Chapter 4 Cash
Chapter four
Cash
Today changes everything.
Rosewood County’s thirty miles of winding road and dust, and everyone there knows me.
Knows I don't bring women to town. Haven't in the three years since Rebecca left, and even then it was only twice.
The waitress at the diner keeps a running tally of how long it's been since Cash Wilder showed up with someone who mattered.
Today I'm resetting that clock.
Dressing in clean jeans and a dark gray T-shirt takes less than five minutes.
I run my hand through my hair once and grab the supply list Lucinda gave me yesterday.
The truck's parked behind my house, engine ticking in the cool morning air.
I throw the list onto the passenger seat and head toward the cabins.
Cabin 5's porch light is still burning. Two knocks, and the door opens fast.
She's wearing jeans that fit her curves and a white T-shirt that's too thin for the morning chill. The outline of her nipples shows through the fabric, stirring my cock.
"Morning," I say, handing her the coffee.
She takes it with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth. Her shoulders are rigid under the thin cotton. "What's today?"
"Supply run. You're coming with me." Leaning against the doorframe, I block any argument with my body.
Her eyes widen. "I have more fence work scheduled—"
"I rescheduled it." Pushing off the frame, I gesture toward my truck in the distance. "Get a jacket. It's chilly this morning."
She disappears inside. Drawers open, fabric rustles. When she comes back, she's wearing a denim jacket that's too big on her, sleeves hanging past her wrists. It's mine. I left it on her porch the other night after our ride when the temperature dropped and she was shivering.
She kept it.
Something cracks behind my sternum. I turn toward the truck, listening for her footsteps behind me. She's quiet this morning. Nervous energy radiates off her in waves.
Opening the passenger door, I wait. She climbs in, and the scent of something floral that doesn't belong in Texas but works on her fills the cab. I shut her door, round the hood, and slide behind the wheel.
The engine turns over with a rumble that shakes the bench seat.
Backing out slowly, gravel crunches under the tires, and I head down the ranch road toward the highway.
The sun crests the hills, painting her in shades of dawn through the dusty windshield.
She looks radiant in the waking light, every stray hair glowing like a filament.
I don't say a word; I just drive, letting the pink and gold of the morning settle over us.
Ten miles pass in silence. She stares out the window, travel mug pressed between her palms, shoulders tight under my jacket. Reaching over, I take her hand off the mug and lace our fingers together on the bench seat between us.
She startles and looks down at our joined hands but doesn't pull away.
"You're quiet," I say.
"I’m thinking."
"About?"
Her throat works. "This. What we're doing."
Squeezing her hand, I bring our joined fingers to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, keeping my eyes on the road. "We're going to town. Getting supplies. Nothing complicated."
"Cash," she says, her eyes wide and suddenly vulnerable as she looks at me. "There won’t be any hiding this; everyone’s going to know."
"Good."
"Good?" Her voice goes up half an octave.
"Yeah." I catch the skip and jump of her pulse beneath my thumb. It’s a desperate, fluttering heat that tells me she’s seconds away from wanting to bolt. "I want them to know you're with me."
Tension fills the silence that follows. Her pulse jumps under my touch. Finally, she whispers, "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."
"Then you tell me. Right now. And we turn around."
The words are true. If she's not ready, I'll take her back to the ranch and give her more time. But I need to know where we stand. Need to know if she's mine or if she's still running.
She's quiet for three miles. Then she turns her hand in mine, palm to palm, and threads our fingers tighter. "Don't turn around."
The tension releases from my shoulders, and I press the gas. The truck picks up speed on the empty highway.
We arrive in Saddlehorn around nine-thirty.
It’s one main street lined with storefronts that haven't changed in decades.
Feed store on the corner, diner across from the post office, general store with its faded awning and wooden porch.
Saturday morning means the parking spots are full, trucks angled in like dominoes.
We slip into a space near the feed store, and I kill the engine. Sloane stares through the windshield at the diner, and tension climbs her spine vertebra by vertebra.
"Hey." I cup the back of her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear. "You're safe with me."
She nods but doesn't look convinced.
We climb out into heat that's already building, the sun climbing toward noon. Rounding the truck, I take her hand again before she can think about pulling away. Her palm is damp with nerves, but she holds on.
The feed store first. We need grain and salt licks, and Tom behind the counter has known me since I was twenty-two and green as spring grass. He looks up when the bell over the door jingles, and his eyebrows climb toward his hairline when he sees Sloane.
"Cash." He sets down the clipboard he was holding. "Didn't expect to see you with company."
"Tom, this is Sloane. She's staying at the ranch." The way I'm holding her hand says everything.
Tom's gaze flicks between us, and recognition settles in his expression. "Ma'am." He nods to Sloane. "Welcome to Saddlehorn."
She manages a smile. "Thank you."
I keep her close with a hand on her lower back as I walk her through the store and gather what I need. She's tense under my palm, but she's not pulling away. That's progress.
At the counter, Tom rings up my order and loads bags into my arms. "Haven't seen you bring someone to town in a long while."
"No," I agree. "You haven't."
His smile is slow and approving. "Good for you, buddy."
Outside, I load the bags into the truck bed and turn to find Sloane staring at the diner across the street. Her arms are wrapped around her ribs, and she's chewing her bottom lip.
"Come on." I lead her toward the crosswalk, holding hands.
"Cash, we don't have to—"
"Yeah, we do. I'm hungry, and you probably are, too." Squeezing her hand, I add, "Besides, Lorna makes the best pie in three counties. You'll like her."
The diner is packed. Almost every booth is full, the counter lined with ranchers in dusty jeans and feed caps. Conversations pause when we walk in. Eyes track us across the checkered floor to the only empty booth in the back corner.
Guiding Sloane in first, I slide in across from her. The vinyl seat creaks under my weight, and I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, fingers brushing her shoulder through my jacket.
Lorna appears within thirty seconds, coffeepot in hand and sharp eyes taking in everything. She's known me since I was a kid working summers at the ranch, and she's got the kind of X-ray vision that sees through bullshit at fifty paces.
"Well, now." She sets two mugs down and fills them without asking. "Cash Wilder bringing a woman to town. That's new."
Heat prickles my skin, but I don't look away. "Lorna, this is Sloane. She’s special.”
The words land exactly how I meant them to. Lorna's expression softens, and she turns to Sloane with genuine warmth. "Any woman this man says is special is someone I want to know. What can I get you, hon?"
Sloane orders the breakfast special with shaking hands. I order the same with extra bacon for both of us. When Lorna walks away, Sloane leans toward me and whispers, "You can't just tell people I'm special."
"Why not? You are."
"Cash—"
"Sloane." I move into her personal space, the air between us thickening with the scent of her hair and the frantic heat of her skin. I hold her eyes with a steady focus, my voice dropping an octave as I remind her, "I’ve survived seventeen years without you in my arms; now that you’re finally here, I’m not spending another second pretending you aren't mine. "
Her pupils dilate. She opens her mouth to argue, but movement by the door catches my attention. Carter Mills walks in. He’s a local rancher, mid-forties, divorced twice and always looking for number three. He's harmless mostly, but he's got wandering eyes and no sense of boundaries.
His gaze lands on Sloane. He starts walking toward our booth.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. My teeth grind, and the pulse in my neck hammers hard enough that Sloane probably sees it.
He stops at our table, hat in his hands, smile too wide. "Morning, Cash." His eyes are on Sloane. "Don't believe we've met. Carter Mills. I own the Triple M spread east of here."
Sloane starts to respond, but I'm already moving. I stand and put myself between them. Not aggressive. Just present. Just claiming space.
"She's with me, Carter."
The temperature in the room drops. Conversations around us go quiet, forks pausing mid-bite, and every head in the diner swivels toward our booth. My shoulders are too tight, my hands loose at my sides but ready.
Carter raises his hands, backing up a step. "Easy, man. Didn't know. Just being friendly."
"Now you know." My voice is low and flat. Dangerous in a way I rarely let show. "She's mine."
The silence in the diner is absolute. Then Carter nods once, backs away another step, and heads to the counter. Conversations resume, but they're quieter now. More aware.
Turning back to the booth, I see Sloane staring at me with wide eyes, her coffee mug frozen halfway to her mouth. I slide back in next to her and take a long drink of my own coffee like nothing happened.
"That was—" she starts.
"Necessary." I reach across the table and take her hand again. My thumb finds her wrist, and her heartbeat drums against it. "You're with me, Sloane. Might as well make it clear."