“I didn’t know about them. He ran the finances. He had the passwords to everything. He—”

  “And you never asked? You never paid your own bills?”

  I laugh in unease. “I’m not—I didn’t used to be detail oriented with stuff like that. When I left home, I sucked at it and just let him handle it.” I shake my head, hating that I have shame heavy in my belly. I’d been so complacent and naïve that I never bothered to try to handle my own finances. After the first payment I missed because I was so distracted taking pictures of all the new scenery to remember, I hadn’t wanted the responsibility, and that’s on me. “I didn’t know about the late accounts until the first time I showed my face in town after Fletcher died.”

  “Who ran the ranch?”

  “We did.”

  “The day-to-day, who ran it?”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Just answer the goddamn question, Knox!”

  I flinch and hate that, for the briefest of seconds, he sounds like Fletcher used to in those last few weeks, which is to say demanding and agitated and nonsensical.

  “We did. He did the major stuff like the breeding schedules and stud fees and payroll. The . . . the day-to-day,” I say, flustered and confused.

  “And your role?”

  I try not to get my feathers ruffled at his tone. He has no idea how completely inadequate I always felt or how Fletcher didn’t let me do anything when all I wanted to do was more.

  “I exercised the horses. I groomed them . . . but other than what I learned from hearing the guys talk or watching them work, I didn’t know much else than that.”

  “You lived here for years, and you think I’m going to believe that you just sat idly by the whole time?”

  “I wasn’t idle. I was sneaking out when I could to do photography on the side.”

  “Of what?”

  “Ranch life and landscapes. Things I had planned on putting in my portfolio to someday try to open a gallery with.”

  His head angles to the side momentarily as he chews over what I’ve said, as he decides whether I’m lying or not.

  “How did you think you were getting supplies?”

  “What do you mean? Like feed?”

  “And groceries and everything else. If you weren’t going into town, everything was being delivered, right?”

  “Yes.” I draw the word out because he just answered his own question so I’m not sure he needs more.

  “Why didn’t you go to town for them?” There’s something in his tone—in what he’s looking for—that almost feels like, if I say the wrong thing, he’s going to walk out and never come back.

  I hate that the thought makes me panic.

  What the hell happened?

  “Fletcher didn’t like me going into town alone. He was paranoid about something happening to me. But—”

  “So why didn’t he go with you?”

  “Stop cutting me off!” I shout, which kind of shocks him so that he steps back. He doesn’t speak or even try to apologize. He just stares at me with an unrelenting desire to have answers to questions I don’t understand why he’s asking. “I didn’t realize that Fletcher asking me to stay here was really him controlling me until after he died. He had me convinced he was protecting me from the people in town—their judgment and harsh words—and I was dumb enough not to question it.” I shrug, feeling like an idiot as fresh shame settles over me like a well-worn jacket from the back of my closet. “He told me stories about how he was treated in town. How people still made comments about the stupid story I wrote. How the Destin twins were still upset about us getting the ranch. He made it seem like it was just easier if I stayed here. He convinced me, and I believed him.”

  “So, he locked you up here like Rapunzel, but instead of putting you in a tower, he put cameras on the gates to watch your comings and goings?” he asks sarcastically, and my spine stiffens, his comments making me feel stupid and compliant. He snorts. “I have a hard time believing the woman with a blazing temper and loaded shotgun would ever put up with that kind of shit.”

  I despise that every part of me agrees with him but knows that unless he was in that moment, unless he had been so worn down mentally that he believed the mistruths he was being told, he couldn’t ever truly understand.

  My throat tightens as I force a swallow over the lump in it. I should just nod and tell him I agree because he’s right.

  But I was a different person back then. A person who saw the signs but was too afraid to speak up. A woman who saw the hints that her husband’s explosive temper was more than just the stress of trying to make this place thrive. A wife who wanted to believe that the long nights he spent in the bunkhouse were because of work or that he really did accidentally leave his phone there instead of leaving it on purpose so that I wouldn’t see or answer his calls.

  A spouse too afraid to speak up and face the truth because I was held captive by my decisions.

  “Right, Knox?” he says my last name like a slur. “Why didn’t you leave then, huh? Why didn’t you—”

  “You want to question me. What about if I want to question you?” I say, my mind scattered as I try to shove away all the emotions his accusations have drummed up. “What kind of man takes a six-month contract to work as a ranch manager? What kind of man gets turned down for a job but sticks around town just to wait to see if the owner will change her mind? Who are you, Jack?”

  “You know everything about me you need to know. It’s all there in my resume.” His nonchalance does nothing more than push my buttons and not in a good way.

  “I know your history—a breeder, a trainer, a guy with connections, but I don’t know shit about you. You could be an axe-murderer for all I know.”

  His laughter rings through the house. “That’s it. I prey on single female ranchers. I stay with them for a month, put up with their temper and defensiveness, and then decide to kill them. That’s exactly who I am.” He shakes his head and takes a step forward while I take one in retreat, my ass hitting the accent table that lines the wall behind me. “Is that enough of an answer?”

  His lips barely move when he says the last sentence, and for some reason, when the scent of his shampoo or cologne or whatever the hell that fresh scent he wears hits my nose . . . I have a hard time remembering that I’m angry at him.

  I have a hard time forgetting that I’m not supposed to be attracted to him.

  “Why Texas?” I ask, my eyes flickering between his lips and his eyes and then back again.

  “Same thing could be asked of you.” His voice lowers to a deep tenor that is nothing but seduction when I don’t want to be seduced.

  “Because that’s where Fletcher wanted to move to.” I draw in a shaky breath. “You?”

  “A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. They knew I needed a change of scenery for a bit. There was a death in my family. Someone I was close to, but I didn’t get back in time to see him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mmm.” He nods, and I hate seeing the pain that fleets through his eyes, but the minute I do, it’s gone. “Anyway, the friend of a friend of a friend . . . they told me about this woman who needed help but who had run everyone off.”

  “And you thought that sounded like an easy job?” I murmur with a smile because his words didn’t piss me off even though a minute ago I was ready to explode on him.

  He takes a step closer, his own lips curved up in a ghost of a smile. “Exactly. Nothing like a challenge to take my mind off things.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask again because gut instinct tells me there’s something more to it.

  “The same reason you are.”

  “So, your husband dragged you here and then died, leaving you with a world of shit to clean up?” I joke.

  He snorts. “No. I misspoke. Definitely not for the same reasons.” His expression softens, easing the lines around his eyes and relaxing the set of his chin.

  “What are your reasons, Jack?”

  “I’m keeping a promise I made to my father.”

  “And what do I have to do with that?” I ask.

  His lips twist as our stares hold for a beat. “Nothing really. It’s—It’s complicated.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, and the scrape of it over his stubble fills the room. “Maybe I’m just escaping everything that’s expected of me and trying to figure out who the hell I am before I have to get back to it.”

  His words hit me to the core, and even though I have no idea what he means, I feel like we have found a tentative common ground. We both feel a bit lost and need to regain a bit of control.

  We get each other. It sounds stupid and is even more ridiculous to feel that way . . . but I can’t explain it—I do.

  “Enough about me, Knox.” He breathes the sentence out as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. There’s something about Jack Sutton that calls to me, and it’s so much more than learning how to trust again.

  “Jack?” I murmur.

  “Hmm?” He darts his tongue out to wet his lips.

  “What happened tonight? Why are you . . . I don’t understand why you’re—”

  “Because I need to make sure I’m right in my thinking.”

  His eyes dart down to my lips then back up to my eyes as his fingertips trace a line down the side of my neck until his palm rests on my shoulder. I want to know what he needs to be right about, but his hand is stealing all my focus. The warmth of his skin and the possessiveness in his touch have my body reacting, aching, wanting, needing.

  “If I’m right”—he brushes his thumb back and forth over my collarbone as I force myself to remember to breathe—“then I can do what I’ve thought about doing all damn night.”

  “What’s that?”

  He looks toward the door for a split second, as if he’s making a decision, and then turns back to me.

  “Jack?” His name is a plea because I hope he wants to do the same thing I’m terrified of and thrilled about at the same time. “What is it you’ve thought about doing all night?” My murmured words reverberate through the sexual tension that’s palpable.

  “Get you out of my goddamn system.” Then his lips crash onto mine and his hand fists in the back of my hair as he holds my head right where it is.

  React.

  Feel.

  Savor.

  The second his tongue demands to taste mine, my breath catches.

  My body freezes. My hands and heart are statues as I try to process what’s happening, as I let him chase away the uncertainty that wants to creep in.

  I don’t want to think. All I want to do is feel anything other than the doubt and the worry and hate that have consumed me for the past year. With his lips on mine and with such intention in his touch, I know I could get lost in these feelings.

  The scrape of his stubble against my chin. The roughness of his fingertips on my bare arms. The taste of beer on his tongue. The humming noise he emits in the back of his throat that rumbles against my lips.

  To feel. To ache. To want.

  To run my hands up his chest and fist in his shirt.

  To remember nothing but the last caress of his tongue.

  To want him to kiss me slowly.

  The moment I sink into the kiss completely and allow myself the possibility that I could deserve this, Jack tears his lips from mine with a groan that’s part desire, part regret.

  His hands are on my shoulders as his eyes close momentarily.

  “This isn’t . . .” He takes a step back, a grin of disbelief on his lips and desire lacing the edge in his eyes. “You deserved better than that.”

  When he retreats another step, I want to reach out and pull him back toward me, but better sense stops me before I make an ass out of myself.

  It was just a kiss.

  But the smile curling up his mouth tells me he wanted it as much as I did.

  Of course he did. He’s the one who initiated it.

  I giggle, which sounds stupid and causes a blush to heat my cheeks. I know I look like an idiot, but he just kissed me—like kissed me, kissed me, and I don’t even know what to do next because it’s been so long since anyone made me feel this way.

  He takes another step back. “I’m gonna go now, Knox.”

  No. Stay.

  “My name is Tate.” I can’t remember if he’s ever called me it, and my commenting on it is the only sliver of sanity I can seem to grasp on to.

  “I know what your name is.”

  “Then why do you always call me Knox?”

  It’s his breath that stutters this time. “Because it reminds me that you’re another man’s.”

  If his voice and eyes and presence and that kiss weren’t so mesmerizing, so all consuming in this darkened foyer that is clouded with everything about him, I might laugh. I might roll my eyes and shake my head.

  But he’s here, and I can’t think of anything other than how much I want him to be here.

  “I don’t belong to anyone, Jack.” My voice is a ghost of a resolute sound woven between the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

  When his eyebrows lift and his smile widens, there is a boyish quality I never would have expected etched in the lines of his masculine face.

  “Next time, I’ll remember that.”

  “Will there be a next time?” I ask before I can bite it back, and I end up almost as embarrassed by the hope in my tone as I am desperate for him to kiss me again.

  A shake of his head. Another step back. “I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  I hate that he’s reaching for my doorknob.

  “That wasn’t nearly enough to get you out of my system.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling as he opens the door, revealing the moonlit sky behind him.

  “Then why are you leaving?” I ask as I twist my fingers together and shift on my feet to abate the sweet burn between the apex of my thighs.

  “Because it’s your move, Knox. When we sleep together, it isn’t going to be a mistake. That’s one word I never want to hear pass over your lips when it comes to me. I will never be a mistake . . . but right now, you aren’t sure if it would be or not. I want you to be sure.”

  “Oh.”

  His lopsided smirk pulls higher on one side. His dimple melts parts of me that are already heated enough.

  “Your move,” he murmurs as his eyes do a slow sweep down the length of my body.

  I nod, afraid to speak because my body is desperate for his touch and every part of me wants harder than I have in as long as I can remember, but he’s right.

  “’Night, Jack.”

  “’Night, Knox.”

  15

  TATE

  I use my vibrator for the first time in forever that night.

  As I reach for it from the depths of my nightstand drawer, I can’t help but understand why Jack goes to the bar every evening. It’s hard as hell to want a man who’s within walking distance and not be able to have him.

  If I feel this way after one kiss, it’s going to be torture over the next however long it is until we kiss again.

  The thought puts a goofy grin on my face.

  Instead of giving in to the temptation and acting like a teenager who can’t control her hormones, I lie in bed, close my eyes, and relive every single thing about that kiss.

  The scent of his skin.

  The taste on his tongue.

  The groaned hum of approval.

  I keep my eyes closed as I slide my fingers between my thighs. I’m already slick with arousal as my fingertips circle over my clit.

  The groan this time comes from my own lips, but I still hear his in my ears as I turn on my vibrator and touch it to my sensitized flesh.

  I hear the rumbled tenor of his voice as he says my name, making my nipples tighten beneath my thin tank. When I see the desire in his eyes as he lowers himself over me, my legs tense and I begin to move the toy in circles. I feel the fullness as the length of his cock pushes into me. My breath begins to labor as I work my nerves into a frenzy and fantasize about what he’d feel like moving inside me. I imagine what his body atop of mine would feel like and wonder how he’d sound . . . what he’d look like as he came.

  My body detonates into a thousand pulses of pleasure. Blissful warmth and heightened sensitivity followed by heavy pants and quickened heartbeats.

  But it’s Jack on my mind.

  It’s Jack who I want.

  It’s Jack who I plan to have.

  16

  TATE

  The thunder rumbles in the distance, and the sky is gray with clouds building upon one another, but it doesn’t stop me from riding.

  I need the breeze in my hair.

  I need the distance stretched out before me.

  I need the dreams that have haunted me—good and bad—to clear my head.

  I need to forget the threats from the lender earlier today on the phone and Sheryl’s urging me to call my parents to ask for help.

  Hell, I need to get laid by Jack.

  It’s my laughter that carries loud and carefree above the rush of the wind in my ears and the pound of Ruby’s hooves against the ground. There’s a freedom in acknowledging that I’m a woman who wants sex and intends to have it.

  There isn’t any shame, and it doesn’t feel as if I’m contemplating cheating on Fletcher.

  It’s just a decision made and the anticipation of an orgasm given to me by the hands and lips and body belonging to Jack Sutton

  We run at top speed over the terrain without a destination other than to get there fast. Each step allowing me to drown a little more out.

  My past.

  My future.

  And just be.

  And I try, I really do, but every few seconds, flashbacks of my past sneaks back through. Fletcher’s anger. His carefully chosen words on why I should stay close, and my suspicion that maybe my accident really wasn’t an accident.

  “C’mon, Rubes.” I dig my heels into her side to spur her on even though she doesn’t need it. She already knows what to do. The need to run is coursing through her veins just as sure as her blood is.

  Memories flicker through my mind as quickly as her feet do across the ground.