19
E arly evening light shines through the kitchen windows. I’ve made a sandwich, locked the front doors, put Fallon’s bags in her room. Now I pace the hallway, every so often checking the microwave clock. I eye the bathroom door. She’s been in there for damn near fifteen minutes.
“Fallon?” I call.
No answer.
I lean back against the wall, cross my arms.
Damn if it’s not a strange new world I’ve been dropped into. Thirty minutes from my brothers, the ranch. Just me and Fallon. Before she left, Dakota issued me stern orders. My sister’s been through a lot. Do not let her get hurt. The death threat rang clear in every word.
Everyone’s counting on me to do this. Control Fallon. I can’t believe I thought this would be easy. A man trying to wrangle Fallon McGraw is like trying to cage a grizzly bear. You’re dead in under ten minutes.
Still, I’ll fucking fix this. I’ll make sure nothing happens to her. That she stays safe. That I’m by her side.
I won’t let her—or our family—down. Not again.
I cast another glance at the bathroom door.
My stomach twists.
What if something happened? What if she fell?
The image of Fallon lying on the floor of the arena flashes in my mind. Leaving her alone scares me shitless. Bad things happen. I can’t take the chance.
I left her alone last time, and look what happened.
I drag a hand through my hair, grip the back of my neck.
Christ, I’m losing it.
Another minute passes. Unable to take it anymore, I knock on the bathroom door. “Fallon?”
Silence.
“Fallon, I’m coming in,” I say and then swing open the door.
We both go stock-still. She’s half-crouched, hand propped on the lip of the bathroom sink next to her phone. Blue jeans down around her thighs. Rosy cheeks even though her face is pale. And her panties…fuck. Blue lace.
“Do you mind?” she snaps, breaking my reverie. “I’m trying to pee.”
Trying to give me an aneurysm, more like it.
I swear under my breath, glance at the contraption in the corner. “You’re supposed to be using the rails.” It’s going to be a long twelve weeks if she doesn’t listen.
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to use the rails.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “You’re gonna fall and break your other leg, and then I’m going to be pissed.” I take a step inside. “Let me help you.”
“I’m not a toddler,” she grumbles, shoving at me. But the motion wrenches her ribs, and she gasps in pain.
“Serves you right,” I tell her, my gaze running over those long, lean legs, those bright, bold tattoos that hug her muscled thighs.
“I can do it.” The frustration in her hazel eyes makes my chest pinch. Gritting her teeth, she does some sort of awkward shimmy, but she’s in jeans, and she can’t shuck them that easily. She refused to wear a dress, because apparently, she’ll make nothing easy on herself.
“Shit,” she swears, trying to lower her pants, but the stiffness in her leg stops her.
Fed up watching her struggle, I stomp forward and yank her pants down.
She gasps.
I smirk. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
She bares her teeth, venom in her eyes. She’s as ill-tempered as a yearling. “Asshole,” she hisses.
I straighten and grip her arm. “Damn it, Fallon. Stop fighting me and let me take care of you.”
She lifts her chin. “And if I don’t?”
My jaw tightens. “Fallon Calamity McGraw—”
“You promised you’d never use that against me,” she hisses.
The memory of her confessing her middle name has me grinning. “I ain’t using it against you, I’m telling you how it is. I’ll drag you out of here if I have to and haul your ass to Davis and Dakota’s.”
Fear flares in her icy hazel eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would, Fallon.” I lean in, not phased by Fallon’s stabby, murderous ways. “Fucking try me.”
A stare-down ensures. She’s the first to cave.
“Ugh. Fine,” she says, lifting the tattooed canvas of her arms. Fine. That four letter word is going to be the death of me. “Help me.”
I pull her against me, trying not to crush her against my chest. In my arms, she’s warm and soft, and it’s fucking torture being this close to her and not being able to touch her the way I want.
She loops her arms around my neck. Her fingertips dance in my hair, on accident, purpose, either way, my cock slams against the zipper of my jeans.
Shit.
I clench my jaw as I back her up to the toilet.
Don’t come in your fucking pants, you goddamn jackass.
With some maneuvering, I get Fallon over the toilet and slowly lower her. She groans, the sound tearing at my heart. She’s stiff and sore. She’s been battered, bruised, and then went on a cross-country jaunt straight out of the hospital.
She’s a warrior, but even warriors have a breaking point.
I turn away as she reaches for her panties. Facing the door, I blow out a breath, beg for my cock to die a slow death in my pants.
I feel her eye roll. “You can wait in the hall, you know.”
“Lost bathroom privileges,” I grit out.
The sounds of her peeing fill the bathroom.
“I bet you get off on this, don’t you, pervert.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay,” she says after a few more seconds. “I’m done.”
We do the whole dance again. I get her off the toilet, pants up, hands washed. She practically lunges for her walker, ready to get the hell away from me.
My cock still throbs in my pants.
I could escape. Go beat off to her relentlessly in the guest room, but I’m here to take care of her, ain’t I? I have a fucking job to do and it’s not acting like some starved horndog.
Even if that’s exactly what I am.
I’ve stayed loyal to Fallon ever since she left. Even if we weren’t a thing, even if we didn’t make promises, the only woman I’m aching for is her.
I keep a slow lope behind her, making sure to match her pace as she heads to the kitchen. The rubber feet of the walker squeak as she hobbles over the tile. With effort, she drops into a kitchen chair, eyes closed, breathing heavily.
Hands fisting at my side, I stand over her, silent, wanting to help, to make her okay. I open my mouth.
She cracks an eye. “Wyatt, if you ask me how I feel again, I will throttle you.”
Shaking my head, I set the bologna sandwich in front of her. Tomorrow I’ll make something better, something homecooked, but for tonight, this’ll have to do. Not like she’s planning to eat it. The way she picks at the crust tells me she’s exhausted.
Fallon crosses her arms when I sit across from her. Gives me a bored icy look. “So, if I have to put up with you hovering for the next however many weeks, we need to talk. What do we do with this?”
“With that?”
Her nostrils flare. “All this. Living together. Coexisting. We’re married, for fuck’s sake.”
“It worked out, didn’t it?” I snap, harder than I mean, and she flinches. “You need the insurance for PT.”
“Yeah, it all worked out fucking fabulously.” Her eyes cloud as she glances down at her body. Then she puffs out a frustrated breath. “My body is fucked. My dad hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Fallon. He might murder me in my sleep, but not you.”
Curiosity lines her expression. “Why?”
I sigh. “I promised him I wouldn’t touch you.”
It’s why Stede’s pissed. I made a promise, and I broke it. A cowboy’s been killed for less. Still, I didn’t like the way he treated Fallon. I earned Stede’s wrath; she hasn’t.
She laughs, heartily. It’s a beautiful sound, a real sound, and I smile. “You did? When?”
“When I started training you,” I grit out, feeling like a monumental asshole.
She scoffs. “I was sixteen. And that isn’t fair. Davis gets a pass with Dakota, why shouldn’t you?” Her honest, puzzled eyes make me feel better.
Because I’m a fuckup. A cowboy. But who I was before Fallon and after Fallon aren’t the same person. She’s changed me. In every best possible way.
“Besides.” Her lips curl, feline and naughty. A look I’m familiar with. “I was the one who came onto you.”
At the memory, my fingers curl on the thighs of my jeans. Fuck.
“And we were both willing, legal, consenting adults.”
My cock pulses, and I shift in the chair. “Fallon, that ain’t helpful.”
She smirks.
I’m obsessed, and she knows it. Obsessed over this girl who hates my guts.
I can picture her beneath me. Tan muscular thighs locked around my hips.
All that caramel hair wrapped in my fist. Those sharp, red lips never once kissing me, because all they wanted to do was curse my name.
And still, I’d eat it up. Every damn time.
“I don’t know why he’s so upset. It’s all fake anyway,” she says, effectively dousing cold water on my erection.
Fake .
I’ve been riding in the rodeo for twenty years, I’ve broken eight bones, been rolled on by a horse, but nothing hurts worse than that fucking word.
For me, nothing about my relationship with Fallon is fake.
I could tell her, here and now. That I love her. But it’s not the right time, the right tactic. Not when she sits there exhausted. Not on her first day home.
“How long is PT?” Her voice snaps me out of it.
“Twelve weeks,” I say gruffly.
“Twelve weeks,” she announces like she’s just decided something. “And then we go back to hating each other.”
“I don’t hate you, Fallon.”
She snorts.
“You know,” I press, “if you told me what I did, maybe I could fix it.”
She avoids eye contact, shakes her head. “When PT is over, we divorce.”
I bristle. Divorce. It’s needed. Isn’t it?
Then why does my stomach feel like I’ve swallowed a fucking brick?
Her eyes slide to mine. “Deal?”
“Deal,” I say hoarsely.
No deal. No fucking deal.
I have twelve weeks to do this right. To make up for everything I’ve fucked up. Especially us. I love her. I’m not letting her go again.
She’s laid down her laws, now I’m going to lay mine.
My jaw clenches. “Until then, we’re married. You’re stuck with me, Fallon, and you’re gonna let me take care of you. And if you don’t like it, tough shit.”
“You’re insufferable.” A dark smile spreads across her mouth. “At least we don’t have to convince anyone this is real.”
Real . Goddamn. She just keeps twisting the knife, doesn’t she? I’m well aware it’s not real for her.
“Eat your sandwich,” I order.
“I don’t want it.” She pouts.
I’m about to fight with her, but the stifled yawn she lets out stops any protest. She looks small and delicate sitting there. Too delicate for Fallon.
“Tired?” I ask.
“Beat.” The tiny smile she gives me crumbles every last ounce of fight in me. So much for being a hard ass.
I flash a crooked grin. “Then, c’mon, wife, let’s get you to bed.”
I say it to get under her skin. To shock some emotion back into those gorgeous hazel eyes.
Maybe I say it because I like it, too.
It’s like poking a bear.
“Fuck you, Wyatt,” she blasts. She stands as quick as she can, flipping me off as she snatches her walker and begins her slow roll away from me.
“Hell, where should I sleep?”
She flaps a hand. “Couch, guest room, front porch, middle of the street, I don’t give a shit.”
I watch her inch down the hallway and disappear into her bedroom, slamming the door so hard the walls rattle. Point taken. Help not wanted, leave her the fuck alone.
I spend the rest of the night cleaning up, unpacking and texting my brothers. I claim the guest bedroom across the hall from Fallon’s.
After a second thought, I grab a pillow and a blanket and head back into the hallway.
Where I sleep outside Fallon’s bedroom door.