Chapter Three
Pope hadn’t stepped foot inside the Stockyard in months, and now that he was here, he was pretty sure coming had been a mistake.
The second he walked through the heavy wood door, his nerves snapped tight under his skin, every instinct split between wanting to see Summer and wanting to avoid the encounter completely.
The place looked the same as always—warm lights, country music, packed tables. The smell of fried food and beer hung in the air, but it didn’t feel the same walking in without the anticipation of her tracking his movements and catching his eye.
Now he had no idea what would happen if they locked eyes.
No clue how he was supposed to play it off in front of the people that urged him to come along with them tonight.
The long tables near the back were crowded with half the damn crew from the Black Heart Ranch—the Malones, some guys on the security team, a ranch hand or two and a few veterans from the therapy program.
Fern, Crew’s pretty little lady who was responsible for building the community garden on the ranch, had dragged him onto the dance floor, and the couple seemed to be holding their own among the line dancers.
Pope stood near one of the tall tables, nursing the same beer he’d been holding most of the night, trying to appear social enough that nobody questioned him.
Every so often somebody pulled him into conversation and he managed to respond like a functioning human being before his attention went right back toward the room, the kitchen doors, the bar.
Toward her.
Hell.
He had to distract himself, but the only other thing on his mind was cornering Crew and asking why the hell he’d been talking to Rhae about him.
But there hadn’t been any opening. Not with this many people around.
Not with Rhae herself here tonight, sitting with Willow and a few other Malone ladies.
Not the place.
Pope lifted the beer again, mostly for something to do with his hands.
Then he saw Summer.
His gut clenched so hard it pulled a darkness he kept buried to the surface.
On the heels of that came heat, rolling through his blood in one fast wave as she moved between tables carrying a tray against one hip, her light brown hair down tonight, swaying loose on her back.
She wore fitted jeans, cowgirl boots and a black Stockyard T-shirt knotted at the waist, and his fingers tingled to ball the fabric in his fists before ripping it off her.
Fuck.
He wanted to talk to her.
If she was going to give him the time of day, the conversation had to take place here. This was the only ground he’d ever had with her. He needed to respect the boundary she set between them.
They’d never been a couple, never pretended they were building something.
Pope rubbed the back of his neck and looked away before she noticed him staring.
For half a second he almost wished there were enough people for a round of poker, but it seemed like everyone was line dancing.
At least then he’d have something to focus on besides the cramp in the center of his chest. He could sit in the back room and at least have his comfort zone if he couldn’t have Summer.
It didn’t help that he occasionally glanced up to find one of the Malones watching him. Nothing about their stares felt accusing or suspicious—they were just watching, and he wasn’t sure why.
The feeling sat wrong in his gut. He liked them. Hell, the family had done more for him than most people in his life ever had.
But it made him feel a little betrayed too. This was the problem with mixing the family with therapy. Rhae was sitting a few seats away, and she could see every twitch he made.
He couldn’t fuck things up. He needed to prove he could function outside the structure of the Black Heart, and Rhae needed to see his progress, not his problems.
But when Summer stopped beside the table to drop off a basket of chicken wings for him, he overtipped her out of habit.
Her stare flicked down to the cash, then back to him. For one second her expression softened before she wiped it off her face. “Thanks,” she said quietly.
Pope managed to nod once like his pulse wasn’t hammering.
Conversation rolled around him, and he only caught snippets before someone asked him about the horse he was training.
He looked up at Denver and cocked his head. “Sorry—didn’t catch that. Music’s loud.”
“Just asked how the training was going.” Denver Malone’s gray eyes seemed to take in more than Pope was willing to offer.
Months before, Pope purchased a gelding from Willow’s breeding stock.
He’d been training it under Willow’s guidance as part of his therapy—but fact was, working with the horse had come easier to him than he expected.
He’d never been a ranch guy. Never spent time around animals bigger than military dogs.
But training the gelding clicked fast—almost like instinct.
Probably as natural as being with Summer.
He forced himself not to look for her as he took a real sip of the beer. “He’s coming along,” he told Denver.
“Told you Flint would be good for you,” Willow called from farther down the table between Rhae and Dutch.
He’d named the horse himself—Flint, because he’d have to find a spark somewhere if he was going to build a life after he left the Black Heart.
Pope sent her a long look. “I won’t argue your point.”
Willow flashed him a smile “I see how you’ve got that horse wrapped around your finger.”
He got lured into a longer conversation with Denver and his brother Colt about whether or not he planned to take Flint to auction or sell the horse back to their sister.
Willow leaned forward, talking across two more of her brothers to join in. “I can’t wait to see what you and Flint do at auction. You worked hard to get here. But if you change your mind, I’d love to have Flint back anytime.”
“We’ll see.” He pushed away from the table before he could get sucked into more discussions, excusing himself in a mutter. Nobody stopped him.
Skirting around the tables, he settled into awareness of his surroundings.
The song had switched to a slow one, and couples glided around the floor, locked in each other’s arms. He avoided looking at them as he cut straight toward the bar.
On the way past, he spotted one of the regulars sitting alone with a burger basket and a beer.
The guy rolled through town every month or two on business, from what Pope gathered. Older, friendly enough and harmless-looking.
Pope barely paid attention to him until Summer stepped up beside the guy with that bright smile that left Pope feeling more bereft just when he thought he was getting over her.
“Hey, Mr. Crowe. How are you?”
The man chuckled. “Aren’t we friends by now, Summer? Please call me Gary.”
An ugly dislike tightened in Pope’s chest.
He kept walking toward the restroom.
“Passing through to Texas again?” Summer continued to talk to the man.
Pope shoved through the bathroom door harder than necessary. By the time he came back out, Summer was busy again, weaving through tables with another tray of empty plates balanced against her shoulder.
He caught her just before she disappeared through the kitchen doors. “Can I talk to you?”
God, he wanted to put his hands on her. Feel her silky skin beneath his fingers. Sink his hand into her thick hair that she never used to wear loose when she was waitressing.
She stopped but didn’t fully turn to him. “I’m working.”
“After?”
Her blue eyes finally lifted to his, guarded enough to make his stomach sink lower than it had been all night. “I’m going home and going to bed.”
Her answer felt like a sharp blade cutting any remaining hope for more.
Without a word in response, he swung around and sliced his way directly to his table. He jerked out his chair a little too hard and dropped into it, fingers curling around the bottle. He took a swig.
Crew caught his gaze. “You’ve been sucking on that same beer all night. You wanna put a nipple on that bottle?”
A couple guys laughed.
He set the bottle down. “Not really into it tonight. Think I might leave early.”
Willow, who’d apparently heard the exchange from her end of the table, reached into her purse and tossed him a set of keys.
Pope caught them out of reflex. “What’s this?”
“Take my truck. I know you haven’t had much to drink and you’re safe to drive.”
Seconds ago when he said he might leave, he’d only been thinking of escaping from any more exchanges with the woman he wanted but couldn’t have. Now that he had the means to leave—cold metal keys in his fist—he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Because he needed to make sure Summer made it home safe.
Leaving now felt wrong, but staying was agonizing.
Across the length of the table, Willow’s expression softened. “It’s fine, Pope. Really. Take the truck whenever you’d like. I won’t expect you back until later.” She cut a sideways look at Summer, who was delivering pitchers of beer to the table next to theirs.
Willow’s kindness hit him hard—not because she was wrong. Because she knew.
That knot in his chest tightened more, and he shoved away from the table. “Headin’ out, everyone. Get home safe.”
Everyone said goodbye to him. As he passed by Willow, he paused, leaning down to speak to her.
“You picked up on that.” He didn’t elaborate—he and Willow worked together enough to have a language of their own.
Her lips curved softly. “Pope. A blind man could pick up on that.”
His jaw locked. “Why’s everyone watching me all of a sudden?”
“We watch you because we care about you.” Her answer came too fast and easy to be a lie…yet it felt like more.
He straightened away from her, fingers clamping around the truck keys. “You mean like the military watches to see if you’re fit for duty.”
Her expression softened. Grew sadder maybe.
“No. Like family.”
The word lodged in his chest alongside the knot that wasn’t leaving until he got close to Summer—or farther away from her.