered up a marriage based on deception and lies. The ones I ripped from their frames and hangers that I tore up in dramatic flair to try to do anything I could to relieve the hurt I felt when I’d learned what he’d done, what he’d hidden, and what he’d cost me.

  Photo after photo and memory after memory of a life I thought we shared.

  The desk is a mess of unedited prints that I was amassing for a future photobook project. A ceramic figure he’d bought me still lies shattered where I’d thrown it to the floor. The small satisfaction in its crunch was fleeting and only left me with a mess I haven’t cared to clean up.

  Our wedding photo still sits beneath the splintered glass of the frame. A day I thought held so much promise despite the absence of my parents or anyone else for that matter.

  Just the two of us.

  The two of us in a shotgun wedding at city hall.

  That was all I thought we’d needed.

  I glance around again, and the destruction tells me how very wrong I was.

  How had I missed the deception before the day I lost my mind in here?

  A brand new camera sits on the workbench. It’s the only thing not broken. It was Fletcher’s apology for smashing my other one “on accident” in a fit of rage after a major sale fell through.

  I’d let him talk me into believing he was crushed over the long-term loss it would bring and had forgiven him for his outburst.

  It’s the only thing untouched because it was the only thing I still gave a shit about.

  My destruction is visual evidence of what happened when I found that not only did my husband max out every credit card we had but that he’d also squandered away what I’d still had of my savings account from before my father cut me off. The small stash that I kept on the side for just in case was gone, and I hadn’t even known.

  This is the devastation I wrought after I found out my parents were right.

  This is the realization that I was used. Sure, the love I felt might have been real, but the trust and security were nothing more than a smoke screen.

  This is what the loss of the hopes and dreams I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life chasing looks like.

  I give my studio one last look before retreating the two steps I had walked in and shutting the door again.

  Tears salt my lip, but I don’t wipe them off as a broken laugh shreds my throat.

  It’s almost cruel that I woke from a dream about one man I don’t want to want only to be reminded of the dream shattered by the only man I ever wanted.

  “How about neither. How about neither are, were, or will ever be a good decision,” I mutter as I walk down the hallway on the way back to my bedroom. But when I pass a window and look toward the bunkhouse—at the darkened night beyond and the moonlight that seems to give the shadows a life of their own—my feet falter as the light inside flickers on.

  My breath catches when I see a silhouette cut across the doorway. For the briefest of moments, I think that it’s Fletcher and not Jack, my mind brought back to the months before his death when he spent more time there than at the main house, working late into the night.

  Or, rather, making bets with his bookies.

  Fletcher is dead, I remind myself.

  But Jack’s truck only rambled down the road and its headlights cut across my bedroom wall a few hours ago when he came back from wherever it is he goes every night when he clocks out. How in the hell can he already be up?

  But he is. And I watch as he reaches for the bar braced in the doorway and slowly pulls himself up, pauses, and then lowers himself.

  He does the pull-ups with an ease that’s impressive but with a determination that seems as if it’s a penance. One after another. Over and over. There is no break, just a punishing cadence that gives the impression—even across the distance—that he’s agitated by something.

  Curiosity has me watching him and asking myself questions I say I don’t want the answers to, knowing that’s a lie.

  Latent desire has me not turning away, my dream a not-so-distant memory that holds me captive just as securely as the man himself.

  I could turn away.

  I should turn away from the muscles rippling in his shoulders as he moves or the moonlight that reflects off sweat on his torso with each pull-up and then measured release back down. His body in tune as he demands physicality from it.

  But I don’t.

  Because I wonder.

  And I question.

  Would it be so bad to have a man like Jack Sutton for a lover? Would it be wrong to want to lose myself in someone simply so I can maybe find myself again?

  It would be the worst mistake I could ever make because it would mean I didn’t learn from the first time I’d made it. After all, wasn’t the need to find myself one of the reasons I followed Fletcher in the first place? He offered me a way to be free of the restrictions of my parents so I could be me. He promised a future where we could raise our child with unconditional love.

  I scoff.

  Yes, he offered that, and what a pretty lie it had been.

  I need to stop watching and go to bed.

  Succumbing to the exhaustion from exerting himself for the past however long it’s been, Jack puts his feet on the ground and braces his hands on his knees to what I can only assume is to catch his breath.

  Way too many complications to add him to the mix.

  I jump as my refrigerator icemaker kicks on and then close my eyes and laugh at my own nervousness. When I open them again, I find Jack standing, back straight and head angled just slightly to the side. It feels as if he’s looking straight at me.

  A gasp sneaks past my lips before I freeze, quelling the urge to duck away from the window.

  I know there is no way he can see me since the room behind me is so dark even my silhouette would be hard to make out. Yet, he still stares in my direction through the darkness, and I still stand where I am, staring back as chills climb over my skin and prick my scalp, pulling it tight.

  I’m not sure why I stand here like this in the early morning hours with an invisible connection across the distance that I’m not even certain is real, but I do. And then, as if he doesn’t understand it either, Jack gives a subtle shake of his head before disappearing into his house and shutting the door.

  I need to stay damn clear of him . . . at all costs.

  10

  TATE

  I know he’s behind me.

  Even if his shadow didn’t cut the bright sunlight the open stable doors welcomed in, I’d still know he was there.

  Because he’s been everywhere over the past few days.

  If he’s not in the ring letting the horses get to know him, he’s in the stable organizing it to his liking while irritating me by putting things in places different than I’m used to. When he’s not hammering something somewhere, fixing whatever it was I obviously didn’t, he’s dropping schedules and ideas on my desk in the form of Post-It notes because I’m never around long enough for him to talk to me.

  He’s even in my thoughts when I don’t want him to be simply because he has to be.

  Jack freaking everywhere.

  So much so that I’ve been feeling claustrophobic in my own house, on my own land, as I try to navigate to anywhere but where he is while also having to work with him in some capacity.

  We’ve worked in silence when we were forced to be near each other, him asking what’s wrong in that confident yet playful way he has while I assert that everything is fine.

  This is all because I decided to give him the job.

  No. It’s happening because I decided to let him in and use the situation to figure out how to trust again.

  Strictly for the ranch that is.

  The anger I have derives from something else. I know it despite how vehemently I try to deny it.

  It’s because every damn time I look at him, I’m reminded of his gentle way with Willow the other day, his spectacular voice, and the incredible way he kisses.

  And then I feel ridiculous all over again because who gets embarrassed by a kiss that happened in a dream? Who tries to tell themselves it means nothing when they had the same damn dream again last night?

  It’s ludicrous at best, asinine at worst, and frustrating all around.

  Of course, the dream comes rushing back to me now as I feel the heat of his stare on my back. I pretend he isn’t there and continue to measure the supplements for each horse so I can mix it in with their grain.

  “Are we ever going to talk about this?” Jack finally asks, the dirt beneath his feet crunching on the concrete floor as he shifts his weight.

  “Talk about what?” Nonchalant. Unaffected. My attention still focused on what I’m doing.

  “About why you keep avoiding me.”

  “I’m not avoiding you.”

  He chuckles, and the deep rumble echoes off the wall so that it hits my ears twice and makes it seem as if he’s everywhere. “Yes, you are. Now, what seems to be the problem, Knox?”

  “My name is Tatum. Or Tate.”

  “Or Knox,” he says, pulling me to glance over my shoulder at him for the first time. His silhouette is haloed by sunshine, and there’s the slightest of smirks on his lips.

  Click.

  Jesus. Get a grip.

  “I’m working here. Shouldn’t you be doing the same?” I snap, irritated at myself for wanting to take his picture.

  “I am. Part of my job is communicating with you, and you are sure as hell making that more than hard to do.”

  “I thought we were doing just fine. I handle the feed and grooming. You handle the horses and everything else we agreed upon in that fancy contract you signed. So, as long as we stay out of each other’s ways, we’ll get along perfectly.”

  His shadow against the wall in front of me moves as he takes a step closer. “Works for me, but I can’t do my job properly because we have yet to sit and talk about the breeding schedule or the budget for stud fees. The—”

  “I trust you to handle it.”

  He emits a low, disbelieving chuckle. “Handle what, exactly? A little direction would be nice. A budget would be a good start. Information about who’s already been bred with who would also be helpful. But hell, if you’re giving me carte blanche to do as I please, I’ll just shoot for the damn moon and find a Thoroughbred for Ruby—”

  “That isn’t what I said!” The words tumble out in a panic. The stud fees that Fletcher used to quote have my throat closing up. There’s no way I can afford anywhere even close to them. More importantly, Ruby’s up for sale. The last thing I need is her getting pregnant and losing the only way I have to keep this place afloat. I scramble with what to say, with how to tell him I don’t even have enough money to pay him let alone exorbitant stud fees. “Leave Ruby out of this.”

  “You said you trusted me, though.” He flashes me a smile and then tilts his head in thought. “Why is it you get so irritated with me? One minute, you’re fine, the next, you aren’t. It’d make this working environment a whole lot easier if you just admitted you liked me and told me I’m doing a good job.” He takes a step closer to me. “In fact, fantastic would be an even better adjective to use.”

  “Fantastic?” I ask with a lift of my eyebrows and a shake of my head. When he takes another step toward me, I want to take one in retreat but am unable to with the counter at my back.

  The dreams come back to me. The feel of his body against mine. The taste of his kiss on my lips. The featherlight touch of his fingertips over my skin.

  The settled feeling I had from his presence during them is almost overwhelming.

  He leans forward and lowers his voice, that cocksure grin irritating and attractive all at the same time. “Yes, fantastic.”

  His voice right now doesn’t help me forget anything at all.

  “You’re staring at me,” I finally say after a few seconds have passed, and I’m more unnerved than not without anything pertinent to say.

  “And?”

  “And don’t you have work to do?”

  “Sure do.” Another megawatt smile meant to irritate me. “But until you start filling me in on the details I need to do it, then I’m just going to follow you around”—he crosses his arms over his chest, leans his hip against the wall, and simply holds that smile as steadfast as his gaze— “and stare at you like you do me.”

  “I don’t stare at you.”

  I absolutely do.

  His laughter is his answer. “Most women have a hard time resisting the jeans and the hat.” I begin to speak, and he cuts me off. “I know. You are not most women.” Moving a step closer to me, he takes the scoop from my hand without asking, and begins to measure the supplements. “But I’ll grow on you. Pretty soon, you won’t have any other choice but to like me.” His shoulder rubs against mine as he leans forward to pour the supplements into Sky’s bucket. “Next thing you know, you’ll be daydreaming about me.”

  “Give me the scoop,” I say through a laugh with a swipe of my hand, but he holds his hand above his head, which makes it impossible for me to reach.

  “Nope. Not until you talk, Knox. We can’t make this work—the ranch, that is—until you get me up to speed on all its problems.”

  “You’ve seen all the problems. In fact, you don’t hesitate to point them out every time you find a new one.”

  He gives his head a measured nod, but his eyes don’t waver. “There are always problems no one can see. Those are the ones that will ruin a ranch . . . pull it under. Last time I checked, you not trusting me is one of those problems.”

  I bristle at the truth in what he just said . . . and lie. “I trust you.”

  “Nice try, but lip service isn’t going to do shit. You won’t give trust, but you expect it. That there is a problem.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No.” I raise my voice and stand on my tiptoes to reinforce my denial and hope that it hides the fact that I’m on the defensive. Really, I want to refute everything he’s saying simply because he’s right.

  “Then we’ll do this another way,” he says and takes a step back, his words confusing me. “You’re doing this all wrong.”

  I bark out a laugh of disbelief and pretend the condescension in his voice and the rebuke doesn’t sting. “What do you mean I’m doing this all wrong? The ranch? You’re the one doing everything wrong,” I say calmly while my pulse pounds in my ears.

  “Define everything.”

  “The horses. The schedule. The—the . . . just everything.”

  “You mean the schedule you refuse to talk to me about? That schedule?” His chuckle grates on my nerves. “Why don’t you tell me specifically what I’m doing wrong with the schedule and then explain to me how you normally handle it so I can correct the error in my ways?”

  I want to stomp away and leave him to enjoy his sarcasm all alone, but I end up narrowing my eyes and glaring at him instead.

  “You changed the routine.”

  He swears under his breath. “How would I know I changed it if you never gave me one to follow in the first place? Let’s see. I’ve tended to the horses, I’ve put in calls to past associates, trying to cash in IOUs to get some of them out here to look at us as a breeding partner, the stables are getting a much-needed facelift, and the farrier was out here today. For not knowing the routine, I’d say I’m doing pretty damn fantastic. Forgive me if I’m not adhering to your routine, but they’re always easier to follow when they aren’t imaginary.”

  “You can add knocking that condescending smirk off your lips,” I say and hold my hand out for him to give me the scoop back.

  “Should I use my invisible pen to add it to the imaginary schedule?”

  “It’s time for you to go and work now and to stop badgering me. I’ll get you the lists and schedules and whatever else you want by tonight,” I say, making the offer purely to get him and his charming smile out of my face because it’s so much easier to ignore my dreams when he isn’t in my line of sight. “Is that acceptable?”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter.

  “Just face it, Knox. You’re head over heels in love with me.” He finally smiles, dimple winking and those eyes lighting up as he takes a step toward me, holding the scoop to his chest. “You can’t be near me because you want me, and you can’t talk to me because you get all flustered and tongue-tied.”

  “There is nothing about you I find attractive,” I lie.

  He places the scoop in my hand but doesn’t let it go when I try to take it. “It’d be much easier and a whole lot less distracting if I could say the same of you.” He lets go of the scoop and dips the tip of his hat in an aw-shucks kind of way. “But I’m not one to lie.”