Chapter 4
FOUR
COLT
The wind tries to rip the hat off my head the second I step off the porch, but I jam it down harder and push into the whiteout.
Snow’s up to my thighs in the drifts, each step a goddamn battle.
I left the snowshoes by the barn yesterday—stupid move—but I’m not turning back now.
Not when Willa’s inside, trusting me to make sure no one followed her up this mountain.
I start with the tree line, rifle slung across my back, gloved hand on the grip.
Visibility’s maybe twenty feet. Every few steps I stop, listen.
Nothing but the howl and the creak of branches heavy with ice.
I sweep the ridge where the old logging road cuts in, kicking through drifts, looking for broken snow, boot prints, anything.
Nothing.
I circle the barn next. The horses are fine—Stamp and Whiskey nickering at me through the half-door, warm and dry, hay still piled high. I top off their water, check the latches. No fresh tracks around the corral. No sign anyone tried to sneak up under cover of the storm.
By the time I hit the south ridge, my beard’s crusted with ice and my lungs burn.
I climb the last switchback on all fours, boots slipping, then drop to one knee at the overlook.
From here you can usually see the valley clear to the county road.
Today it’s just a wall of gray. I pull the binoculars from my coat anyway, scan what little I can.
No headlights. No movement. No black truck like the one she described.
They didn’t make it up.
Not yet.
Relief hits me so hard my shoulders drop. Then the other feeling slams in right behind it—possessive, dark, hungry. She’s safe. For now. Under my roof. Wearing my shirt. Sleeping in my bed.
Mine to protect.
I shake it off and head back down, legs aching, coat stiff with frozen snow. The cabin light glows through the shutters like a beacon. I stomp my boots on the porch, knock twice so she knows it’s me, then push inside.
Warmth rolls over me like a wave. The fire’s roaring.
She’s at the table, folding bandages from the kit I left out, her dark hair loose and shining in the lamplight.
My flannel swallows her, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem brushing those bare thighs again.
She looks up, hazel eyes lighting up like I hung the damn moon.
“You’re back,” she says, soft and relieved.
“Told you I would be.” I shrug out of my coat, hang it by the door, kick off my boots. Snow melts in puddles on the floorboards. “No sign of them. Storm kept ‘em down low.”
She exhales, shoulders relaxing. “Thank God.”
I cross to the sink, wash the ice off my hands, then turn and catch her staring at my chest again—the way the thermal clings after I peel off the outer layer. Heat crawls up my neck, but I ignore it.
“Arm and ribs first,” I say. “Before they stiffen up worse.”
She nods, stands, and follows me to the couch. I grab fresh gauze, tape, the antiseptic. She sits, then hesitates. “Shirt off?” she asks, voice small.
I swallow hard. “Just lift it. I’ll work around it.”
She does, pulling the shirt up to just under her breasts. Pale skin, the purple bruise blooming across her ribs, the clean line of the cut I stitched last night. My hands feel too big, too rough, as I peel the old bandage away. She hisses when the tape tugs.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s okay.” Her breath brushes my forearm. “You’re gentle.”
I’m not. But for her I try. I clean the wound, smear on more ointment, wrap it snug but not tight. My knuckles graze the underside of her breast by accident and we both freeze. Her skin is warm silk. I yank my hand back like it burned me.
“Arm now,” I say, voice rougher than gravel.
She holds it out. The gash looks better already—no swelling, edges knitting. I rewrap it quick, trying not to think about how small her wrist is in my grip, how her pulse jumps under my thumb.
When I’m done she lowers the shirt but doesn’t move away. We’re close. Too close. I can smell my soap on her skin.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “You’re really good at this.”
“Lots of practice patching myself up.” I stand before I do something stupid, like kiss the top of her head. “Dinner. I’ll cook.”
She helps anyway—chopping potatoes while I fry venison steaks I pulled from the freezer. We don’t talk much. Just the sizzle of meat, the clink of plates, the storm still battering the roof. Every time she reaches for something her shirt rides up and I have to look away.
We eat at the table. She moans around the first bite of steak, and my cock twitches hard against my zipper. I grip my fork tighter.
“Good?” I grunt.
“Best thing I’ve eaten in weeks.” She smiles, small and real. “You hunt this yourself?”
“Last fall.”
She watches me over the rim of her water glass. “You do everything yourself up here, don’t you?”
“Easier that way.”
“Lonely way.”
I shrug. “Used to it.”
After dinner she insists on washing dishes. I dry. Our elbows bump. She laughs when soap suds flick onto my shirt. The sound hits me low in the gut—light, sweet, something I didn’t know I was starving for.
We end up on the couch. Firelight. One lamp. She tucks her legs under her, facing me. I stretch out, boots off, trying to keep some space between us.
“Tell me about the ranch,” she says. “The horses. What you do when you’re not rescuing bleeding girls.”
I talk. More than I usually do. About the mustangs I break in spring, the garden I keep in summer, the way the aspen turn gold in fall. She listens like every word matters. Leans closer. Her knee brushes my thigh.
The air changes.
I feel it the second her breathing shifts. My own pulse kicks up. She’s looking at my mouth now. I’m looking at hers—soft, pink, slightly parted.
“Colt,” she whispers.
I should stand up. Walk away. Lock myself in the barn till morning.
Instead I reach out, slow, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb lingers on her cheek. “You’re killing me, Willa.”
Her eyes darken. “Good.”
Then she’s leaning in. I meet her halfway.
The kiss starts soft—testing. Her lips are warm, tentative.
I groan low in my throat and angle my head, taking more.
She opens for me on a sigh, and the taste of her—coffee and sweetness and something purely Willa—floods my senses.
My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her skull.
She makes this little sound, half whimper, half plea, and climbs into my lap like she belongs there.
Christ.
Her thighs straddle mine. The shirt rides up.
My palms find bare skin—smooth, warm, trembling.
I kiss her deeper, tongue sliding against hers, slow and filthy.
She rocks against me once, instinctive, and I feel how hot she is even through my jeans.
My cock strains, aching. I grip her hips to still her, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks I’ll hate myself for later.
She pulls back an inch, breathing hard. “Colt… I’ve never—”
“I know.” My voice is wrecked. “That’s why we stop.”
Her forehead rests against mine. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I.” I kiss her again—gentler this time, just lips, then the corner of her mouth, her jaw. “But you’re hurt. Scared. Running for your life. And I’m not the kind of man who takes advantage of that.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not taking. I’m giving.”
“Still.” I lift her off my lap, and set her on the couch beside me even though every cell in my body screams at the loss of her weight.
My hands shake as I straighten her shirt, covering those thighs I want wrapped around my waist. “You deserve better than a quick fuck on a couch with a grumpy bastard who hasn’t touched a woman in years. ”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t tell me what I deserve.”
I stand, putting the coffee table between us like a coward. “Go to your room, Willa. Go to bed.”
She rises slowly. The fire paints her cheeks pink, lips swollen from my mouth. She looks debauched and innocent at the same time—my own personal torture.
“You’re really sending me away?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s steel under it.
“Yeah.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Because if you stay out here another minute I’m gonna carry you to that bed and spend the rest of the night learning every sound you make when you come. And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.”
She stares at me for a long beat. Then she nods once, small. “Okay. But Colt?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t over.”
She turns and walks to the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her.
I sink back onto the couch, head in my hands, cock throbbing so hard it hurts. The fire pops. The storm rages outside.
Inside, I’m burning alive.
And I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life.