Chapter 8
MORGAN
The fire caught on the third match. I watched Slade work, steady and efficiently, like he'd done this a thousand times. He probably had. The kindling crackled, and warmth started to creep into the small space, though it would take time before the cold truly retreated.
I stood near the door, my arms wrapped around myself, trying not to think about the cot. Trying not to think about how small this cabin was. How alone we were. How the storm outside had made every decision for us.
“Sit down,” Slade said without looking up. “You're making me nervous.”
“I'm not doing anything.”
“You're hovering.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And dripping snow on the floor.”
I looked down. He was right. Melting snow pooled around my boots.
“Here.” He stood and pulled one of the mismatched chairs closer to the stove. “Sit down and warm up.”
I wanted to argue, but my body had other ideas. I sank into the chair, and the heat from the fire felt like mercy. My fingers tingled as circulation returned. I hadn't realized how cold I'd gotten.
Slade grabbed a worn blanket from a shelf and draped it over my shoulders. Then he moved to the window, checking the storm like he could will it away with sheer stubbornness.
“How long?” I asked.
He didn't turn around. “Could be an hour. Could be all night.”
My stomach dropped. “All night?”
“Yeah.” He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. “The horses are sheltered. We've got heat and a roof. It could be a lot worse.”
I pulled the blanket tighter. “Could be a lot better.”
His mouth twitched. “Could be a lot of things.”
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either.
It was just… loaded. Heavy with everything we'd been dancing around.
The attraction neither of us wanted. The trust that had crept in despite our best efforts.
The fact that we were alone, stranded, with nowhere to hide from whatever was happening between us.
I watched him move around the cabin, adding wood to the fire and taking stock of what we had. He was quiet and sure about it, the kind of competence that didn’t ask to be noticed. He did what needed to be done and didn’t make a big deal about it.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice soft.
He paused. “For what?”
“For not letting me fall off that horse. For getting us here safely.” I hesitated. “For not making me feel stupid about any of it.”
His shoulders tensed. Then he crossed to the other chair and sat down. His elbows rested on his knees, and he clasped his hands between them.
“You weren't being stupid,” he said. “You were learning. There's a difference.”
Warmth unfurled through my chest. “I thought you'd enjoy watching me fail.”
His eyes met mine, dark and serious. “No, you didn't.”
He was right. I hadn't. Not really. Somewhere between the ridge and the committee meeting and the long day surveying his land, I'd stopped expecting Slade Kincaid to be the enemy. I'd started expecting him to be… something else entirely.
“I don't know what I'm doing here,” I admitted.
“In the cabin?” he asked. “Or in Mustang Mountain?”
“Both.”
He leaned back, his gaze never leaving mine. “You're doing fine.”
“I'm a planner who can't ride a horse and doesn't understand half the history buried in this town,” I said. “I'm supposed to help build something that lasts, and I keep finding evidence that nothing here is what people say it is.”
“That's not your fault.”
“It feels like it.” I looked down at my hands. “I came here to prove I could do this without anyone's help. Without favors or connections or my father's name opening doors. But every time I turn around, someone's whispering that I don't belong.”
“They're wrong.” The conviction in his voice made me look up. “You belong because you show up. And because you’re not afraid to ask hard questions and don't back down when people try to make you small. That's not something anyone can buy for you.”
My throat tightened. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am.” His jaw flexed. “I've spent my whole life being told who I'm supposed to be. The reckless one. The screw-up. The Kincaid who can't be trusted with anything that matters.” He paused. “You don't look at me like that.”
“Because you're not that.” How could he think that about himself when all I saw was a man capable of doing anything.
His eyes darkened. “You don't know what I am.”
“I know you rode after me and put yourself in danger. I also know you're offering your land for something you believe in even though it scares you. I know you could've let the town tear me apart at the Merc, but you didn't.” I held his gaze. “I know enough.”
The firelight flickered between us, casting shadows that made the small space feel even smaller. The storm howled outside, but in here, everything had gone still.
“Morgan.” My name on his lips sounded like a warning.
“What?”
He stood and crossed to the window again like he needed distance. “You should get some sleep.”
“At three o’clock?”
“Then rest.” His voice was tight. “It's been a long day.”
I stood too and let the blanket fall from my shoulders. “Slade.”
He didn't turn around. “Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't make this harder than it already is.”
I moved closer, stopping a few feet behind him. “Make what harder?”
His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. When he turned, the haunted look in his eyes stole the air from my lungs.
“Being this close to you,” he said. “And pretending I don't want to touch you.”
His words hung between us, raw and honest. I should've stepped back. Should've deflected or changed the subject or reminded us both of all the reasons this was a terrible idea. Instead, I closed the distance between us.
“Then stop pretending.”
His hands came up to frame my face, his palms warm against my cold cheeks. “If I kiss you,” he said, his voice rough, “I'm not going to want to stop.”
“Good,” I whispered.
He held my gaze as he leaned in, waiting for me to turn away or laugh it off or shut him down before we crossed the line we’d been flirting with for days. When I didn’t, his lips brushed mine. Heat sparked, sizzled, and immediately made me wonder why the hell we’d waited so long.
His eyes lit up then he slid a hand up to cup the back of my head and kissed me like he'd been holding back for weeks. Like every argument and every charged look and every moment we’d spent together had been leading to this.
His mouth was firm and hungry, and I responded with the same desperate need that had been building deep inside me since the day we met.
My hands found his coat and tugged him closer. He backed me toward the nearest wall, his body solid against mine, one hand sliding into my hair while the other gripped my hip. I made a sound I didn't recognize, and he groaned in response.
“Morgan.” He pulled back enough to look at me, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
I shook my head. “I don't want you to.”
His eyes searched mine. “You're sure?”
Instead of answering, I reached for the zipper of his coat and jerked it down. He shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor. Then his hands were on me again, sliding under my coat, making contact with my skin.
All the restraint we’d been clinging to snapped at once.
We moved toward the cot in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses.
My back hit the narrow mattress and he followed me down, his weight settling over me like an answer to a question I hadn't known I was asking.
The worn blanket smelled faintly of cedar and mothballs, but all I could focus on was the heat radiating from his body and the way his hands framed my face like I was something precious.
“I've wanted this,” he said against my mouth, his voice rough and unsteady. “Wanted you. Even when I was trying not to.”
My chest tightened at the confession. “I know,” I whispered. “Me too.”
His hands moved with purpose, his calloused palms rough against my skin.
Every touch felt deliberate, like he was memorizing me.
He peeled away layers one at a time. First my sweater, then my thermal, finally the thin tank underneath, until the only thing covering my breasts was a bra that was way more practical than sexy.
I reached for him, tugging at his flannel until he sat back long enough to yank it over his head.
My fingers raced over the hard planes of his chest, muscle earned from years of pushing his body beyond its limits and hours of manual labor.
physical work. He sucked in a breath as I traced a faded scar that zig-zagged over his ribs.
“Morgan,” he said, part warning, part plea.
I pulled him back down, needing his mouth on mine, needing the weight of him to anchor me before I came apart completely. His kiss turned deeper, hungrier, and I arched into him, feeling his hard length press against my thigh through too many layers that were still between us.
He made quick work of the rest. Our jeans hit the floor, followed by my panties and his boxer briefs. Finally, there was nothing left between us but heat and need. His hands slid up my sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, and I shivered despite the warmth flooding my body.
“You're so damn beautiful,” he murmured, his lips trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, then lower. “I don't deserve this.”
“Stop thinking,” I said, threading my fingers through his hair. “Just feel.”
He lifted his head, his dark eyes searching mine in the dim firelight. Whatever he saw made something in his expression crack open. Then his mouth was on mine again, and his hand slid between my thighs, finding me slick and ready.
I gasped against his lips as his fingers moved with infuriating slowness, learning what made me moan, what made my thighs squeeze together, and what made my hips buck off the mattress.
He watched my face the whole time, his jaw tight with restraint, like my pleasure was the only thing that mattered.