Chapter 10
Trace stood at the window the next morning when Kip woke, silhouetted as the morning sunlight illuminated the snow-covered mountains from the faint horizon of majestic peaks to the fiery start of the new day. The reflection of the sun off the snow was almost as blinding as the sun itself.
Usually, it was one of the highlights of her day.
But today, her mind scrambled to recall everything she’d blurted out the night before.
When she realized what she'd said, she nearly became hysterical with fear.
Not for herself. No, she was scared for him and his family.
When sleep finally pulled her under, it was out of pure emotional exhaustion, not actual sleep.
But now the sun was up, and her Daddy would want answers.
She had no idea what to say. She couldn’t tell him the truth.
He was too protective, too willing to fight all her battles.
People thought he had a golden retriever personality, but they were wrong.
Especially when it came to her. When it was about her, he was more like a golden Rottweiler.
She sat perfectly still, not wanting to disturb him.
He deserved to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee after the night she forced him to endure.
Luckily, he hadn’t pressed her when she blurted out what she’d done…
how she’d brought the past six years on herself.
Not only had he not pressed her, he’d shut down.
Completely. Carrying her to the bed, he’d tucked her in, then walked around to the other side, lying on top of the comforter and pulling the thick Hudson Bay blanket from the foot of the bed.
That was all she needed to know. He couldn’t stand to be under the covers with her.
She didn’t blame him. No one wanted a killer in their home, much less in their bed. She’d known she couldn’t stay, but she’d hoped to leave while he still saw her as a decent person. Now he knew the truth.
She hadn’t realized Trace had his phone until he made a call.
His voice was too soft to hear. That was all right.
She could spend the whole day watching him framed in the window.
She took a moment to memorize everything about him: the way his cut muscles tightened as he moved.
He was a walker, pacing back and forth in the morning light when he talked on the phone. Just like she did.
The pewter sky hung low, the kind of Wyoming winter day that promised snow before supper.
Kip didn’t mind snow once it blanketed the ground.
She no longer got excited when she saw it fall; that thrill had ended six years ago.
She could manage light flurries, but anything heavier triggered her panic attacks.
Frost glittered on the cold windowpanes like crushed diamonds. The scent of Ruby’s sweet, yeasty cinnamon rolls filled the air. She’d bet Ruby already had a batch cooling on a wire rack, the icing still gooey, pooling in the spirals like melted snow.
Kip stirred so Trace would realize she was awake. The last thing she needed, with her backside aching, was to get in trouble for eavesdropping. Unfortunately, she didn’t make enough noise. She heard his words as plain as day. “I need you to run a deeper background check on Kip.”
After hanging up, he helped her get dressed, and twenty minutes later, Kip sat perched on a wooden stool at the scarred oak island, legs swinging in Trace’s too-big borrowed flannel—sleeves rolled four times, hem brushing her knees—picking at a roll with fingers that still trembled from last night’s nightmare.
Everyone knew her bottom was still sore from the way she shifted gingerly on the stool, trying to find a comfortable position for her tender nether regions while she chewed.
She avoided looking at Trace when he stepped back into the kitchen after checking on Daisy’s progress.
Luckily, she seemed as good as new. His boots thudded on the wide plank pine floor, the scent of cold iron, coffee, and the faint musk of horse clinging to his coat.
“We’re burnin’ daylight, little fox,” Trace said, voice calm and rumbly. No doubt the same tone he used on skittish colts, but laced with something rawer today, a thread of guilt that hadn’t been there before. “Eat up. We’ve got work.”
Kip’s fork froze mid-air, a curl of cream cheese icing clinging to the tines of her fork like the lifeline she wanted but didn’t deserve. “Work?” The word came out small.
“We’ve got some Great Pyrenees pups that need training.
I thought you might want to help.” He didn’t wait for an argument, just grabbed his black Stetson off the peg by the mudroom door and headed out, grabbing the picnic basket from the kitchen table on his way.
Kip followed because what else could she do?
Ruby pressed a dented tin thermos into Kip’s hands as she hurried to follow Trace outside. Its warmth made the metal slick with condensation. The smell of dark roast tempted her before Trace took it from her and placed it into a wicker picnic basket. The basket’s handle creaked in his gloved hand.
He grinned back at Ruby, who was standing in the doorway watching them. “This basket weighs a ton. What all did you put in here?”
Ruby shrugged, “Not much. Just some fried chicken, potato salad, jalapeno cornbread, peach popovers, and a sleeve of Oreos.”
“Sounds amazing. I love Oreos,” Trace said.
Ruby slammed her fists to her hips. “For your girl, poor thing. She’s practically skin and bones.”
Kip managed to stop herself before she looked around to see whose body Ruby was talking about because she knew it wasn’t hers. Kip had her curves, and she didn’t mind that. She liked her body, but she was not just skin and bones.
“If you’re hunting Christmas trees on the north forty,” Ruby told Trace, eyes sharp as a hawk beneath her silvering braid, “don’t you let that child freeze to death. And don’t let her out of your sight, Trace Daniels, or I’ll tan your hide myself and hang it on the line for the crows.”
Trace’s grin widened into a smile. Giving her a wink, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Kip’s cheeks burned hotter than the woodstove crackling in the corner of the kitchen, the heat licking her skin.
She was still wearing Kenzie’s hand-knitted, soft wool socks, though they felt a bit itchy.
Their thickness helped because Trace’s spare boots, ones he'd worn as a kid, still fit two sizes too big. He’d stuffed the toes with crinkled-up newspaper from yesterday that crinkled with every step.
She also wore one of his thermal shirts and his fleece-lined flannel plaid jackets.
She clomped after him like a kid playing dress-up in her Daddy’s clothes. She kind of was, now that she thought about it, and that thought made her smile. The picnic basket thumped against Trace’s hip, the thermos sloshing coffee against the lid with rhythmic splashes that matched her pulse.
Outside, the air bit sharp enough to make her lungs ache, crisp with the metallic tang of coming snow and the faint, clean bite of pine. Kip hugged his arm, ignoring the basket scratching her flannel-covered arm.
Her heart melted as four rambunctious dogs—three white as ghosts and one with a pale gold coat—burst out of the barn, stumbling and bumbling their way across the yard. Their paws kicked up powdery bursts that sparkled in the weak sunlight. Kip fell in love before she even took another breath.
Kip could hardly contain herself. “Oh my gosh! They’re adorable! Do they have names?”
Trace smiled at her excitement. “Yep. The one on the right is Luna, the middle one is Yuki, the one on the left is Glimmer, and the golden one is Goldie.”
The perfect names for the perfect dogs. “How old are they?”
“Six months.”
Six months? She thought they were full-grown dogs. “Puppies!” she squealed. Letting go of his arm, she ran to greet them. Dropping to her knees in the snow, she hugged them, or tried to, as they gave her the best puppy kisses she’d ever had. Goldie seemed especially drawn to her.
A sharp whistle sliced through the air, and the puppies fell into a loose heel, ears pricked forward, pink tongues lolling, drool freezing into crystalline threads.
Just like the night before, the barn smelled of sweet timothy hay, warm horses, and the faint musk of dogs.
The rich, earthy scent settled in her bones.
Sunlight slanted through cracks in the weathered siding, dust motes dancing like glitter in the golden beams, catching on the puppies’ fur.
The floorboards creaked beneath Trace’s weight, a low groan echoing her own unease, as he handed her a soft cotton rope, sun-bleached and frayed at the ends, smelling faintly of saddle soap. “Goldie’s the bold one. You’re her handler today. I’ll take the other three.”
Kip blinked up at him, the rope suddenly heavy in her palms, fibers biting into her skin. Why did she get the bold one? Fear made her words sharper than she intended. “Maybe all the other Little you’ve taken come knowing all about giant dogs, but I don’t—”
He cut her tirade off before it gained momentum. “First, I’ve never claimed a Little before. Second, don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”
She almost dropped the rope. He’d never claimed a Little? And yet, he’d been interested in her since she got to town. What made her so special?
He looped the rope around Goldie’s thick neck, her coarse off-white fur warm and prickly under her fingers.
With those calloused hands he was coming to crave, he showed her the slipknot, his movements slow and sure.
Then he stepped back, arms crossed over his shearling coat, the leather creaking like an old saddle.
“Walk her around the far paddock. Keep her between you and the fence. If she bolts, plant your feet and lean back. She’s strong, but you’re stubborn. ”
Kip’s laugh came out shaky, more breath than anything. She took a deep breath of the cold, which did nothing to soothe her raw throat from crying the night before. “You noticed.”