12. Again
12
AGAIN
WYATT
I work out? Someone glue my mouth shut, please and thank you, ma’am.
“What do you mean you’ll train me?” Dakota demands.
She stares me down, brown curls whipping wildly around her sweaty face, but I’ll take the flames in her eyes over her indifference any day.
“I’ll train with you in the gym,” I say. “I’ve got to stay in shape this summer, so it’ll help me out too.”
It’ll also give me a reason to spend more time with her, since I can’t get enough of her scowls. Plus, I can’t not help her. It goes against my helper personality not to offer.
“You’ll train me?” she repeats like I’ve got no business training her—like I’m not one of the fastest right wingers in the NHL. I’m kind of offended by her shock. Maybe she needs to watch one of my games again because I’m a speed demon in the arena.
Gritting my jaw, I dip my chin. “Yes, ma’am. I’m pretty fast on the ice, so I’m sure I can have you panting in no time.”
Her brows shoot skyward.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, boy?” Colt Cutler demands.
I jolt.
Shit, I forgot he was here, and now my ass is sweating from that glower on his face. It’s scarier than his daughter’s.
Mr. Cutler’s blunter than that old pocketknife he carries around, but I look him dead in the eye. “Nothing, sir. All I meant was I could give her a good workout. We do high-intensity training in the gym, so I could apply those same tactics here.”
Dakota scoffs at my manners, but it’s a habit I refuse to break. I call all men sir and all women ma’am . It doesn’t matter whether they’re eight days or eighty years old. It was drilled into me as a kid. I got my manners from my Southern mama, and she’d kick my ass if I ever stopped being polite.
Mr. Cutler gives me a once-over with that legendary glare. His brown eyes, so much like Dakota’s, strip me down.
He’s only in his forties, so growing up I thought he looked more like her brother. He’s always been a tough old boot, twirling around his pocketknife to intimidate the guys she brought home, but he never used to twirl it in front of me.
He pulls out the pocketknife from his jeans and starts using it to peel an orange, so that’s changed. His withering stare scalds my cheek as he seems to consider something. “You know, darlin’, that’s not a bad idea.”
Have I mentioned I love Mr. Cutler? Best man I know. Cream of the crop. Salt of the earth. He can slice my skin right off with that pocketknife if it means he pushes me toward Dakota.
“Please,” she scoffs. “Patterson couldn’t handle me in the gym.”
Like hell I couldn’t.
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
It usually takes a lot to light my fuse, but her comment strikes a nerve. Lately, fatherhood has left me feeling less like myself. The random food stains, the lack of sleep, the bags under my eyes—being a dad has become my entire personality.
“Trust me, I could handle you just fine,” I grit out.
Her lips part like she’s shocked by the comment, and maybe she is because I never used to say things like that when we were younger.
She seems to collect herself. “What about Vi?” she asks, switching gears. “Who’s going to watch her while we’re training?”
I zone in on her, shocked the first thing she asked was about was my daughter because, usually, I’m the only one who thinks of her first.
“What?” she demands when I stay silent.
“Nothing…” I shake my head. “I’m just surprised you thought to ask about her, but my parents can help whenever I need them to. They’re amazing. So, what do you say?”
“I say…” Her honey eyes bounce between mine, and I think she’s going to agree, but then they narrow to slits. “No. You have your little girl, and I don’t want to take your time away from her this summer. Go be with your girl. You don’t owe me anything.”
I’ve known her for so long that I can hear the double meaning in her words— I don’t want anything from you. I’m not all that surprised. She hates relying on people and prefers doing things on her own, but I want to help get her stronger.
“Dakota, please let me help. I want to. My parents have Vi most mornings anyway, and I need to stay in shape for next season. Not to mention I owe you one for letting us stay at the barn.”
“It’s your place. You can stay there whenever you want, so I don’t need you to train me.” She tries, and fails, to keep the sharpness out of her words.
This woman. She’s so damn stubborn. “Give me one good reason why not.”
She struts up to me, fringe chaps swaying in the wind, and lowers her voice so her dad can’t hear. “’Cause I’m still pissed at you for cutting me out of your life like that, Wyatt Patterson. What did I do to you? I get that you had a little girl, but you could’ve texted every once in a while. I wasn’t asking for much.”
Her eyes turn glassy, so despite her tough exterior, I can see the thread of hurt shining in her gaze. I stuff my hands in my jeans so I don’t crush her against me. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? ’Cause I am, and I’ve said it a million times, but I’ll say it a million more if that’s what you need to hear.”
“No,” she says, her voice rising so that a few cowboys look our way. We’re causing a scene, but that doesn’t matter to me. “I want you to say that you missed me as much as I missed you because I fucking missed you, Patterson.”
Her voice cracks.
Shit.
She goes right for the heart, and I actually rub my chest.
Without giving me a chance to respond, or beg, she struts away in her boots, but at the last second, I catch her wrist and pull her into me, wrapping her up tight in my arms.My chin rests perfectly on her head.
She doesn’t pull away.
“I fucking missed you,” I whisper in her ear for her, and only her, to hear. “I missed our late-night phone calls. I missed debriefing all your rodeo rides with you. I missed your laugh. I missed everything about you, but you had Boone. I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”
“I always needed you,” she mumbles against my T-shirt. “It hurt me when you left like that. You weren’t like the other boys. You were my best friend.”
Yeah, that was the whole problem.
And there it is—that hint of vulnerability she only shows to a few people.
I brush my lips against the top of her hair. “I’m here now, and I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better not,” she muffles into my shirt again.
Dakota might be a rough and tough bull rider with a mean attitude to boot, but she’s got a softer side that only comes out of hiding for the people who matter most. She rarely whips it out, so when she shows you that tender piece of her, it makes you feel like someone important.
She’s stiff in my arms, but the longer I hold on, the more she relaxes until her fingers dig into my back, unwilling to let me go.
I get a whiff of sweat and dirt, but she’s still got that sugary campfire scent that always clings to her. She used to douse her body in that Warm Vanilla Sugar Bath & Body Works spray growing up. I only know the name because I followed her around the store one time as she tried on scents. She didn’t pick the one I liked, so I trained my nose to like the too-sweet smell of burning vanilla.
Mr. Cutler clears his throat. “Doesn’t this look mighty cozy. Should I grab a bottle of wine? We could all split it.”
Well, that kills our moment.
Dakota rolls her eyes, stepping back, but her face is flushed. Probably from the heat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Pops. You know I prefer my famous prickly pear margaritas. I’ve got to go, so you and Patterson can split the wine.”
She starts to strut away, but I cup my hands over my mouth, calling out to stop her. “Saturday, Dakota! Bright and early. Be ready for training.”
She waves a hand but keeps on sauntering away with those mouthwatering hips swaying. “Can’t Saturday. Lana’s making me go to the farmer’s market because I’ve turned her down one too many times for training.”
“You’re not getting out of this one!” I call out, trying to follow her, but a heavy hand drops to my shoulder, squeezing hard so I can’t move.
“Let her go, boy,” Mr. Cutler rumbles. “You’ve got no business going after my daughter, so let’s you and I have a lil’ talk.”
He makes the word talk sound like a prison sentence. Up until now, the man always liked me. He even ripped the Smirnoff Ice out of my hand and gave me my first bourbon whiskey when I was fifteen (the man’s a rule breaker), but if there’s one thing I know about Mr. Cutler, it’s that he respects anyone who dares to stand up to him.
Straightening to all of my six-foot-three inches, I stare directly into the pits of his deep, dark eyes.
He’s tall, but I’ve got a few inches on him. “With all due respect, sir. I can’t stay away from your daughter. She’s my…” I don’t want to say this word, but it’s the only one I’ve got for now, so I force it out. “Friend.”
He releases a booming laugh but sobers quickly, spinning that knife. “Don’t insult my intelligence, boy. Kodie might be blind, but I’m sure as hell not.”
My heart jerks at what he’s insinuating, but I play it off. “What’s that mean?”
“You know exactly what that means, and here’s the thing…” He grips my shoulder while tossing the orange in his other hand. “You’re a daddy now, so you know us fathers will do anything for our little girls. She cried for weeks when she finally realized you weren’t coming back, so I’m warning you now, if you hurt her again, well…” He takes out his pocketknife, flicks it open with a click, and uses it to slice off a piece of orange skin.
But all I’m thinking about is that one word…
If you hurt her again.