38
A chorus of oooo’s ripples through the bar when Fallon and I storm inside. Beef shoots us a smug look like he knows exactly what we’ve been up to. He slides two shots across the bar, and Fallon and I take them in succession.
Fallon’s nostrils flare, one corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “Everyone will talk,” she murmurs.
“Good.” I hope the entire fucking town is talking about the fact that Fallon McGraw’s my wife.
I should have put that asshole’s head through the fucking wall. Instead, I took Fallon out back and fucked her. If I have my way, no other man but me will ever touch her again.
My hand on the small of her back, I guide her to the dance floor, meeting the eyes of a few cowboys gawking at Fallon. I glare at them, and they quickly turn back to the bar.
Not that I blame them. She’s fucking gorgeous. Disheveled from our time in the alley, her golden-caramel hair cascades over her shoulders. That blue denim mini dress shows off every muscle, every curve. With her red-painted, feline smirk and kohl-lined eyes, she’s a smoke show.
Watching Fallon dance with that asshole had my head such a fucking mess that all I saw was red.
All I saw was a future without Fallon. Those sharp lips callin’ another man’s name.
On her ranch, riding with someone else. Fucking someone else.
Givin’ someone else her secrets and her smiles.
Those hazel eyes lighting up for the cowboy she chose.
I saw what she wanted earlier. No doubt about us. She wanted to know she was mine. That I’m in it. Thank Christ I didn’t make the same damn mistake. Not fucking this up again. Not fucking up anything between us. No pretending tonight. She’s mine, and I’m hers.
“No more games,” I demand. “Dance with me.”
I offer a hand, and she takes it. Eyes locked on her face, my hand slides around her waist. Fallon lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t fuck it up, asshole.”
Though her words are light, the meaning hangs heavy between us.
Bootsteps quicken over the hardwood floor, the music bright and boisterous. Even with her limp, she’s graceful. Her hair tumbles around her as we spin faster to the music. My arm’s an iron band around her waist. I won’t let her fall. Never again.
“Spin?” I murmur. “Can you handle it?”
Her hazel eyes gleam. “You’re the one with two left feet.”
“C’mon, cowgirl,” I drawl, leading her with the music. Not too slow, not too fast. We find our rhythm. Just like on those horses.
Then I’m hit with the most beautiful sight in existence.
Fallon’s smiling.
A dazzling smile. She’s glowing. Like she’s showing our town she’s back. She’s here. To stay.
But is she? She talked tonight about the rodeo. The rodeo means a life on the road. I should have expected it. Sooner or later, my restless girl will want to roam. Which means I go with her. Wherever that is.
With a wild whoop, I lift her, and she laughs as I swing her across the floor. I’m drunk on music, on whiskey, on the girl in my arms.
The jukebox blasts Luke Bryan. Beef slings drinks. The dance floor teems with locals. It’s my whole goddamn world, and I love it, made even better with Fallon by my side.
The night spins on. I lose track of the time after three dances, three whiskeys.
“You hear that,” Fallon says with uncharacteristic playfulness. “That’s the sound of every heart breaking in Resurrection.”
“What can I say?” I flash her a grin. “I’m a heartbreaker.”
A hint of color stains her cheeks. “Well then, heartbreaker, guess you’d better kiss me to make it official.”
My heart’s in my throat. Is that what this? Official? If it’s the whiskey, the sex, or the dance making Fallon brave, I can’t tell. But her words are loaded with so much heat. Suddenly, I want to get her home, back to our cottage, and figure us out.
Her hazel eyes study mine. “Wyatt, I—”
My chest collides with hers. I kiss her. Right there on the dance floor in front of everyone. The locals in the bar cheer like they’re at a rodeo.
When we pull back, Fallon’s breathless. The music kicks over to an old Kenny Rogers song.
“Take a breather?”
“Yeah,” she gasps, and we head back to the booth.
A smile twitches on her mouth. “Thanks for the dance.”
“Got more in our future.” I step forward to run my fingertips over her cheek. Glance down. “Hip hurtin’?”
She juts her chin. “Not so bad.”
“I want you to sit and rest.” It’s her first day without her walker. She’s got to be in pain. But knowing Fallon, she’d never say a damn thing.
“But that’s boring,” she pouts, pouring us each another shot of whiskey.
I chuckle. She’s the cutest damn thing with a little whiskey in her.
“Cut in?” a cowboy asks with a tip of his hat. He’s practically licking his lips. I shouldn’t be surprised. New cowboys in Resurrection act like fools when there’s a beautiful woman around.
I don’t blame him. But he doesn’t get my girl.
“Can’t right now,” I grit out, my gaze on Fallon as she steadies her cane. “She’s done dancin’.”
The cowboy leers at Fallon. “You looked good in his arms, honey, but you’ll look even better in mine.”
I glare at him, wondering how fast I can put a fist through his face.
Fallon’s mouth curves in a sharp smile. “I’m lonely, but I ain’t that lonely yet.”
I flex my fists, subtly moving my body between Fallon and the cowboy. “You heard her.”
Fallon flicks a hand like he’s a gnat. “Find a personality or go get me a drink.”
The man glares at her. “Bitch.”
I suck in a breath.
“Oh fuck, there’s something about telling a grown man to shut the fuck up that really gets me going,” Fallon says, casually rolling out her shoulders in a way that tells me she’s planning to swing.
Me, I ain’t feelin’ so casual at the moment.
Fallon can hold her own.
But whether she likes it or not, I’m her protector.
Blood boiling, I square up with the man. He’s beyond fucked. “You want to say that again. To my fuckin’ face this time.”
“Yeah, I do,” the guy drawls in a heavy Kentucky accent. “She’s a fucking bitch.” Foot jerking out, he kicks at the bottom of her cane, tipping it.
Fallon wobbles, but I grab her before she can fall.
A growl comes from behind the bar. Beef.
Red mists my vision.
Fallon’s smile flatlines. “Now that’s not very nice.”
My muscles stiffen, and my lungs swell with readiness. The worst mistake of this fucker’s life, and he doesn’t even know it.
I step forward.
“Don’t touch my wife,” I growl and then smash a brick fist into his face.
The guy slams into a table and drops his beer. He immediately turns my way, already balling a fist.
I throw a right hook that catches the guy in the chin. His teeth clack together, and then he goes down. His groans echo around the bar. No one moves.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
“Nice hook,” Fallon says, sliding a hand over my shoulder.
I grin at her. “Fucker had it comin’. Let’s—”
WHACK!
A skinny dude with black jeans and a bolo tie smashes a pool cue on the bar top—the crack of a starter’s pistol.
The bar erupts. A table’s overturned. Two beer bottles fly through the air. A group of locals flee out the front door like panicked horses. Sheena screeches and ducks behind an overturned table, her tray held over her head like a shield.
“Aw, fuck,” I mutter.
“Fuck yes,” Fallon says, and I have to smother my grin. She loves a wild barfight as much as I do. A cowgirl in every way. Goddamn, I love her.
But what I don’t love is her being right in the middle of this bullshit. Irritated I have to channel Davis for once in my life, I grab her hand. “Let’s get outta here.”
“No way,” she shouts amid the fray. “I want to get a swing in.”
Smile feral, Fallon gives a wild hoot and steps up, placing herself in the middle of the brawl.
I groan.
Fallon moves right as a big, barrel-chested guy lunges at her. She swings a fist, turning his head sideways. The guy falls to his knees, making a noise like he’s choking on something.
I grab her arm, tightening my grip. “Goddammit, Fallon, you’re killin’ me.”
“I’m just getting—” Her eyes widen. She’s looking over my shoulder. “Wyatt, look out!”
I grab her around the waist. She shouts and swears and curses my name, but she can deal with it. I swing her to the side, bracing to take the hit myself.
The punch glances off my back, right in the fucking kidneys. Fists clenched, I whip around. “What the fuck are you doin’?” I yell at Lionel Wolfington. He’s busted up with broken knuckles and a black eye.
“Fuck, Wyatt,” he says, holding up a hand to block my blow. We both duck as a chair sails over our head. “Get outta the fuckin’ way.”
“Idiots,” Fallon says, looking like she wants to knock our heads together.
Across the room, a bearded guy lifts the dartboard and brings it down across another guy’s face. Two teeth sail across the room.
“Fuck.” The entire bar’s out of control. Gone to a place that seems pulled from a Mad Max movie.
“Okay, now we can go,” Fallon says, wide-eyed.
I take her hand and pull her across the room. We’re halfway to the door when she tugs us both to a stop.
“Wait,” she says. “My cane.”
“Shit,” I swear, seeing the panic in her wide eyes at the loss of her cane. We duck back into the crowd, evading the fight the best we can.
That is, until an arm darts out from the crowd. It catches Fallon with force across the chest. It’s quick. Her legs go out from under her. She hits the floor and lands right on her ass in a puddle of beer.
Dead silence.
Nobody moves.
My vision blurs with fire and anger.
And then Fallon closes her eyes and laughs. I’ve never heard such joy, such beauty come from those lips.
I stand over her and stare, fists clenched, torn between killing the person who just knocked her over like a sack of potatoes and the urge to laugh with her.
As if he’s heard my thoughts, Beef sighs and wipes off the chalkboard. “Get him, Wyatt,” he booms.
I give Fallon a grin, she gives me a nod, and then I whip around and hit the guy.
There’s a loud crack as he slams into the wall.
I reach down and pull Fallon back to her feet. She kisses me fiercely then grins.