Chapter Four
Beckett
I’d been awake for close to twenty-four hours. The mare had given birth with no complications. I should have been calm. But I wasn’t.
Why? Because of her. Libby James. The woman who had come into my life without any warning.
She was standing in the foaling shed like a sunrise I hadn’t asked for—soft sweater clinging to her curves, hair pulled back with a few wild strands framing her face, eyes bright and curious.
All week, she’d been a steady voice in the round pen, coaxing Wildfire like only she could.
She’d been in my head, the scent of apples and hay clinging to my memory.
I’d held the line. Kept my hands to myself. Told myself she was here for the horses, not me. Told myself I was too old, too scarred, too set in my ways.
Then she’d walked in with my breakfast, her hands trembling just a little as she poured coffee, and every one of my excuses burned up like dry straw.
I tried to focus on the mare. Make sure everything was alright, but she and her foal were doing fine.
It wasn’t the first horse I’d delivered and wouldn’t be the last. I made it a point to stay with the mares when they were getting close.
That was a language I understood—waiting in the dark with nothing but your own pain for company.
I’d spent endless nights on patrol, body aching, eyes burning, waiting for something I couldn’t name. Combat had trained me for sleeplessness. Loss had taught me how to live with it. But nothing in my past had prepared me for a woman like Libby walking into my quiet.
“You okay?” I heard myself ask because I didn’t know how else to break the silence.
“Yeah. Fine.” She smiled, but it wobbled at the edges. Her breath caught when she handed me the coffee, and our fingers brushed.
That sound was my undoing.
I set the cup on the hay bale. Took one step. Another. She didn’t move. Just stood there, waiting.
“Libby.” Her name came out like a prayer I hadn’t said in years. I lifted my hand to her cheek. Warm, soft. She leaned into it, just enough to tell me she wanted this too.
All the walls I’d built around myself cracked.
I should have stepped back. Should have put distance between us before I did something I couldn’t undo. But when she tilted her face up to mine with that flushed, wanting look, every ounce of restraint I’d built since she’d stepped onto the ranch shattered.
Her mouth was soft and sweet, and she gasped in surprise, fingers curling into my shoulders, nails biting lightly into my skin.
I pressed her back against the stall door, careful even in my hunger not to scare her.
She fit against me like she’d always been meant to be there—curves giving where my body demanded, heat blooming between.
Her scent—sweet and warm—went straight to my head.
Straight to my cock. Under my palms she trembled, but she didn’t retreat.
She tilted her chin, inviting me closer.
Years of holding myself back, years of being nothing but control, unraveled with the simple press of her body to mine.
Sliding my hand to the small of her back, I arched her closer.
She made a sound—half-whimper, half-challenge as I deepened the kiss. She wasn’t timid. She met me stroke for stroke, soft mouth opening under mine, tongues tangling.
I remembered the last time I’d been this close to someone—months after the blast that left me burned.
It hadn’t ended well. Pity in her eyes. A polite retreat.
Since then, I’d sworn off soft touches. Sworn off wanting.
But Libby wasn’t looking at me with pity.
She was kissing me like she meant it, scars and all.
When I broke away, it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because if I didn’t, I was going to forget every reason I’d told myself to stay away.
We stayed there, mouths barely apart, both of us breathing hard. My thumb stroked the corner of her mouth, memorizing the tremble there.
“This…” I rasped. “This isn’t what I planned.”
Her fingers tightened on my arms. “Good.”
A laugh escaped me—rough, disbelieving. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Then tell me,” she whispered.
I groaned, resting my forehead against hers, dragging in air. “If we keep going here, I’m going to take you right up against this stall door.”
Color rushed to her cheeks, but she didn’t step back. “Maybe I don’t mind.”
My control frayed another inch. “You deserve better than a half-starved man in a barn.”
Her eyes darkened. “What if what I want is you, right here?” The words hit me harder than any blow I’d ever taken.
“What if—”
I swallowed the rest. She didn’t know the nights I woke up sweating, the therapy sessions I’d walked out of, the way I still checked every exit before I could breathe easy.
She didn’t know how much of me was still stuck back there in the smoke and fire.
But right now, with her pressed against me, I wanted her to.
I wanted her to see all of it and still stay.
I slid my hands to her hips and lifted her onto the hay bale in one smooth motion. I pushed her legs apart, stepping between them. Letting her feel how much I wanted her. Her palms flattened on my chest, fingers brushing scars I didn’t let anyone touch.
I didn’t flinch. God help me, I leaned into her touch. Every scar on my body felt hot. Every place I’d been cold for years came alive.
I crushed my mouth to hers. She kissed me back like she’d been starving for it, tongue sliding against mine, a soft moan vibrating against my lips. My hands roamed—up her thighs, along her waist, fingers brushing the edge of her sweater, desperate to feel skin.
I pulled her closer, letting her feel the hardness of my body. “You feel that? That’s you. I’ve been that way since the day you showed up.”
I might have known it wouldn’t scare her away. “Then do something about it.”
I groaned, low and ragged and kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, my tongue thrusting inside, claiming her. I tightened my hands on her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh.
I moved my mouth from hers, trailing my lips along her jawline down below the sensitive flesh beneath her ear. My fingers ached to touch her breasts, pinch those peaked nipples. Hell, I wanted to rip off her jeans and sweater and taste her. Everywhere.
“This isn’t going to be enough.”
“I know,” she whispered her fingers tangling in my hair.
I tried again. “Tell me to back off, Libby.”
“No. I’m not afraid of you.”
“Careful. I’m not a safe bet.” My grip tightened dangerously.
“Neither is a wild mustang.” She smiled faintly. “But I ride them anyway.”
The mare whined behind us, breaking the spell. “You better be ready for where this goes.”
Her eyes locked on mine. For a second the world fell away again. Then she gave the smallest nod. “I am.”
I let out a rough breath and moved away completely. “Later,” I murmured as I opened the stall door. Not a question, a promise.
Her lips curved—half-smile, half-challenge. “Later.”