Chapter 2 #2
This man has a relentless soul, the sort that won’t let him stop until he gets what he seeks. But his heart is restless. Once he’s done, he can’t stay in one place, always moving, always seeking that next challenge to soothe the disruption inside him that never sleeps.
Cord is lucky that he lives on a 350 thousand–acre farm—fine, ranch. Nearly double that if I add in the extra 200-ish thousand acres that he picked up in a bet nearly a year ago from his feral-as-fuck neighbor.
A bet that no one at Coyote talks about after the fact.
If he didn’t have a multitude of mountains back behind those fields of his, then he’d never keep Lanie. And wolves, of course. My girl is addicted to the things. And the place where he keeps that stupid bull everyone who loves him hates with a passion.
I wonder what West is addicted to.
But we’re talking about his compliments, not mine. “No need to fish.” I wiggle my butt, not caring if he looks or not. Yep, that’s what we’re going with tonight. Nope, I totally do not care. “Unless you’re in a fishing mood.”
That makes no sense, but the vodka shots I imbibed earlier also do not care.
“Uh-uh.”
I’m bratting out on him and we both know it. My drunk-chaotic sass earns me another sideways glance from West. If I keep this up, I can claim a special award for the night. A burst of giggles escapes me at the thought, the sound unrelated to anything inside my head.
“Jesus,” West mutters, gripping my elbow hard. “My truck’s this way, beautiful.”
“Not beautiful. I’m the knight.” My synapses connect to our prior conversation. I throw a proud thumb at my puffed-up chest and miss.
“And here’s your noble steed, my good sir.” West doesn’t miss a beat, hauling the door to his black truck open. He catches my waist to boost me up when my heel slips on the sidestep.
“I hate being a duck. Hate being tipsy,” I grumble as he straps me in.
“Who’s a duck?”
“Short. I’m short. Duck butts are close to the ground.” My explanation ends as warm, rough hands graze my bare tummy where my top rides up. A row of sparks ignites across my skin. I blink up at him, unable to break my train of thought despite the pleasure receptors going off at the same time.
“You don’t look like a duck to me. Let’s get you home.
But be fully aware that I’m charging you if Sir Ducksworth pukes in the front seat of my truck.
” West walks around his dual-cab truck, tapping his knuckles on the bull bar.
He swings himself up into the driver’s seat while I’m still trying to work out if and when I actually agreed to this gig.
“Were you just nice to me?” I ask suspiciously as the city whizzes by. “On purpose?”
West huffs at me. “Do you think the world is against you, Winnifred Rand?”
A growl builds in my chest. “I’m a Hamilton.” Internally I wince. Brad’s name has been thrown about too many times tonight already. I hate invoking the beast more often than required in case he actually appears, regardless of what I said earlier about calling him in for babysitting duties.
So I lied.
“You keep telling yourself that, beautiful.”
“Not beautiful.”
The truck swerves sharply. I nearly lose my dinner from hours before.
“Whoa. Are you trying to kill me?” I fold my arms and face West.
His heavyset profile is thrown into sharp relief beneath the streetlights I recognize. “We’re here.”
“Fine. Thank you for the ride and saving me from walking twelve blocks. There. That’s what you wanted, right?”
The faintest smile curls the corners of his lips. “Is that the old argument with the ex? A ‘Yes’ woman. Was that what Brad needed, Winnie?”
My eyes roll without my permission. There we go, invoking the ex. Again. I should get a counter. But I don’t stop the action either. “Whatever, cowboy. You live your glorified, dirty, anti–city slicker life. I’ll live mine. Separately. All right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Your destination.” West yanks up the handbrake with more force than is required, and his truck—far from a beater—groans its protest.
Suddenly I miss his knight in shining armor act. Whichever way that heads.
“So is this a full-service end of date?” I bat my lashes at him and tip my head back.
West snorts. “Is that what you called a date, Rand? Letting a—” He clears his throat. “Letting that man-child throw his used shirt at you from a stage?”
I flush, straightening as I whip off my seat belt and face him in full. “That man is a musician as well as a healthcare provider. He works twelve-hour shifts at a minimum, then offers out talent that you couldn’t find with your little toe.”
Defending my coworkers has always been a weakness of mine. Tonight, my moral line blurs with the effects of the alcohol fast wearing off thanks to West’s relentless line of questioning. My protective streak blares at full strength, mostly because with West I know I can get away with it.
I mean, he might fight me, but I also know he won’t hurt me.
This man has been my safety zone for longer than he knows.
West watches me quietly, and his silence is unnerving. “I stand corrected. Let me walk you to your door.”
I remember to shut my mouth as he slides out of the truck without another word, closes his door gently, and walks around to open mine.
“What in all the duck hells just happened?” I mutter as he holds out his hand to help me down.
Those glittering eyes still study me. “You educated a poor farm boy,” he says in that same quiet voice that I hate.
“That’s not what I meant—” I start, regretting poking this particular bear. I want the West who will fight me, who enjoys the banter and will walk away with his head held high no matter what I throw at him.
I don’t understand this version, and I don’t know what rules we’re playing by right now.
West ignores me and turns away, leading me up the steps to my townhouse. “Key? Is Sally asleep?”
I swallow at my daughter’s name, and responsibility drowns me. “She’s with a friend for the night. I got a babysitter so I could crash afterward and head to work without waking or worrying her. It’s a rarity,” I confess the truth of the lie I told him in the club earlier.
West says nothing at all as he opens my door and hands my key back.
Color heats my cheeks as I step over the threshold, my hand still locked into his firm, warm grip. I tug gently. “Aren’t you coming in?”
He surveys me with those same shadowed eyes that I can’t interpret, but then all contact drops away. “Good night, Winnie.” West’s hands disappear deep into his pockets.
I freeze on the threshold to my townhouse. “What?”
“I’ll wait while you lock up. Make sure you’re safe.” Those unyielding eyes never leave mine. Not once. He doesn’t look down or back away.
And I have not one single throwaway comment or sassy line ready when he rejects me.
Just. Like. That.
Self-pity wells in my throat as I back up a step.
“Well.” It’s all I’ve got. Retreat. Now. “Good night, Mister West.”
Unable to find the repartee I need on the spot and unsure why, after all the years we’ve known each other, tonight anything should change, I close the door in his face.
An inch-thick piece of hardwood set with more locks than any one person logically needs stands between us.
Cord insisted and installed them all himself last season when he was down after Lanie moved out of my place and into Coyote Falls.
My fingers don’t fumble a single one, knowing West still stands on the other side.
I can almost hear him counting down each turn with me. When I’m done, I lean against the door, barely daring to breathe. On the other side there’s silence, like he’s listening too. A heartbeat lies between us, soft and pensive, unlike the relentless man who refused to take a no from me tonight.
The cowboy I once hoped would one day be a fun fling officially put me out to pasture. The game changed between us somehow. West’s silent rejection stings more than anything.
Footsteps break the pensive silence, leaving me alone with my eyes closed and a head full of the ghosts from fantasies that will never be real.