The studio is clean but cluttered, minimalist in décor because the items that make the biggest statement are her work.

  I move to the clipped pictures. There are images of a hand on a coiled rodeo rope, some of the thumb and forefinger pinching the top of a cowboy hat, and still more of the nostrils of a horse with what looks like a smiling mouth.

  Details.

  That’s the first word that comes to mind. She picks the tiniest detail, focuses on it, and lets the background become the canvas somehow. I’m sure there’s a term for it, but fuck if I know it.

  I run my fingers over them. I feel stupid doing it, but they call to me, and I can’t help but feel as if I am meeting a whole different side of Tatum Knox while looking at these photos.

  It’s as if the hardened woman with a defiant temper and determined streak a mile long is also this introspective observer. She’s someone who watches and waits and only clicks that button at the most perfect of opportunities.

  The last image against the wall startles me. It’s nothing like the others. Not animal or landscape or part of life. It’s of a letter, and the words on it call to me to read it, to step deeper into this world of this woman I don’t quite understand but want to. The sloppy handwriting reminds me of the last letter I received that pushed me to take some time to find myself again.

  I know she’s standing behind me. I can sense her—can smell the scent of her skin—but I don’t turn to face her. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the photographed letter in front of me.

  So, I give her a minute to come to terms with the fact that I just invaded what I can only assume is her private sanctum.

  “I was right. You need to start taking pictures again. Your work is incredible.”

  The floorboards creak as she moves closer, but I keep reading the words of a desperate man telling his wife he’s sorry. The wishes for a happier future. The blessing for her to have a next time. His final goodbye.

  I read the words with contempt. I see a selfish man who can’t face the deeds he’s done. I see a coward.

  I stare at the scrawled writing reflected on glossy paper a few more seconds and finally understand the conflict of emotions Tatum Knox has lived with. How she could love her husband and hate him at the same time. How she heard the words and believed them, only to find out all the lies behind them.

  When I turn to face her, I’m knocked astride momentarily.

  Sure her cheeks are flushed and her hair is wild from the sex we just had, but there is an intensely raw honesty in her eyes that tells me she knows I know.

  That tells her that her secret is out.

  That tells me she trusts me when trust isn’t something she gives freely.

  Fucking everything.

  “Did you love him?” I ask without hesitation, hating the wince she gives me but needing the answer all the same.

  “What kind of question is that?” She sputters over her response, spine stiffening, and eyes narrowing.

  “A simple one,” I say, knowing a part of me is asking for selfish reasons considering I just had sex with her against the wall and hate the thought of her loving someone who didn’t deserve her. “Did you love him?”

  She opens her mouth and then closes it, her thoughts having to catch up with her mouth. “Of course, I loved him. Why would you even ask me that?”

  “Not everyone loves their partner.”

  She twists her lips but keeps her eyes on me, not shying away from my directness that makes most squirm. “He was my everything . . . and then he wasn’t.” Her voice is a whisper that is tempting me to ask so many questions.

  And then he wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say. All I can think to say because I hate the fucker. Call me an asshole, call me judgmental, but the more I learn about him, the more I’m glad I didn’t get the chance to know him.

  Anyone who puts that look of love edged with regret, devotion laced with deception, in to someone else’s eyes isn’t worth my time.

  “He wrote me a letter,” she says, her voice scratchy and uncertain.

  “So I see.” I glance back at it, wishing I could shred it and add it to the pile of ruined photos in the bags. “And you took a photo of it.”

  “I only take pictures of things that move me.”

  I nod and hate that his words moved her. Fuck it. Let’s face it, I hate everything about him that has to do with her from her last name to the photo of the hands on the reins that I sure as shit know are his, to her bed, which I want to lay her down in but that I know he shared with her.

  “He left you a letter,” I say.

  “I took a picture of it because I was afraid the police were going to take it from me.”

  Her comment surprises me, but I take a few steps to my left and lean my hips against the workstation and wait for her to explain.

  I’ve already connected the dots and pieced together what happened.

  “How’d he die?”

  “Car accident.” She waits a beat, looking down at her fingers twisting together before looking back at me. “They said he was distracted with texting and hit a tree.”

  “Do you think it was an accident, Tate?” I ask what she’s afraid to say.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks.

  “That looks like a suicide note to me.”

  The woman in front of me nods ever so slightly, her shoulders shuddering with her next breath.

  And what the fuck do I say to that? How do I soothe her when I’m fucking torn over it myself?

  A man so desperate to avoid facing his dire financial situation that he ended his life. I wonder how bad it has to be to get to that.

  “Did the sheriff see this?”

  “Fletcher didn’t have any bags with him in the truck. If he was leaving—if that was a Dear John letter—then he would have had bags with him.” She hiccups over the words and ignores my question.

  “I don’t understand,” I say as I move toward her and hunch down so I can look her in the eyes. Why does it matter so much how he died? Why is she so upset by it other than the obvious?

  “It isn’t your fault.” My hands are on her shoulders and move up to frame her face, my thumbs wiping away the tears that fall. “Regardless of what happened, it is not your fault.” I could be speaking to myself but choose not to hear the words. “He’s the one who did this. He’s the one who left you to clean up this mess.”

  “I just . . . it all happened so fast. I didn’t show Rusty. I didn’t tell him about it. They ruled it an accident. They—”

  “Why are you beating yourself up?”

  Her lip quivers beneath my fingers. “Because the insurance company sent me money.”

  “For the car? For what?” I ask, trying to comprehend.

  “His life insurance. I sent them his death certificate and they sent it to me.” Another hiccup. “What was I supposed to do? I didn’t even know he’d taken a policy out the year before.”

  I don’t mean for the laugh to fall from my lips, but it does. “This is what you’re upset about? You accepted life insurance money after he died and you’re worried because the medical examiner listed his cause of death as one thing when you think it might be something else?”

  Her eyes, pooling with tears, widen, and she nods.

  And then it clicks.

  It isn’t solely about the thought of suicide. It’s also about her integrity.

  “You’re afraid you scammed the system? Is that it? That you took money you wouldn’t have gotten if his death had been ruled a suicide when you think it might have been.”

  Another tear slips over and slides down her cheek. “I used it to pay the overdue accounts so I could try to make this work. I swear—”

  “Shh,” I say, and when she goes to speak again, I brush my lips against hers to stop her.

  “I didn’t have a choice. I took the money to pay off his debt. I only wanted to—”

  “Shh,” I say again, my own guilt eating at me.

  My own remorse simmering for so many damn reasons.

  How easy would it be for me to hand her a check and take all this worry away from her? How simply I could pay this all off so that her worry and guilt and grief could be laid to rest? It would be as easy as putting pen to paper. It would make amends, but then what?

  It isn’t as if doing that would solve my own issues. It isn’t as if doing that will stop the ball from rolling downhill when it is already on its way down.

  “I know. I just—”

  “In life, sometimes you have to do things you never thought you would to get by or to put one foot in front of the other until you can see straight again.”

  This woman who can hold her own, can threaten to shoot you if need be, has survived every hostility this town has thrown at her before and after his death, but is reduced to a pile of tears over a possible lie that most people wouldn’t even blink an eye at.

  Her honesty is astounding. The way it has wrecked her even more so.

  “Tate.” I pull her against me and wrap my arms around her. She hesitates for a second, almost as if she doesn’t think she deserves my compassion, but then she slides her arms around my waist.

  And we take a moment to just hold each other in the middle of her studio that reflects a past she’s been burned by, a future she has before her, and a man who isn’t quite sure how to deal with any of this.

  For a man who doesn’t ever need shit like comfort or connection, her head under the curve of my neck, her arms wrapped around me, and the shudder of her hiccupped sobs against my chest feel pretty fucking good.

  31

  TATE

  “Can you stop the bank from having people show up here unannounced?” I growl at Sheryl the minute she picks up the call.

  “What—why—hi, Tatum. How are you today?”

  “The lender had an appraiser show up here like they already own the place. He tried to tell me lenders appraising the property their loans are for is standard practice. I call bullshit. Jesus, Sheryl. He walked around without announcing himself or saying a damn word.”

  The pure panic that hit me the moment I saw him talking to Sylvester comes back. How I sprinted across the pasture to prevent the appraiser from telling anyone the truth. How the anger rioted and shame washed over me in a violent wave when I pulled him away and told him he needed to get off my property.

  Thank God Jack was at the hardware store and missed it.

  “That shouldn’t be happening. I’m in regular contact with them. They know we’re trying to get you up to date on payments.”

  “Well, it’s happening on a regular basis. Can you just assure them the land and ranch are still here and they haven’t gone anywhere so they can stop checking? Besides, they sent papers over but haven’t formally started proceedings so they have no right to be here. Hell, the paperwork said that it can take up to six months to begin . . . so let them know, this isn’t theirs yet. They can’t have it.”

  “I’ll call them again.”

  “Do that,” I snap and then sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch. I just don’t want the staff knowing.”

  Her throaty laugh fills the line. “Yes, you did mean to be a bitch, but I know it wasn’t directed at me.” The sound of papers shuffling fills the line. “I’ll call them again. And I’ll let them know again, that we’re not just throwing our hands up and walking away.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  I end the call, lean against the wall of the stable at my back, and exhale my frustration.

  “You don’t want the staff to know what?”

  I jump at the sound of Jack’s voice and a startled yelp falls from my lips. “Jesus Christ, Jack. You scared the shit out of me.” I hold a hand to my heart to calm the panic of Jack overhearing any of that phone call.

  “Just heading out to help Will.” He holds up his tool belt to prove his point but then narrows his gaze and takes a step closer. “Is everything okay?”

  I nod. “Yes. Great. Fine.”

  He glances around and then reaches out and runs his thumb over my cheek. “You know if you needed to talk to me, I’m here.” He drops his hand when Will laughs close by.

  “I know.”

  He offers a ghost of a smile. “You’re saying the words, Knox, but I’m not one for lip service. You need to mean them.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “If there were a problem, you know you could trust me with it. I’d help.”

  My smile is tight as my guilt eats me whole. “No problem at all.”

  He purses his lips and nods a few times. “Okay then.”

  Jack walks down the path with a glance back before turning the corner so I can’t see him again.

  Sagging against the building behind me, I wonder how much longer I can keep this hidden. How much longer will I be able to hold on and play the part that nothing is wrong?

  The second anyone in town catches so much as a whiff of this, the Destin twins will be out for blood while the rest of the townspeople I work with will withhold their services, afraid I won’t be able to pay them. I won’t be able to keep it from Jack then.

  My reputation may suck in this town, but my payables in Lone Star are up to date.

  And that is what’s currently keeping this place afloat.

  32

  TATE

  Something has shifted.

  I’m not sure if it’s me or if it’s Jack, but after the night he saw my studio, something has changed between us.

  I feared our little chat behind the stables might have changed that. That Jack would figure out I am keeping things from him, and it would shift our new dynamic.

  But it didn’t.

  Everything feels the same and yet so very different.

  It’s as if I can finally breathe. His reassurances and the way he held me tight that night changed things, but I’m not quite sure if I can put my finger on how. Is it trust? Is it that I have someone I can confide in? Or is it that I finally have something to look forward to, like the little glances he sends my way when I least expect them.

  “Will, when and if Steely wants to move forward, things are going to happen fast.”

  “Ten-four, Jack,” Will says with a tip of his hat as he mucks out the stalls.

  My hand runs down Ruby’s flank, the brush right after it as I murmur sweet nothings to her, but my mind is on Jack. It’s on what he just said and what might happen if the Steely Brothers want to take a chance on us.

  “With the girls about to go in estrus, which will happen sooner rather than later, they’ll send some guys out to stay here. We talked about logistics, and it’s easier for them to bring the studs here for the month than for us to travel to them. And if Doc Arlington’s right, the mares we have will start going into labor about the same time.”

  “It’s ’bout to get busy around here.” Will laughs.

  “In more ways than one,” Jack jokes. There’s a clatter of pails against the concrete floor and the sound of a hose being turned on. “If it goes the way we think it will, I might be asking you to stay a few nights up here with me in the bunkhouse. All of that’s a lot for Tate and me to manage on a normal day, but trying to pretend like we’re ten times bigger than that for these Steely guys’ sake means we need to look like it too.”

  My mind tries to calculate where the money is going to come from to feed hungry cowboys for a month. I think back to the bills when we had a full staff before money started getting tight and cringe.

  I’ll have to make a decision soon whether to use the money I’m saving by not having to pay Lone Star Feed toward trying to make up a mortgage payment, a show of good faith that I’m really trying, or use it for this new development.

  Rob Peter to pay Paul.

  Christ.

  Maybe I need to lower my asking price on Ruby.

  No matter what I decide, Jack’s right. We have to appear bigger than we are because no operation as huge as Steely Brothers is going to sign on a rinky-dink operation.

  “You good with that, Will?” Jack reiterates.

  “With staying here a few nights? Not a problem at all. My old man’s been hitting the bottle a lot lately, so I’d gladly take the chance to be elsewhere for a bit.”

  There’s a pause of silence, and I wish I could see Jack’s face because something tells me that little tidbit of information was new to him.

  “Hey, Will?” Jack asks.

  “Yeah?”

  I peek my head out from the stall to find Will looking at Jack, his expression serious and hopeful and all things youthful.

  “You’re welcome to stay up here any time you need to,” Jack offers. “You have a good future ahead of you. If you need to get away to keep your head on straight, know there’s a bunk here any time you need it.”

  Will nods but averts his eyes quickly, but I catch a sniffle as he occupies himself with an already mucked stall.

  Hell.

  Why did I need to see that? Why did I need to know that Jack is not only kind to me but also good to others?

  Why did my heart need to skip a beat?

  Jack looks over to me with a somber expression. He may be standing there with a hose in his hand cleaning down the stalls, but I see the man who was standing in my studio two nights ago. The one whose jeans hung low on his hips and tugged on the desire he awakened. The lover who didn’t judge me as I told him I cheated the system, who didn’t blame me for not wanting to believe my husband committed suicide to escape.

  The man who held me against his bare chest as we fell asleep on the couch after talking till the early morning hours.

  “You good?” he asks, and I just nod.

  But it’s the crunch of gravel that pulls my attention away from him. His eyes narrow as I walk to the stable’s opening to find Rusty’s cruiser pulling to a stop, the dust he kicked up swirling behind him.

  “What is it, Knox?” Jack asks, and I’m not sure what bugs me more: knowing why Rusty is here or Jack calling me Knox.