Chapter 7
TANNER
Music was already playing when I stepped into the community center, the kind of low, steady country rhythm that settled into the room and made everything feel easier than it actually was.
Strings and steel guitar wound through the chatter, softening the edges of laughter and clinking bottles.
Local music night had become a regular thing at the community center, and I’d actually attended a few times.
But tonight felt different the second I saw her.
Waverly stood near the edge of the dance floor, talking to a couple of locals I recognized from town.
She looked relaxed in a way I rarely saw outside the cabin, her shoulders loose, one hand gesturing as she spoke.
She had on a simple dress, but it hugged her curves in a way that made my mouth go dry.
Her dark auburn hair fell in loose waves instead of her usual braid, catching the light every time she turned her head.
She fit in here more than I expected, and maybe more than I wanted to admit. The realization sat wrong in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable, like something shifted out of place.
I kept my distance at first, staying in the shadows near the back wall.
A few people nodded my way, mostly ranchers I'd worked with and neighbors who knew better than to ask questions.
I returned the nods, accepted a beer from someone's cooler, and tried to look casual. But I couldn’t keep my attention from drifting back to her.
She laughed at something one of the women said, the sound carrying over the music just enough for me to catch it. It wasn't the breathless laugh I heard in the cabin, tangled up with my name. This was lighter, more carefree, and I liked it.
I took a long pull from the bottle, the beer bitter on my tongue.
A couple moved past me onto the dance floor, their boots scuffing against the worn planks in time with the music. Others followed, filling the space with movement that felt natural as breathing. The song shifted into something slower, the kind of song that let couples press close together.
Then someone asked her to dance. I recognized him as a ranch hand from one of the spreads north of town.
Ethan was young, maybe mid-twenties, with an easy confidence that came from never questioning where he stood.
He moved through the room like he owned a piece of it, nodding to folks as he passed, until he stopped in front of Waverly.
He said something I couldn't hear, then held out his hand.
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
Waverly gave him a warm, soft smile. She’d never looked at me like that. Then she took his hand.
My fingers tightened around the glass bottle. I set it down on the nearest table before I did something stupid, but my gaze stayed on Waverly.
Ethan led her onto the floor, his hand settling at her waist like it belonged there. She put her palm on his shoulder, her head tilting slightly as they started to move.
They looked good together. The thought landed like a fist slamming into my chest, knocking the wind right out of me.
I forced myself to stay where I was, to keep my feet rooted to the floor, watching as they turned in slow circles.
Ethan said something that made her laugh again, and she looked up at him with those green eyes that never missed a damn thing.
Those same eyes had gazed up at me in the cabin just a few days ago, dark with desire and something deeper I didn't have a name for. But here, she wasn't mine. Here, she was just another woman at a community dance, available to anyone who asked. And why shouldn't she be?
We hadn't defined anything. Hadn't made promises or set boundaries beyond the ones I kept throwing up and then tearing down the second I got close enough to touch her. She didn’t owe me a damn thing, and that’s exactly how I wanted it. But watching her in his arms felt like swallowing glass.
Someone came up next to me, and a familiar voice cut through the music. "Are you planning to stand there all night glaring, or you are you gonna do something about it?"
I turned to find my sister’s boyfriend Torin nursing a whiskey and watching me with a knowing look that made my back teeth grind.
"I’m not glaring," I said.
"Riiiiiiight." Torin took a sip, his forehead creasing with amusement. "Is that why you look like you want to knock that kid into next Sunday?"
I didn't answer. On the floor, Ethan spun Waverly out, then pulled her back in. Her dress flared, then settled against her thighs. His hand stayed respectful at her waist, but the familiarity in the gesture made something dark and ugly coil in my chest.
"That's the Kincaid girl," Torin said.
I kept my eyes on the dance floor. "Her name’s Waverly."
"Heard you've been helping her look at horses."
The words carried weight I didn't want to unpack. "Evaluating. That's all."
"Mm-hmm." Torin’s tone suggested he didn't believe a word of it. "You know what people are saying?"
"I don't really care what kind of gossip people have been spreading."
"Maybe you should." Torin shifted, his gaze following mine. “Kincaids and Hollisters don't mix. They never have. If you start making exceptions, folks will notice."
The song was ending, the final notes drawing out long and mournful.
Ethan said something to Waverly, and she nodded, her smile still in place.
Then her eyes found mine across the room.
Her smile slipped. Not much, just enough for me to catch it.
Her gaze held steady, a question forming in the tilt of her head, and suddenly the distance between us felt like miles instead of yards.
Ethan released her, stepping back with a parting word I couldn't hear. Waverly thanked him, her attention already drifting away. Toward me.
She crossed the room and headed my way like she'd already decided something I hadn't caught up to yet. The crowd between us shifted and parted, people turning to follow her path with the kind of attention that made the back of my neck prickle.
Torin went quiet beside me.
She stopped close enough that I could catch the faint scent of something clean and warm that had nothing to do with perfume and everything to do with the way her skin tasted when I pressed my mouth to her throat.
The memory hit hard, inappropriate and unwelcome in the middle of the community center with half the town watching.
The noise of the room faded into something distant and muffled, leaving only the weight of her gaze and everything I hadn't said. Everything I couldn't say.
Her green eyes held mine, direct and unflinching, reading me the way she read horses…
looking past the surface to find what was hidden underneath.
I'd watched her do it a dozen times in arenas and corrals, that sharp focus cataloging details most people missed.
Now she turned it on me, and I felt stripped bare.
"Tanner." My name came out soft and almost private, despite the very public space surrounding us.
I managed a nod. "Waverly."
She didn't ask about the cabin. Didn't mention the nights we'd spent hidden away from all of this, tangled together in shadows and want.
Didn't bring up the way I'd traced every curve of her body like I was committing it to memory, or the way she'd said my name when she came apart underneath me.
Instead, she just looked at me, waiting.
The silence stretched between us, thick and expectant. Someone changed the song on the sound system, another slow number that pulled couples back onto the floor. The movement around us continued, life carrying on like nothing significant was happening.
But something was. I felt it in the tension coiling through my shoulders, in the way my pulse kicked up despite the careful distance I tried to maintain.
She’d given me an opening. All I had to do was reach for it. Ask her to dance. Say something that acknowledged what we'd become in those stolen hours at the cabin. Make a choice that mattered in a space where people could see it.
"It’s a nice night," I said instead, the words landing flat and useless between us.
Something flickered in her expression, too quick to name.
Torin shifted his weight next to me, the movement subtle but pointed. He took another sip of whiskey, his eyes tracking between Waverly and me with an attention I didn't want.
"That was a real pretty turn on the floor," someone said from my left.
Harrison Winslow, one of the richest ranchers in town, inserted himself into the conversation with the confidence of a man who'd had a few drinks and felt entitled to share his thoughts.
"The Riley boy’s got good taste, I'll give him that. "
He looked at Waverly when he said it, his gaze dropping briefly to her dress before returning to her face with a smile that didn't quite land right.
"Kincaids clean up nice," Harrison continued, oblivious to—or ignoring—the way the temperature dropped. "Though I'm surprised to see one of yours at an event attended by Hollisters. I guess lines are blurring all over the place these days."
The comment hung in the air, careless and pointed at the same time. A few people nearby went quiet, their attention focusing on our small group.
I felt the exact point where I could step in.
Where I should step in. The words formed automatically, sitting just behind my teeth.
She's here because I want her here. Because what's between us doesn't have a damn thing to do with last names or feuds or whatever small-minded bullshit you're peddling.
But the weight of the room crashed in before I could say a damn word.
Harrison Winslow’s presence pressed down on me along with the judgement of neighbors and family.
Generations of Hollister expectations made my chest squeeze tight like I’d been caught inside a vise.
Every lesson I'd learned about responsibility and legacy, about protecting what mattered and maintaining the boundaries that kept everything from falling apart, rushed over me.
My father's voice echoed in my head, rough and certain: Hollisters don't mix with Kincaids. Never have, never will. You remember that. I'd been raised on those words. Built my entire life around them. So I let the moment pass.
I didn’t contradict Winslow. Didn't defend her. Didn't say or do a fucking thing. The silence stretched for three heartbeats, then four. Long enough for everyone nearby to understand exactly what I wasn't saying.
Waverly saw it. The understanding settled over her, looking like resignation I didn't want to acknowledge. She'd given me an opening, and I'd refused to take it.
Her chin tipped up, that familiar pride reasserting itself. When she nodded, it carried the weight of an answer, like she'd asked a question and I'd responded without speaking a word.
"Mr. Winslow," she said, her voice level and cool. "It’s always a pleasure." The politeness in her tone made it clear it was anything but.
Then she looked at me one more time. Her green eyes revealed nothing and everything at the same time. "Thanks for the evaluations, Tanner. I appreciate your professional opinion."
Professional. The way she said that word landed like she’d just stuck a knife between my ribs.
"No problem," I managed.
She stepped back, putting distance between us that felt permanent. I watched her go, my hands curling into fists at my sides as she moved through the crowd. People parted for her, some nodding politely, others tracking her departure with the same attention they'd given her arrival.
Ethan caught her near the door and said something that made her pause. She responded, her expression smoothing into something pleasant and distant, before she continued outside. The door closed behind her with a soft click that I shouldn't have been able to hear over the music, but I did.
"Well," Torin said. "You handled that real well."
I turned to look at him, my jaw tight.
He met my gaze without flinching. "You're a fucking fool, Tanner."
I couldn’t argue with that. He was right.