4 #2
Propping the door open behind her, she turns on her heel. “Dad!”
I sigh, feeling awkward and unwelcome, but I follow her inside. What small distance I assumed was between us is a chasm.
Aside from the strange medicinal smell in the air, everything in my childhood home is the same.
Antlers, family photos, and my father’s framed stills from his Westerns line the wall.
The tattered sheepskin rug laid out over the hardwood floor.
Across the hall, the kitchen with its white, flowered cabinets, farmhouse sink, and long family table.
Down the hall, my old bedroom and Fallon’s.
“Is it them? Dakota?” comes the gruff sound of my father’s voice. And then Stede McGraw is hustling out of the back bedroom, wiry and disheveled, boots stomping across the floorboards. His surprised, gray-eyed gaze gives me a once-over before he wraps me up in a tight hug.
I close my eyes and let his love surround me. “Hey, Daddy.”
“You look worse for wear, baby girl,” he says, pulling back to inspect my face once again.
My lower lip trembles. The pity in his eyes is crippling. “I know.”
My father gives Davis a tight nod. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
Planted in a corner of the room like some brooding bodyguard, Davis’s hands fist on his hips. “Nothing’s too much, Stede. Not for you. Or your daughters.”
Davis’s kindness to my father only has my heart beating faster. But just as quickly, realization anchors it. Davis only rode to my rescue as a favor. To Davis, I’m a problem. A pregnant, messy problem who’s running back to Resurrection with a baby and a bug-out bag.
My father shuffles to the couch and pats the spot beside him. “Sit here, Dakota, and tell me your troubles.”
Troubles . That’s a nice way to put it.
I’m opening my mouth to say just that when I notice something new.
There’s a strange-looking machine next to the couch.
Casserole dishes stacked on the chipped countertop.
Fallon’s bags are in the corner of the room, but I know she has a lavender cottage a few miles down.
I Google mapped it when I heard she got her own place.
Sent her a potted viola that I’m sure saw the inside of a trash can.
“Dad?” I ask, my voice weak. “Why is Fallon living here?”
Before anyone can answer, my father erupts in a cough. Fallon’s at his side in an instant, fussing, a handkerchief in her hand.
“What the hell is going on?” I choke out.
Davis’s jaw clenches, but he remains stoically silent.
A tense silence blankets the room, and a sick feeling settles in my stomach.
“He has lung cancer,” Fallon blurts. She grips my father’s hand and helps him settle on the couch.
“What?” I blink, a foggy haze settling over me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t tell us either,” Fallon retorts, cheeks flushed. Her eyes brush accusingly over my busted lip. “Looks like we’re even.”
Davis looks down on my sister with a scowl. “Fallon, for fuck’s sake.”
“That isn’t fair,” I snap at her, frustrated. I look at my father. “For how long?”
“About a year now.” My father waves his hand. “We didn’t want to bother you. Not when you were getting your bakery off the ground.”
The tightness in my chest constricts, the ache in my left arm intensifying. “That would have been the least of my worries. You should have told me.”
“It’s stage two,” Fallon shoots back, handing our father a glass of water. “We have it under control.”
I watch their routine, feeling guilty. Left out. It hurts so badly they kept it from me, but it hurts worse because I know I’ve been MIA. Fallon’s been here, I haven’t.
Shame burns a hole in my stomach.
My father pats the seat beside him. “Come sit by your old man. I want to know what’s going on with you, daydreamer.”
Daydreamer .
My father’s nickname for me. I always had my head in the clouds, dreaming of the what-could-be. Fallon was the troublemaker. The one most like my father. I remember even as a child, Fallon was always chasing that adrenaline rush.
My little sister was born fearless.
And me, I was born to run.
After a brief glance at Davis, I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. His steady gaze eases some of my nerves.
I sit on the couch and square my shoulders, my father’s hand sandwiched between mine.
I repeat everything I told Davis. My pregnancy. The fire. Our fight. The entire time I explain, Davis stands as still as a statue.
The only thing I leave out is Aiden’s name, and what happened the night I broke my arm. It’s too awful. I still can’t.
When I finish, Fallon hangs back against the wall, arms crossed like some surly high schooler at a dance.
My father sighs. “Sounds like you got yourself into a pickle.”
I breathe through the sting of tears and squeeze his hand. “Sounds like it, Daddy.”
“Are you in danger from this man?” my father asks, voice tight.
“I don’t know.” My voice quivers. Just thinking about Aiden causes my emotions to unravel. “Maybe.”
Davis’s expression turns to granite. “Maybe in my world is a yes. Especially when it comes to you.” His voice is deep, gruff, and his dark gaze rakes over my face.
Our eyes lock, the air thickening with heat.
Fallon’s voice tears through the tense silence. “As much as I love this fucked-up family reunion, I got a shift at The Corner Store.”
“Wait.” I stand, reaching out to grab her arm. She flinches at my touch. “You’re working at the store?”
She shouldn’t be there. That wasn’t the plan.
She hits me with a fiery glare and untangles from my grip. “You’re not here. Someone has to pick up the slack.”
“I can move in with you,” I tell my father, desperately seeking some sort of calm and order. “I’m home now. I can help.”
“No, you can’t.” Fallon pauses at the door to whip her head to me. Resentment crackles in the space between us. “You said it yourself, Dakota. What if he comes back? What if he comes for you ? He can’t come to the house. Not when Dad’s sick.”
“I’m over seventy,” my father says with a chuckle. “If I go to jail, we all know I ain’t got long. Hell, I’ll tell ’em I’m crazy.”
“That’s not funny,” Fallon scolds.
Suddenly, icy terror grips me. “I’ll leave if he comes to Resurrection,” I whisper. My friends, my family… they’re in danger the longer I stick around. “That’s my plan. Pack up and run.”
“That’s a plan that isn’t happening.” The smoky growl of Davis’s voice curls around my heart like a fist.
Fallon rolls her eyes. “Then you tell me, cowboy. What do we do with her?”
A scream of frustration bubbles up in my lungs. I feel like a charity case. Nowhere to stay, no plan, grappling at the wind for a sense of control.
Maybe coming home was a mistake.
“She stays at the ranch.” Davis’s announcement scorches the air while I blink to make sure I’ve heard him correctly.
The man stands there, arms crossed, expression fierce. Like he has the final say in the matter.
“I don’t think so,” I say, my face hot with anger and frustration.
And yet—goosebumps skate across my skin at the thought of close confines with Davis Montgomery.
This is a bad idea. All of it.
Fallon smirks.“Congratulations,” she says to me, shouldering her bag. Her gaze drops to my stomach. “Don’t expect me to fucking babysit.”
I jump at the hard slam of the door. Davis swears hard under his breath.
Heart hammering, I turn my attention back to the problem at hand. “What are you going to do, Davis? Follow me around the next however many weeks until it’s safe?”
“Yes.” His big, muscled frame stomps forward. I shiver at the bright blaze of protection in his piercing eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”