CHAPTER FIVE
Dalton
I fucking hated coming in from the cold.
Not the cold itself—I’d grown up in Montana, spent my whole life working outside in February. But the contrast. Going from freezing wind that cut through layers of clothing straight into the warmth of the house. It made every muscle ache. Made my fingers burn as feeling came back into them.
Made me aware of just how empty the house felt when I walked in alone.
Except tonight, it wasn’t empty. It hadn’t been since she’d arrived.
And that was the problem.
Amber Maxwell was living in my house. Working in my office. Sitting across from me at meals. Existing in my space in a way that made it impossible to forget she was here.
I’d tried. God knows I’d tried. I’d worked longer hours. Ate with the men, even though I worried about her eating and stayed in the barn until after dark.
None of it worked.
Because she was always there when I came back. A light on in the office. Her laptop open at Cade’s desk. The faint scent of her shampoo lingering in the hallway.
I smelled food before I even got the door open. Real food. Not another sandwich or frozen dinner.
Fuck.
I stopped with my hand on the doorknob, jaw clenched. I should turn around. Go back to the barn. Skip dinner entirely. Because walking in there meant seeing her, and I’d been doing a damn good job of avoiding that.
But my stomach growled, and I was cold, and tired, and sick of running from a woman in my own damn house.
I stepped into the kitchen and stopped.
Amber stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, her back to me. She’d changed out of the professional shirt and slacks she wore every day into a pair of jeans and sweater that hugged her curves. Her hair was down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders.
She looked like she belonged here.
The thought hit me like a fist to the gut, and I wanted to rage at it. At her. At myself for even thinking it.
She didn’t belong here. This wasn’t her kitchen. This wasn’t her home. And the fact that seeing her standing at my stove made something in my chest ease—something I’d been holding on to for way too long.
I must have made a sound because she turned.
“Dalton.” She turned, spoon in hand. No smile. Just those steady brown eyes meeting mine.
“What are you doing?” I used that same cold, hard tone I always used with her.
She didn’t flinch. Just turned back to the stove with maddening calm. “Making dinner. Beef stew. I thought it was time I took a turn at kitchen duty.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” She kept stirring, not looking at me. “But you’re going to eat it anyway.”
The certainty in her voice brought a half-assed smile to my face. “That so?”
“That’s so.” She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile of her own peeking through. “Unless you want to be rude and waste perfectly good food.”
I should have reminded her this wasn’t her job. But my stomach growled, and the kitchen smelled better than it had in years.
“Where’s Cade?” I asked.
“He went into town. Something about meeting friends at a bar.” She turned back to the stove. “He said not to wait up.”
So, it was just us, alone in the house. Damn my brother.
I pulled off my coat and hung it by the door, then moved to the sink to wash up. I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be staying. Shouldn’t be standing in this kitchen with her like this was normal. Like we were normal.
But the water was warming my cold hands and she was humming something under her breath and I couldn’t make myself leave. The realization that I didn’t want to leave made me scrub my hands harder than necessary.
“It’s almost ready.” Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “Have a seat.”
Instead of arguing, I sat. I hated myself for it, for not being strong enough to simply walk away, but took a seat anyway.
She brought two bowls to the table and set one in front of me, then took the seat across from me instead of next to me. Smart. Safer.
The stew was good. Better than good. Also, on the table was a plate full of yellow squares.
Cornbread. My mouth watered. I hadn’t had cornbread since the last time I’d gone into town and eaten at the diner.
I didn’t go to town, especially this time of year.
I didn’t need the stares or the whispered comments.
I looked at the calendar and waited for the rush of anger to hit me, but it didn’t.
I didn’t examine the reason why too closely.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Not comfortable silence.
Charged silence. The kind that made me hyperaware of every small sound—her fork against the bowl, the soft catch of her breath, the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
I forced myself to focus on the food. It was easier than focusing on her.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I asked after a few bites.
“My mom.” Her expression shifted. Softened. “She used to make this every Sunday.”
“She doesn’t anymore?”
“No, she had a stroke last year. We’re still trying to get her mobility back.” Her mouth curled into a sad but determined smile.
A stroke. That explained her taking this job. She probably needed the money for medical bills. The thought made a little of my wariness ease away. “How bad?” I asked.
She looked at me, weighing whether to answer. “Bad enough that I was working two jobs in Billings and still couldn’t keep up. My aunt had to move in with us because I couldn’t afford home care.”
Damn it.
“Rhett helped,” she continued. “When he found out, he gave me more work. When he called about this job, I didn’t even ask what it paid. I just said yes.”
I understood that kind of desperation. The kind that made you take risks you wouldn’t normally take.
“I’m sure he told you to watch your step around me.”
“He did.” She took a bite of her food, and I watched her lips close around the spoon.
Then why didn’t you? I silently asked. I glanced at the calendar again, reminding myself.
She followed my gaze, looking at me a little shyly, a little hesitant. “Um, Cade told me why you dislike Valentine’s Day.”
I stopped eating. “Did he now?”
“He said your ex-fiancée left you on Valentine’s Day. That she wanted the fantasy of ranch life, not the reality.” She paused. “That you haven’t let anyone in since.”
I stood, taking both our bowls to the sink before she could move. I started washing them. She quietly put away the leftovers, then picked up a dish towel without asking and started drying.
We worked in silence, her shoulder brushing mine every time she reached for a dish. Once again she was close enough that I could smell her—something clean and simple that was starting to invade every thought I had.
This is what I’d been trying to avoid since the day she’d stepped onto my ranch. The knowledge that she was here, in my space. Invading my thoughts.
“She wasn’t my fiancée. She was a buckle bunny I’d brought home,” I said finally. It was true—I hadn’t asked Sarah to marry me, but everyone around us had assumed that. With more than a little help from her.
Why the hell was I telling her this? I never talked about Sarah. Not with anyone except Cade, and even then only when I was drunk enough not to care.
But Amber was looking at me with those eyes that saw too much, and the words kept coming.
Amber frowned. “A what?”
“Rodeo groupie. She followed the circuit looking for cowboys.” I rinsed the dish and handed it to her.
“I was riding saddle bronc back then. Me and Cade and Rhett, we all competed together. Sarah, that was her name, latched onto me. She said she loved the ranching lifestyle and couldn’t wait to settle down.
Turns out she meant a hobby ranch, not a working one where the day started before dawn and ended with a palm full of blisters. ”
“So she left.” Amber’s voice was soft. Understanding. I hated that I wanted that understanding.
“Yeah.” I rinsed another dish, handed it to her with more force than necessary. “She found some banker in Denver who could give her what she really wanted and married him six months after she left here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The words came out clipped. “She did me a favor.”
“Did she?”
I turned to look at her then. She was closer than I’d realized. One step and I—
“Yeah. She taught me not to trust promises.”
Her hand landed on my forearm. Light. Tentative. The touch burned through the fabric of my shirt like a brand.
Every muscle in my body locked up. I stared at her hand—small and pale against the dark flannel—and fought the urge to either jerk away or pull her closer.
Her fingers flexed slightly, and I felt it everywhere.
“Dalton.” My name on her lips made my jaw clench. She stepped closer, and I could smell that citrus scent that had been driving me insane. “No matter how hard you try to be, you’re not the cold bastard you pretend to be.”
“How do you know that?
I should have walked away and ended this conversation. But she was standing there looking at me like she could see straight through every wall I’d built, and I couldn’t move.
Her thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. Could she feel how it jumped? “You’re just scared.”
That wasn’t true. I’d sworn off women. But looking into her big, brown eyes, seeing the empathy there, it made me start to rethink a few things.
“I should go upstairs,” she said quietly, moving her hand.
“Stay.”
The word came out as a command, not a request.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Just for a while. It’s warmer in the living room.” I paused. “Please.”
She studied my face and whatever she saw there made her nod. “Okay.”
She followed me into the living room and settled onto the couch, tucking those long legs underneath her like she’d done it a thousand times before. I busied myself with the fire, taking longer than necessary. What the hell had I just done? Inviting her to spend time with me?