“Jack?” Her voice is surprised as she steps back to let me in.

  I might have the same damn startled look on my face, but it’s for such a very different reason.

  How in the hell did this woman with her storm-cloud-colored eyes and bee-stung lips win my fucking heart?

  “Is everything okay? I just heard your truck take off.” She looks toward the empty driveway again, confusion etching the lines of her face as she reaches out and runs a hand down my arm because I’m just standing there and staring at her.

  At her simplicity.

  At her need to be in control and ability to give it to me when it’s warranted.

  At her wild.

  “Yeah.” I step into her and press my lips to hers in a kiss so very different from any others I’ve given her before. This time, there is a softness in it. A regret. A knowledge that I only have so many of these left to give. “I missed you, is all.”

  She doesn’t respond with words.

  Instead, she pulls me into her arms and kisses me back with the same gentle desperation I feel.

  THE SKY IS TURNING GRAY. It’s subtle hues as the early morning sky prepares for the sun to rise remind me of Tate’s eyes.

  I turn to look at where she’s snuggled beneath the covers, hair fanned out on the tan pillowcase, one leg wrapped around the comforter’s edge while her breast is partially uncovered by the opposite end.

  She’s beautiful.

  Not in the typical sense. She’s slight in stature with small features, perfect tits, and a great ass, but it’s her unforgettable personality that draws me to her. Fire and ice when she needs to be and sunshine and storm clouds at other times.

  It takes everything I have not to crawl back into bed beside her and curl into her warmth, spread her thighs, and taste her again.

  My dick stirs to life as I think of the way she mewled and bucked beneath my tongue last night. When she tucked in close against me and her breath feathered over my skin as it evened out, I wanted to tell her the same three words she told me the other night.

  But I’d be awake.

  I’d know what I said.

  She doesn’t know she did.

  I need to go get my truck and then drive up the driveway before the guys wake up. I need to go pretend I was out getting laid by Violet instead of Tate.

  “Hey.” Her voice is husky, eyes squinting as she pushes the hair out of her face.

  “Morning.”

  She glances at the clock. “It’s early.” The two words are a groan that I couldn’t agree more with.

  “No. Stay in bed. Get some more sleep,” I say when she begins to push herself up.

  Bending over, I press a kiss to the top of her head as she grabs my pillow and hugs it to her before closing her eyes and snuggling back under the comforter. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” she murmurs, her voice sleep drugged as she falls back asleep.

  “I’ve got everything covered. Get some sleep, Tate.”

  I stride out of the room but look back one more time.

  Somewhere along the line, I forgot I came here because of a promise I made.

  Sometime over the past few months, I lost sight of the fact that I was supposed to be making amends with the universe. I’d forgotten that my purpose here was to right some of the wrongs I’d made in my real estate dealings when I took advantage of small ranch owners by trying to help Tate.

  Both of those notions have become one hundred percent overshadowed and forgotten because of her. Tatum Knox. The unexpected woman I can’t seem to get enough of.

  I’ve definitely fucking fallen for her.

  And hell if that isn’t a hard one to swallow.

  41

  TATE

  “Thanks for your help, Will.”

  “We’re the ones eating it all,” he says as he helps me carry the groceries into the bunkhouse. “It’s the least I can do.” He sets them on the table and then pauses. “Wait, you actually went into town and shopped? No delivery? What happened?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug. He doesn’t need to know that my trip was to test the temperature of the town. The stares were still there, and some people were still frosty when I tried to interact with them, but . . . it felt much less daunting this time around.

  “I just needed to take a mini-break. Go to town for a bit. Get an ice cream cone.”

  “Being around all us men has to get tiring.” He laughs.

  So says the eighteen-year-old.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Things are going well?” I ask nonchalantly because I don’t want to seem like I’m prying. “I mean . . . you’re okay with being here and staying here? I don’t mean to take you away from your family.” I stumble over the words I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know about what he said about his father’s drinking.

  “Tate.” I stop unloading the fruit from my bag and look at him. His blue eyes are loaded with emotion. “This is the longest span of time I’ve ever had where I haven’t had to block a fist being thrown my way.”

  “Will.” I don’t know what to say other than his name to let him know I hear him and I feel horrible for him.

  “He drinks to cope with my mom’s death . . . but that isn’t the life I want to live, so I’m trying my best to do better.”

  Emotion overwhelms me, and I have to force my hand not to shake. “Jack’s contract is up soon. Maybe you should consider if you want to stay on after that. With a paycheck, that is. We can figure something out so you can still do school at night. Hire a few more hands, and I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

  “Are you serious?” The hope woven into those three words lingers in the room.

  “Yes. I’ll talk to Jack about it and make sure he shows you what you need to know.”

  “I don’t even know what to say. I just . . .”

  “You’re a good kid, Will.”

  He drops his head and nods before stepping out to grab more groceries . . . or to gather himself. I follow a second later to find he’s gotten the rest of the groceries, so I shut the tailgate for him.

  “Where’s Jack anyway?” I ask.

  “Down in the breeding pen.”

  “’Kay.”

  The sun is playing peekaboo with the clouds as I make my way down to the pens for what feels like the hundredth time in the past weeks. The sounds I’ve grown accustomed to—anxious mares whinnying, testosterone-fueled stallions revved—are a soundtrack around me.

  My eyes are cast down, checking messages on my phone about upcoming food deliveries and times that Doc Arlington is available to come out to perform ultrasounds on the mares to see if any of this was a success, when a text from Sheryl pings, letting me know we might have a buyer for Ruby.

  I stare at the message as I let it settle in, and I allow myself to believe the horse that was such a staple for this ranch, such a beacon of hope for me in the darkest of times, might be leaving.

  My hands tremble as I dial her number.

  “Sheryl. It’s Tate.”

  “You got my message?”

  “Yes. It breaks my heart a little if I’m being honest,” I say as I bite my lip and lean back against the wall of the stable.

  “It’s going to break your bank account even more if you don’t.”

  “Are you sure, Sheryl? I mean, even if we sell all the foals that should be born over the next few months along with the income we know is coming from this contract with Steely, I still have to sell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sell who?” Jack’s eyes are shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, and thunder begins to rumble in the far-off distance when I meet his eyes. “Sell who, Knox?” he demands when I just stand there like a deer in the headlights.

  “Let me call you right back,” I tell Sheryl and hang up without waiting for her response.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me,” I snip back, defensive over the secret I’ve kept from him.

  “Tone?” he barks out. “How about you tell me what the fuck is going on here? I’m over here busting my ass to close this deal with Steely, who wants exclusivity. They want to know you’re their breeder, which I promised them you would be, and now you’re talking about selling a horse? Don’t you think that should be something your ranch manager should know?” he asks. “Selling a horse to someone else is not considered exclusivity.”

  “You don’t get to question me.” I see the man who came to me the other night, the one who laid me down on the bed and took his slow, sweet time worshipping my body, but I hear the same man who walked in here on day one full of an arrogance and condescension that echoed my father’s.

  “I’ll question you any goddamn time I want,” he counters, the muscle in his jaw feathering, his hands fisting.

  “No, you won’t.” My voice is part growl, part yell as the exhaustion of the past few weeks and stress of having to sell Ruby really mix with the guilt of keeping this from him.

  When he steps forward and grabs my arm, I flinch. There’s something about his expression that has me seeing Fletcher standing above me after he’d shoved me down into a chair, screaming about all the things I messed up for him. I feel that fear that hums beneath the surface and taste the bitter unsurety of whether he would actually hurt me.

  But Jack doesn’t notice. He’s oblivious to how I just put him and Fletcher in the same category while inside I’m silently dying over it as he leads me toward the house. If I didn’t know we had eyes watching us, I would have told him to fuck off and run the other way.

  It doesn’t help that Gracie isn’t too fond of what’s happening and is nipping at Jack’s heels as he walks, no doubt drawing even more attention to us.

  Our labored breathing and the clomp of our feet are the only sounds as we enter my house. The minute the door shuts, every ounce of anger I have for him parading me up here like a scolded child unleashes in a litany of words that probably don’t even make sense.

  Of course, my rant falls on deaf ears because his is louder, more resonating, and it dominates the small space.

  “Don’t you ever grab my arm like that again!”

  “You want to fight in front of a man who’s going to give you a big payoff next year? You want to let him see you act like a goddamn child?”

  “A child? A—”

  “What in the hell are you trying to sell, Tate? Did you just give up on this? On the ranch? Did you think things were too hard and decide you didn’t want to do it anymore?”

  His accusations hit me harder than expected. “After the past few weeks and all the work we’ve put in? How dare you accuse me of that!”

  “Then what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s Ruby. I’m trying to sell Ruby.”

  “You’re what?” His voice rises in pitch, the tone a precursor. “Are you fucking insane?” He takes a step toward me that has me stepping back. “She’s your cash cow. She’s the one you sell off when things are dire because you have no other option. What in the fuck is going on, Knox?”

  “Do you think I would sell her if that weren’t the exact case?”

  He snorts and stares at me with a disappointment and disbelief that burns deep within. “You’re full of shit.”

  If words could slap you, my face would be bright red.

  “I am?” I shriek, feeling like every ounce of trust we’ve worked toward together fractures when he says those four words.

  “You said things were tight but you had the insurance money to use. You have some foals coming to sell. You have this deal coming through if we can close this strong . . .” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Are you losing the ranch, Tate?”

  “No.” The lone syllable is loaded with a desperation that I try to pass off as me being offended he even asked.

  But the minute the word is out, I’m already ashamed of the lie. I’m already dreading how this whole conversation has gone. I’m already on the defensive.

  “So, because times are tough, you’re just going to sell her? I mean, that’s the only thing that makes sense.” He snorts in disgust. “I never figured you for a quitter, Tate.”

  While his words might be meant to motivate, they are actually incendiary. It’s the hurt that pushes me to retaliate. It’s the shame that chooses the words it uses. “And I never figured you for a bastard.”

  “I should have fucking figured,” he mutters as we stare at each other, faces red and words we can’t take back floating into the air between us. Rather than dying in the tension like they should, they take root and dig deeper.

  Jack stares at me, the muscles in his neck strained as his pulse beats frantically against his skin. He’s taking a step back figuratively, but I take one forward. I take all of the pent-up hurt and exhaustion and everything between that I told myself I’d never put up with again, and I hurl it at him.

  I know later I’ll look back on it and realize that I’m in the wrong.

  But in the moment, there’s nothing stopping me. In the moment, I see Jack but am consumed by the thought of selling Ruby and the shame of losing my house. I see the man I’m falling in love with but fear telling him every last detail.

  Because telling him means letting him in completely. It means giving him my absolute trust and giving him the tools to ruin me if he wants to.

  That fear owns me and uses my temper to protect me.

  “Just because I let you slide between my legs every night doesn’t give you the right to make decisions for me or tell me how I should make mine.” It’s my turn to shock him with words. The double take of his head says as much. “How do you think we’re getting by, Jack? How do you think I’m paying your salary and every other goddamn thing that has come up in the past few months?” I fight back the tears of frustration and only grow more mad when I lose and one slips down my cheek.

  “Tate.”

  “No. Don’t you touch me.” I yank my arm back. My emotions are on overload, and now that the dam has broken, there is no stopping it. “Fletcher took every-goddamn-thing I had. What was in my savings from my trust. My credit. My reputation. He maxed out a home equity line I thought had a zero balance. The draw of the bet and the adrenaline rush of winning was stronger than his love was for me. He gambled away everything we had, Jack, and I’ve been digging myself out of the hole since the day he died. Is that what you need to know? Does that explain why I need to sell Ruby?”

  He stares at me, lips lax but eyes hard. The man is the perfect picture of compassion for me and utter rage for Fletcher as he reaches out to wipe a tear off my cheek with the back of his hand. I step away.

  “Don’t,” he warns as I cross my arms over my chest, closing myself off to him physically as well as emotionally. I’m hurt and just want to be.

  “Please, leave me alone.”

  “Are you losing the ranch, Tate?” he asks again, and this time, my chin quivers in response. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He moves from one side of the room and then back as he processes. “You’re losing this place and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me? Talk about ironic. You throw words at me about sliding between your thighs . . . well, turn that around, will you? You let me sleep with you—make love to you—but you don’t trust me enough to tell me this place is being foreclosed on?” He stops as he passes in front of me and grabs my shoulders and shakes them. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me! I can’t make this work if you keep shutting me the fuck out!”

  “That’s not what I was . . .” I shrug out of his grip and move across the room to abate the onslaught of emotions racing through me. Maybe if I move far enough, I can outrun some of the fear of letting him completely in. When I finally turn back around, my chest constricts at the sight of him standing there so obviously hurt that I didn’t trust him.

  Trust.

  My hands tremble as I draw in a breath. “The bank is processing the foreclosure papers on the ranch. I . . . I used the insurance money to pay off all the accounts and to keep them current, but that’s completely gone.”

  “So, you took care of your accounts before taking care of you,” he murmurs, his voice calm and understanding and warm and everything I need, but my own shame coats it a different color so that I can’t see through it.

  “It was the right thing to do . . . and—” I blow out a breath to combat the tears that burn in my eyes. “And I’m just barely keeping my head above water. I’m months late on the mortgage, but it’s a catch-twenty-two. I use the little income I’m getting to keep this place running so I can attract and contract with a client like Steely with the hopes of securing a steady revenue stream or pay the mortgage.” I can’t meet his eyes so I stare at my fingers twisting together in front of me.

  “Tate.” He says my name and the broken way he says it screams that he’s disappointed in me.

  “I’m sorry”—I hiccup over the word— “I just . . . I thought if people knew, if this town knew, then they’d make things even harder on me until they succeeded in pushing me out.”

  “But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.” There’s hurt in his voice. Anger. “After all the work we’ve done, the time we’ve spent . . . you pegged me to be just like everyone else. You expected me to try to hurt you too.”

  “Jack!” But my plea isn’t enough to drown out the regret and pain in his voice. “I was afraid. I am afraid.” I take a step toward him. “Trust is what got me into this mess in the first place!”

  “Save it, Tate.” He waves a hand at me as if he’s writing me off. “If after all of this, you don’t trust me . . . you never will.”

  “I trusted Fletcher,” I explain in desperation. “That trust allowed him to run our finances into the ground, and I was the meek, mousy wife who let it happen. I didn’t question him when he told me the late nights he spent in the bunkhouse were because he was working when he was really on the phone with bookies all night. I didn’t realize that his highs were high only because he’d won a huge payout and that his lows weren’t my fault but were blamed on me anyway. Hell, I didn’t even question the trips he was taking to Montana before he died. He’d convinced me he was close to closing an exclusivity deal, but he’d come home empty handed, pissed at the goddamn world and refusing to talk about it. You tell me, Jack Sutton, how exactly does someone put trust in someone else again when the one person they should have been able to trust the most, screwed them?”