Chapter One #2
She sat there, laughing along with her sisters-in-law like she didn’t have a care in the world.
But she was too damn open in a place like this, where every roughneck in town came to forget their problems.
Which really meant to drink and brawl.
And Willow—wrapped in a dress that Decker couldn’t believe her brothers let her leave the house in—was a problem all her own.
He’d told himself he was just dropping in for a beer, but the truth was clearer with every tick of the clock.
He was here to watch her. Not in a creepy way, and the Malone brothers hadn’t asked him to.
He made the decision like he did most things—alone.
Dutch. That’s what his SEAL team used to call him.
“Going Dutch” meant you went it alone—no team, no safety net. And Decker had been that guy. The one who volunteered for insertion before his team in order to knock out comms or map out an area.
Now here he was again, slipping into old habits. Watching Willow’s back without telling anyone, because if she needed protection, he’d shoulder it.
That was his curse. He didn’t know how to stop going in alone.
She tipped her head back to drink, a soft smile on her lips. A man at the other end of the bar noticed too, his gaze lingering on her too long, too heavy.
Decker’s grip on the bottle tightened. He shifted just enough to let his shoulders square and his stance do the talking.
Don’t.
Yeah, Dutch still went solo. Even if it meant standing guard in a dive bar with a beer that was mostly for show.
The asshole had been getting progressively handsy with every song, his confidence growing with each drink. When he grabbed Willow’s waist and yanked her closer despite her obvious discomfort, Decker’s blood turned to fire.
She tried to pull away, but the guy’s grip tightened. He’d only taken one step toward her before her sisters-in-law immediately closed ranks around her, and Decker watched them hustle her to the exit. Thank God.
Except the guy took off behind her.
Where the hell was the bouncer? Nowhere to be found. Probably out back having a smoke while some piece of shit put his hands on a woman who made it crystal clear she didn’t want his attention.
Decker pushed off the wall and used his muscled body to cut through the crowd.
He stepped into the man’s path. “The lady’s not interested.”
The guy looked him up and down with bleary eyes, his lips twisting belligerently. “Mind your own business, cowboy.”
Decker moved to walk past him, but the drunk bastard shoved him hard.
That was his first mistake.
When he swung with a wild haymaker, that was his second.
Decker caught the man’s fist mid-swing and twisted his arm behind his back in one fluid motion while hauling him to the back door.
The guy struggled and cursed, but years of military training made short work of the vodka-soaked barfly.
Decker shoved him out the door into the gravel parking lot. “Sleep it off.”
He watched the guy stumble toward the row of pickup trucks parked along the building. Decker turned toward his own vehicle, ready to call the cops if the guy got in his truck.
But the thumping rush of boots made him swing around just as the sharp blade caught him across the shoulder. Fire shot through his flesh.
The knife glinted in the greenish parking lot lights as the man raised it again.
Too bad Decker didn’t have his back turned. He drove his boot into the guy’s chest, sending him flying backward into the side of a pickup truck. The man crumpled, and the knife skittered across the ground.
Decker scooped up the blade and jammed it deep into the wooden wall of the bar, the steel singing as it bit into the wood. He stared down at the groaning man.
“Stay down. Stay away from her.”
Then he walked away, pressing his hand to the burning slash across his shoulder.
When he returned to the ranch, he walked the empty halls of the lodge that housed the therapy program, his shadow moving along the wood-paneled walls like he was a ghost.
The ranch’s infirmary was dark except for the single fluorescent light Decker flicked on over the medical station. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt and went about setting out the supplies he’d need to patch himself up.
Gauze. Antiseptic wound wash. A medical staple gun.
Reaching the knife wound was a bitch since it was far back on his shoulder. Positioning himself in front of the mirror, he twisted to see the injury and let out a low rumble. The asshole had gotten him pretty good. Blood oozed down his back and darkened the waist of his jeans.
He cleaned out the gash and was just reaching for the staple gun when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
“Stop right there.” Willow’s voice cut through the silence. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“No.” The word came out harder than he’d intended.
She stepped into the light, and he could see her taking in the blood. The jagged cut across his shoulder. ““Then let me do it.”
He eyed her in the mirror.
“Can’t be any different than a horse.”
He grunted his reluctant agreement, mostly because arguing with Willow was like wrestling a bull.
She moved to the sink to wash her hands. She’d changed out of her dress and wore sweatpants and a shirt that looked like it once belonged to one of her brothers.
“How did you know I was in here? You should be asleep by now.”
“I saw the light on and had to make sure no one was hurt.” She gathered supplies from the cabinet with practiced efficiency.
Of course she did. She was so damn caring about every single creature on this ranch—human, horse or otherwise. It was one of the things that made her dangerous to be around. Made him want things he had no business wanting.
He watched her in the small mirror mounted above the medical station as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration. She cleaned the wound with gentle, thorough strokes, her touch sure and steady. When she reached for the staple gun, she met his eyes in the mirror.
“This is going to hurt.”
He didn’t speak, just watched her reflection as she positioned the first staple. The sharp bite of metal piercing skin was nothing compared to the ache in his chest from having her this close or feeling her breath warm against his skin as she worked.
She filled the silence for both of them, probably trying to ease any awkwardness he might feel. “You know, I’ve patched up more animals than I can count, but somehow this feels different. More…” She trailed off, focusing on placing another staple.
When she reached for the bandages, he saw it—the slight tremble in her hands, the way she blinked rapidly. A single tear tracked down her cheek before she could stop it.
“Hey.” The word came out as a rough rasp.
She stiffened, forcing her shoulders back and swiping at her face with her forearm. “Sorry. I’m fine.” Her laugh was brittle around the edges, and he heard what being strong all the time cost her.
His heart cracked watching her force those tears back and slam that armor into place. Guilt hit him like a physical blow.
Fuck, he’d made her cry. This woman who took care of everyone and everything had tears in her eyes because of him.
As she finished taping a bandage over the wound, her fingers were soft torment against his skin.
Decker closed his eyes, fighting off the dark ache she raised in him.
She would never see him as more than someone to help, another wounded creature to tend to. And maybe that was for the best. If he let himself heal—really heal from all the damage he carried—he’d have a shot with someone like her.
But if he let himself heal, he’d have to leave the Black Heart and return to whatever world was left for him.
He’d have to go away from this ranch…away from her.
The best he could do was love her from a distance and try not to bleed on her while he did it.