Chapter 7
ROMAN
The buckskin wouldn't settle after Rachel left. Was that the horse, or was that me?
I told myself it was the horse. The shift in barometric pressure, maybe. The way the wind had turned. But the gelding had been fine ten minutes ago. Calm, even. Nosing my shoulder like we'd known each other for years instead of hours.
What he'd picked up on was me.
I stood in the pen with the lead rope slack in my hand and my chest doing something I didn't have a name for, and I knew — the way I always knew with horses, that gut-level certainty that bypassed thinking — that I'd handled it wrong.
Not the kiss itself. The kiss had been inevitable. A conclusion my body had been building toward since that first night I’d stopped to help her with her car. But the timing was off. So was the intent. I'd used it to derail her instead of answering her question.
She'd stood there with her evidence laid out clean and organized and instead of meeting it head-on I'd put my mouth on hers and hoped that would be enough to knock her off course. It wasn't. Rachel Grable didn't get knocked off course.
I unclipped the buckskin and let him back into the group pen. Watched him trot toward the far fence, head up, ears forward, already forgetting me. Good. At least one of us could move on.
I drove home. Stood in my kitchen with my hands braced on the counter and watched the light through the window above the sink turn orange and then purple and then dark.
Then I got back in my truck.
The cabin sat at the edge of Ruby Nelson's property, backed by cottonwoods, lit by a single porch light that turned the whole front of it gold. Rachel's car was parked on the gravel. Light glowed from behind the curtains in the front window.
I killed the engine and sat there. What was I going to say?
I shouldn't have kissed you? That was true.
I'm sorry? Also true, but incomplete. I wasn't sorry about the kiss.
I was sorry I'd used it like a tool instead of saying what I meant.
And what I meant was the part I didn't want to think about too much.
I got out of the truck before I could keep stalling. Crossed the gravel. Knocked twice, then stood there with my hat in my hands like some kind of idiot who'd never shown up uninvited at a woman's door before.
The lock turned. The door opened. Rachel stood in the frame in a loose t-shirt and the same worn jeans from earlier, her hair down around her shoulders.
She looked at me like she wasn’t surprised to see me.
Without the wariness I probably deserved.
Just that same direct attention she'd given me since the first night on the road — direct, patient, completely unafraid of whatever she might find.
“Roman.”
“I shouldn't have done that.”
She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. Crossed her arms. Not defensive. Waiting.
“Earlier,” I said. “At the pens. That wasn't—” I turned my hat in my hands. “That wasn't fair to you.”
“Which part?”
“The part where I kissed you to shut you up instead of giving you an answer.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She wasn’t smiling, but she was close. “You drove out here to tell me that.”
“Yeah.”
“At nine thirty at night.”
“Yeah.”
She studied me. The porch light caught her hair and turned the dark blonde into something warmer. Her arms stayed crossed but her shoulders had dropped, and I could see the pulse in her throat.
“You're not trying to stop me,” she said.
I didn't answer.
“You keep showing up. You keep warning me off. But you're not actually trying to stop me.” Her chin lifted. “You're trying to protect me from whatever I'm walking into.”
The words landed somewhere behind my ribs. I looked past her at the warm light of the cabin, the leather journal open on the kitchen table, her handwriting visible even from the door. It was evidence of a woman who didn't stop working just because someone told her to.
I'd come out here to apologize and back away. That wasn't what was about to happen.
“The supplier,” I said. “The one who sent the clay mare. And the buckskin. And at least two others I haven't been able to confirm yet.”
Rachel went still.
“It’s not just Mustang Mountain.” I brought my eyes back to hers. “It’s not just this rodeo. It’s a network. Three years deep, multiple states, paperwork that holds up if no one looks past the first page.”
Her arms dropped to her sides.
“Slade and Dawson don’t know the half of it. They think they’re working with a legitimate operation because that’s what the paperwork says.” My jaw set hard enough I could feel the scar pull against it. “I’ve known longer than I should and I haven’t said a thing.”
Rachel's hand found the doorframe. Her knuckles pressed white.
“So when I tell you that you're getting into something you don't understand,” I said, “I'm not trying to protect a rodeo. I'm trying to protect you from the people who've been profiting off this a lot longer than you've been holding a notebook.”
She didn't move.
The night was quiet around us. A dog barked somewhere behind the cabin. A cottonwood shifted in the wind off the ridge. My pulse was loud enough I could hear it in my own ears, and I'd just told her more than I'd told anyone in years.
I didn't regret it. That was going to be a problem.
Rachel's hand gripped the doorframe tighter. Her knuckles stayed white, but her eyes never left mine, assessing, cataloging every word I'd just handed her and weighing it against what she'd already pieced together.
She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
I crossed the threshold. The cabin smelled like her. Like clean soap and ink from that journal on the table, and a hint of coffee gone cold. She shut the door behind me, clicked the lock, and didn't say a word.
I hung my hat on the hook by the door and faced her. “Are you going to write about it?”
She crossed to the kitchen table, picked up her notebook, and set it down again without opening it. “I don't know yet.”
That stopped me. Journalists like her didn't hesitate. They chased the story, then printed it. But she stood there with her arms loose at her sides, watching me with that same unflinching attention.
“Why not?”
“Because you're telling me this.” She moved closer, one step and then another, and stopped an arm's length away. “And I need to know why.”
Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, loose strands catching the lamplight. I wanted to tuck them back, wanted to feel the weight of them against my palm. I kept my hands at my sides.
“I’ve seen it before,” I said. “Three years back. Different supplier, same pattern.” I stopped. I hadn’t ever said any of this out loud. The words felt strange in my mouth, like they’d been waiting too long to come out. “Someone got hurt. Bad.”
Her breath caught, then she closed the gap between us. Her hand lifted, hesitated, then settled on my forearm light and steady. I felt it everywhere.
“Is that how you got hurt?” she asked.
I looked down at her fingers on my arm, pale against my tanned skin and waited for the urge to pull away. It didn’t come. All I wanted was more. More of Rachel. More of her touch.
“No.” My voice dropped. “A horse panicked after someone crowded it too hard. There was a kid in the way, so I stepped in, and the gate took part of my face when the horse came through it.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” She didn't flinch and didn't glance at the jagged line pulling down my face. Just held my eyes while her thumb brushed my arm, slow.
Heat built low in my gut. I'd already crossed lines tonight by coming here and telling her this much. But her hand on me, simple and unafraid, undid something I'd kept locked down for years.
I covered her hand with mine. “Rachel.”
She stepped into me, her chest brushing mine. Her free hand came up and traced the edge of my jaw, her fingers cool against the stubble and skimmed the scar without pausing. Like it was just part of me, and not the hideous thing that made people look away.
“You don't have to protect me, especially from you.” Her mouth parted, close enough that her breath warmed mine. “But you want to.”
“Yeah, I do.” I slid my hand to her waist and pulled her flush against me. She fit perfectly, her soft curves pressing into my harder edges. I let my palm span her side and felt the give of her body.
She tilted her head, her lips inches from mine. “Then stop holding back.”
I kissed her. Not like the quick kiss at the pens. This one poured everything I'd been holding back into it. My mouth took hers hard, demanding, and she opened for me, her tongue meeting mine, hands fisting my shirt and pulling me closer.
I backed her against the wall. The kitchen table bumped behind us, and her notebook hit the floor, pages splayed. She didn’t seem to care.
My hands roamed. Gripped her hips. Lifted. She wrapped her legs around me, thighs clamping tight, and I ground against her and felt the heat through denim. She was hot and damp already.
“Roman.”
My name on her lips made me want to take her rough. I swallowed it, bit her lip, tasted salt and want. I carried her to the bedroom. The door banged open against the wall, and I dropped her on the mattress. She bounced once and propped herself on her elbows, her eyes dark, her chest heaving.
I stripped my shirt and kicked off my boots while her gaze tracked every move. She showed no hesitation. No pity for the scars crossing my ribs or the puckered burns on my shoulder. The only thing I saw in her beautiful eyes was hunger.
She sat up and yanked her t-shirt over her head, then tugged off her black lace bra, letting those full breasts spill free. Her nipples were two hard peaks, begging for my mouth. I stared. Fuck, I couldn't not stare.
“You’re beautiful, Rachel.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
While she reached for my belt and unbuckled it, I pulled her close again, claiming her mouth with mine. Her fingers dragged my zipper down, and my cock sprang free. I was so hard for her it hurt. She wrapped her hand around me and stroked once with a firm grip, her thumb circling the head.
I groaned and grabbed her wrist, pinning it above her head and holding it in place. If she touched me again, I’d fucking blow. “Not yet.”
I leaned down, sucked her nipple into my mouth, and scraped my teeth against it. She arched, twisted her fingers into my hair, and pulled. “More.”
I gave it to her, my teeth grazing over her hardened peaks as my hands shoved her jeans past her wide hips. She kicked them off. Her panties were soaked, and I ripped them out of the way, needing to feel her. With nothing in my way, I slid my fingers through her folds. She was so fucking wet.
She bucked against my hand. “I want you inside me. Now.”
“I don’t have anything with me.” It had been years since I’d thought about carrying a condom.
“I’m good. You?” She wriggled her hips underneath me.
I didn’t want to admit how long it had been for me, so I just nodded as I notched the head of my cock at her entrance. “You sure about this?”
Her legs hooked around my waist, her heels digging into my back. “Hell yes.”
I thrust in deep and filled her completely. She gasped, her walls clenching around me. I’d never felt anything so tight, so hot, so fucking perfect. I held still and let her adjust, my forehead pressed to hers, our breath mingling.
“God, Roman. You’re going to break me.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Not yet, sugar.”
Then I moved. Slow at first, pulling out and sliding back, building rhythm. Her hips rose to meet each stroke, her nails raking my back. I moved faster… harder. The bed creaked underneath us and my balls slapped against her with every thrust.
She moaned my name and broke apart first. The walls of her pussy pulsed around me, and I followed seconds later, pouring everything into her, until my vision went black at the edges.
We collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs.
Her head rested on my chest, my arm snaked around her waist. I could feel her breath slowing against my ribs.
Quiet settled around us. Her fingers traced lazy circles on my stomach, ghosting over the scars she found there.
She didn’t ask questions, just stayed there, every part of our bodies touching.
I stared at the ceiling, feeling exposed all the way down to my soul. I wanted to let her in, wanted to stop keeping her at a distance. So I took a deep breath and tangled my fingers with hers.
“That rider,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “The one I told you about earlier. He didn’t just get dragged. The horse came down on him. Snapped his neck. Clean break, dead in the dirt before the medics got over the rail.”
Rachel didn’t move. Her hand stayed flat against my stomach.
“After, I went looking. I wasn’t supposed to find anything.
But the supplier had been shipping to five events that season.
All problem stock. Two of those events came after the one I’d been at.
Two more men got hurt at those.” I made myself say the next part.
“I’d had the paperwork. I’d seen the pattern.
I could’ve made a phone call, but I didn’t. ”
She took in a long, slow breath. “Why?”
“It wasn’t my fight. At least that’s what I told myself at the time.”
The silence stretched. I waited for her to move away. To get up. To do anything that would make this easier to bear.
She didn’t. Her palm just flattened harder against my chest.
So I pressed on. “Now it is.”
“Because of this rodeo?”
“Because of you.”
She lifted her head. Her eyes looked softer in the dim light.
I cupped her face and traced my thumb over her cheekbone. “I should tell you this doesn’t change anything.”
“But?”
My thumb stilled against her skin. “I’d be lying.”
Everything had changed. I'd chosen her. Let her in past the walls, past the scars, and she hadn't looked away or flinched once. Distance wasn't an option anymore. I'd crossed that line and burned the bridge behind me before I'd even thought to consider whether or not I should.
She kissed my palm and settled back down. I held her tighter and told myself I could still walk away if it got too hard. But I knew I wouldn't.