She hiccups over a sob.

  “Don’t do this.” When I step toward her, she steps back into the house.

  “You were leaving in a couple of weeks anyway. We were walking headfirst into a heartbreak as it was. This way, we just save ourselves a bit of false hope and whispered promises we’ll never keep . . .” She takes another step back, the physical distance her way to reinforce the words she’s telling me. “It’s just better this way.”

  “I meant everything I said, Tate.”

  “There was a lot you didn’t say that you meant too.” Her breath hitches. “Goodbye, Jack.”

  54

  TATE

  I hear his protest when I shut the door.

  I see the knob wiggle after I turn the lock.

  And then, before I allow myself to change my mind, I’m running down the hallway and falling onto my bed as I succumb to the hurt.

  To the betrayal.

  To everything I thought we would have together—a today, a tomorrow, a forever. God, how silly those thoughts are, have always been.

  Jack Sutton was never going to give up his life on his fancy ranch for a small-town life here.

  Jack Sutton, the man who moves over and over again to avoid falling, wasn’t ever going to stay.

  I can repeat those truths to myself over and over, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still hoping they were lies.

  55

  JACK

  Lauren’s soft snores come from the room opposite mine in the bunkhouse, but I don’t listen to them.

  I don’t care about them.

  The past hours replay in my mind. The hour I spent on the phone getting her set up in rehab followed by another one to her ex-mother-in-law who is currently watching the kids to ask her if she’ll keep watching them while she sobers up. Just another revolution in a long list of repeats when it comes to my sister.

  And I did all of that while fighting every goddamn urge I have to make Tate listen to me. To shake her shoulders until those storm-cloud-colored eyes of hers see the truth, see that I love her.

  But I fucked this up. I fucked her over.

  She deserves better than me.

  Than this.

  She deserves everything for her next time.

  It doesn’t mean the ache in my heart agrees with me, though.

  56

  TATE

  I force myself to watch Jack load his two duffel bags into the back of his truck and keep watching as his sister walks out, sunglasses on and looking like hell, and slides behind the wheel of her car.

  I make myself stand at the kitchen window so I can physically watch him go . . . as if that will help my heart and my head and my hope be on the same page.

  Sleep came in bouts, but I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling as I tried to process how something so good could turn so very wrong.

  How I tried to process how I’m going to watch the man I love walk out of my life.

  “It’s better this way.” But even I don’t buy the lie.

  “Tate?”

  I fight the urge to run and hide. I fight an even stronger urge to run into his arms and beg him not to go.

  But I can’t do that.

  I just can’t.

  “I know you’re standing there,” he says as he pushes open the front door and walks into the kitchen.

  Gracie’s tail thumps at the sight of him, but I don’t turn because I know it would hurt too much to meet his eyes.

  “Can’t you even look at me?”

  Tears threaten as I stare at the floor and shake my head.

  “Tate? Look at me. Please.” The raw emotion in his voice begs me to do as he asks as surely as his words do.

  When I do, it’s as if my heart constricts in my chest. He looks tired and worn out. Maybe he got as little sleep as I did last night.

  “When I came to Lone Star, it was to fulfill both promises I’d made my dad. I never thought I’d get a chance to do them at the same time. The first was to make amends for some poor decisions I made in my last job. The other was to find out if you were every bit the piece of shit my brother was. A liar. A cheat. Someone I was ashamed to have my name associated with. I figured that, if you were any of those things, I’d tell the executor that I couldn’t find you. I’d get a copy of his death certificate to prove his demise and then turn Fletcher’s portion over to charity. But then you happened.” He shakes his head ever so subtly and a ghost of a smile—one laced with regret and sorrow—curves up his lips. “Your grit and ferocity and devotion and love and your wild happened.”

  He blows out a breath and looks out the window toward the ranch we made new again. “Coming here, getting to know you? For the life of me, I didn’t understand how fate crossed our paths, but I know I wanted you to fight for all of this.” He waves his hand toward the stables. “I wanted to fight for it beside you. Hell, I wanted to help fix the things he broke in you. Maybe if I helped you, then I could figure out myself . . .” He emits a soft chuckle as he looks down and then back up to me. “But then you went and made me fall in fucking love with you, Tatum. Then you happened.”

  It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to step into him and tell him to stay.

  But I know I deserve better than what he did to me.

  Both are painful.

  Only one is what I’ll allow myself to accept.

  “This has been in my wallet since the first day I stepped on this ranch.” Jack takes a step forward and sets an envelope onto the counter beside me. “Take your time. Figure out what you need to figure out. It’s a lot easier to love through the hate than to hate through the love. I know that better than anyone. I just hope you choose to fight as hard for me and for us as you did for this ranch. I just hope you choose me.”

  Tears well in his eyes, and that muscle feathers in his jaw as he takes another hesitant step toward me.

  I hold my breath.

  I freeze.

  And then he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine one last time. My tears tangle on his tongue as it slips between my lips. His thumb brushes back and forth over the line of my jaw. The wince on his face, as if it’s physically hard for him to step back, to walk away, tells me this is as brutal for him as it is for me.

  “Until next time,” he murmurs.

  He meets my eyes one last time before he turns on his heel and walks out of the door.

  His feet clomp on the stairs, carrying him out of my life.

  Tears course down my cheeks as every part of me wants to call him back.

  As every part of me yearns for him.

  But I glance over to the picture he took of me that’s sitting on my counter. It’s supposed to remind me of the beginning of my next time.

  The one that represents my promise never to settle again.

  And I know calling him back would be settling.

  It would be allowing myself to accept things no one ever should. Deceit. Equivocation. Duplicity.

  I pick up the envelope he left, and blink once and then twice at the check that is inside it.

  His truck starts.

  I stare at it, shove it back inside, and let it fall to the floor.

  I follow the crunch of gravel as his sister’s car and then his truck drives to the road.

  When the sounds are gone, when I’m all alone, I walk out of the back door and step into the pool—clothes and all.

  And I sink under water so that no one can hear me . . . and I scream at the world.

  57

  TATE

  One week later . . .

  “Tate. It’s me. I was hoping you’d want to talk by now. I’ve been trying to give you your space.” His sigh is heavy. “Look, I know you’re mad. You have every right to be mad, but I’m fucking miserable without you.” His laugh is self-deprecating at best, desperate at worst. “Yeah, its selfish of me to care how I feel when I’m the one who made you feel how you feel, but I just want to see you again.” Another sigh. “Call me back.”

  I look down at the screen of my cell and stare at it for a beat.

  Then I play the message again.

  58

  TATE

  One month later . . .

  “I’m assuming you’re getting my messages but don’t want to talk yet. I’m trying to be patient . . . but you know me, that isn’t an easy task. I talked to Will, and he said nine of the ten horses tested last week are pregnant. That’s nineteen of the twenty. Congrats. That’s great . . . Christ, listen to me. Picking up scraps so I have a reason to talk to you. I miss you. That’s all. I just miss you.”

  59

  JACK

  One month later . . .

  “Will?”

  “Jack?” His laugh is surprised. “What’re you doing calling?”

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “Don’t do this to me, Jack. Don’t put me in the middle.” He sighs, and his voice lowers. “You mentioned me in a message . . . after Doc’s last visit, and Tate . . . she unloaded on me. Said she needed to be able to trust me. Please don’t . . .”

  “Christ. Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to get you tangled in this. I’m just . . .”

  “Fucking miserable?” He asks. “Sounds like it to me anyway.”

  “Fucking miserable and then some,” I murmur as I take in the view from my porch. Miles upon miles of green, rolling hills stretch in front of me, and dozens of heads of cattle dot the land. I’m far from alone here with the full-time staff, but fuck if I don’t feel completely isolated and lonely.

  “Then why did you give up so easily?” Will asks.

  “I didn’t. Look, I did what she asked.” And I’ve regretted it every day since.

  “Since when do you ever do what she says?”

  60

  JACK

  One month later . . .

  “Every time I call, I think this might be the time you pick up and talk to me. Every goddamn time. You told me I’d move on when I got home. I haven’t moved on, Tate. I don’t expect to either. I love you. Plain and simple. I love you.”

  61

  TATE

  One month later . . .

  I arch my back, trying to stretch away some of the exhaustion that has set in. It’s getting worse with each passing day, but there isn’t much I can do about it. It is what it is, and having a fully functioning breeding ranch is what I wanted. It’s what I got.

  Now, I have to figure out how to do it.

  “Harris is loading up the foal now,” Will says, referring to the extra hand we’ve hired to help with the sale of this season’s foals. “He’ll be back in a second to help.”

  “What about this one?” I point to the fawn-colored colt walking in the ring. A bittersweet smile paints my lips as I think of the night he was born. The worry I felt and then the relief that coursed through me when Jack watched me from the other side of the stall.

  I ignore the sting the memory brings. I’ve gotten good at ignoring the pangs over the past few months, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less when I do think about him.

  “The owner’s coming to pick him up today.”

  “Name?” I ask so I can put it in my records.

  “Next time.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, my attention snapping up to meet Will’s eyes.

  “Next Time. That’s the name of the ranch that bought the horse.”

  I blink back the tears that well in my eyes as I stare at the clipboard. Emotion swells within me at the coincidence.

  62

  JACK

  “Next Time. That’s the name of the ranch that bought the horse.”

  I hear Will say the words, but it’s Tate I stare at as I stand just outside the stable.

  She turns slowly to Will, as if she’s in shock. There isn’t any way she would know that I renamed the ranch now that it’s mine to do with as I please.

  Her back is to me, but that small frame of hers stands tall as her head hangs forward while she writes something on her clipboard. Her hair is swept up, exposing that neck I’ve longed to press my lips to. She has a flannel on to fight off the chill of the afternoon, and from what I can see over the gate she’s standing behind, it looks as if she’s swimming in it.

  It’s then that I realize it’s my flannel. It’s my shirt she’s wearing.

  And there’s something about seeing it that steadies the ground beneath me.

  But her—the sight of her, being near her—makes every agonizing minute of the past four months dissipate.

  “Do you have a problem with the name of my ranch, Knox?”

  Her body jolts at the sound of my voice. The hitch of her breath is audible as she turns to face me in what feels like slow motion.

  Gray eyes meet mine. Her chin quivers, and her lips tremble before they curve up into a guarded smile. “Jack?” My name on her lips is like a goddamn knife to my heart.

  “I didn’t fight hard enough for you, Tate. I told you to fight hard for what you wanted. For this ranch. For the people in town to see the real you . . . but when the rubber met the road with you and me, I didn’t fight hard enough for you. I didn’t prove to you that I was worth it. That our love was worth it.”

  “Jack,” she says my name again, and panic hits me when I see tears begin to slide down her cheeks. Silently.

  She’s going to push me away.

  She’s moved on.

  She doesn’t love me anymore.

  “No. Don’t, Tate.” I take another step toward her, desperate to say and prove and do whatever the fuck it takes not to walk out of this stable without her knowing how I feel. Without resolving this somehow. “You have to hear me out. You have to—”

  “Jack.” She hiccups a sob and before I can think what to say or do next, we are in each other’s arms.

  She is right where I need her to be.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I love you so much.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs against my chest as her tears wet my shirt. “I couldn’t tell you—I didn’t know how to—Jack—”

  Her words hit my ears, and I shock to reality because what I thought was going to be a reunion doesn’t sound like one by the apology on her lips.

  To the idea that . . . and when she steps back, when I see my flannel shirt unbuttoned, when I see her tank top . . .

  When I see the soft swell of her pregnant belly, I don’t even know how to process it.

  “Tate?” My eyes flick up to hers and then back down to her tiny baby bump.

  My hands go to the back of my neck.

  My lips open and then close.

  My heart . . . my goddamn heart explodes in my chest in the best possible way imaginable.

  “I—Tate—what—how—Tate?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers as her hands come up to frame my face. As her lips kiss the tears on my own cheeks. As they find mine.

  And in that instant, I am home.

  I am whole.

  I am complete.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you.” A kiss. “And then I didn’t know what to tell you.” Another kiss. “And then I didn’t want to burden you with taking care of something I didn’t know if you even wanted. We never talked about—this—”

  “Tate.” I lean her shoulders back so I can look at her, the woman I love, and the child I already love even though we’ve never met. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I can explain.” My hand slides over the small bump of her belly as every part of me right down to my bone marrow settles.

  “You can explain later.” My lips find hers to tell her I love her and that I plan to make up for lost time. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. All that matters is you,” I murmur against her lips. “And this.” I pull her against me again, wrapping my arms around her as I breathe her in. “And the rest of our lives we have to spend together to figure it all out.”

  Who knew?

  Who knew what I would find when I walked onto this ranch ten months ago?

  That I’d find Tate Knox and fall in love with her.

  That I’d want to make a life with her.

  That we’d get to have a next time together.

  That I’d never be able to live without her and her wild.

  EPILOGUE

  TATE

  Five years later . . .

  “Are you ready to do this?” I ask as I look across the kitchen.

  It looks like a bomb went off. There are mashed potatoes all over the cabinets where Rein lifted the hand mixer too high and splattered them everywhere. The flour I’d portioned aside to thicken the gravy dusts one corner of the floor because I wasn’t paying attention and Tack’s little fingers pulled the measuring cup off the counter.

  “Nooooo!” I yelp as I bolt across the kitchen to prevent him from pulling down the whole sack of flour this time. Saved in the nick of time, I push everything as far away as I can from the edges of the counter.

  “You, mister!” I say and point the whisk at him, “are trouble with a capital T.”

  “Touble wit captl T,” he repeats and then smacks his hands together so whatever flour is left on them flies in the air.

  He giggles at the sight of it.

  It’s the kind of giggle that would make any mom surrounded by the chaos of preparing Thanksgiving dinner stop and stare. It’s the kind that reminds you that this kind of craziness is good, worth it, because someone like Tack is a part of it.

  His belly giggle is music to my ears and I lower myself on my knees to the floor. “Tack.”

  “Yes, Momma,” he says, those eyes and dimples of his that match his daddy’s win me over in much the same way.

  “I love you.”

  “Kisses!” my two-year-old shouts, and in keeping with our typical routine, he runs full force into my arms for love.