25
“Y ou’re sloppy,” I yell, stilling the lever, the barrel.
“I know,” Fallon shouts down at me, squaring her shoulders. “And fuck you.”
I duck my head, suppressing a smile. Any cowboy would look at Fallon and see she’s near perfect. Her poise. Her arm tossed to the sky. She could ride the barrel blindfolded. She’s a cowgirl in every sense of the word.
Barefoot and beautiful and tan as buckskin. Barbwire dipped in gold. An angel with a busted halo.
And she’s ready to roll.
Eyes closed, breathing heavily, Fallon tilts her head back, drinking in the dying light of the evening. She’s stronger. More confident. And goddamn glowing.
I can feel how she feels. Alive. Like her brain, heart, and soul are syncing up.
She snarls. “Again.”
When I stay silent, watching her, she opens her eyes.
“Wyatt. Again.”
“Your ass is still sliding back on the barrel.”
Fallon puffs an errant hair out of her face and glowers. “I hate it when you do that.”
“What? Make you better?”
“Correct me. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” I give her a cocky grin, knowing it makes her want to throttle me. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks—”
“Sloppy, I know.” Nostrils flaring, she gets into position. Gives me a wicked smile. “Then let’s fix it, asshole.”
Taking that as my cue, I dig my boots into the earth and grip the lever. “You ready?”
A curt nod. I watch the muscle of her lean legs ripple as she grips the barrel. The way her hands hold the rope. In three weeks, she’s stronger than ever. When she’s not on the barrel, she’s in the barn. Crunches, sit ups, strength exercises.
The barrel’s no substitute for a real horse, a bull. But it’s exercise; it’s working on her balance, her hip, her confidence. To her, it’s everything. I sure hope it fucking helps.
“Get into your stance.”
Fallon obeys.
I jerk the lever. The barrel comes to life.
“Track him now,” I yell. “Sit up!” I lift the lever, causing the barrel to buck and Fallon to flail. “Shove your hips! Shove your hips!”
The barrel does what it’s supposed to do. Transform Fallon back to another time. A better time. She hangs on, teeth gritted in determination. Her eyes practically glow with each thrash of her body. She loves it. Fucking addicted.
The same can be said for me.
She’s so painfully beautiful and fierce. Trusting me to get her back on a horse.
It’s humbling as hell. To be that man, that person, for her.
“Faster,” she demands, and I roll my eyes. There ain’t no breakin’ when Fallon’s at the wheel. Hell, her life goal is to stress me out every minute of the day until it ends. Then she repeats it.
And I fucking eat it up.
At the slip of her grip, her pained wince, I stop the lever.
I won’t let her fall. Not yet. She’s not ready—and I sure as hell ain’t, either. If Fallon got hurt on my watch, I’d never be okay again.
She pouts. “Fifteen more minutes.”
Damn if I don’t cave. “You’re gonna hurt tomorrow.”
“I don’t care.”
She doesn’t. Ever since we started training together, Fallon’s gone hard.
We both have. Between my job at the ranch and her PT, we’re exhausted.
It’s also the best damn time I’ve ever had.
In the evenings, we come together. Slipping into an easy rhythm.
Scrounging dinners, drinking whiskey on the front porch of her cottage.
Easy nights where Fallon falls asleep—and stays asleep—in my arms. The nightmares, the insomnia, gone for both of us.
What this woman does to me—indescribable.
“Hang on, Trouble.”
I run her through one more ride. As I watch her technique, my heart hammers. She’s gonna do it. Prove everyone wrong and ride again.
It makes me proud.
It scares the shit out of me.
Finished, I shove the lever, halting the rickety barrel. Fallon sits there, breathing hard. Sweat drips down her face, her messy fishtail braid sticks to her cheek, but she’s smiling. A rarity. A goddamn vision.
She’s happier than she was a month ago. Happier than she was at El Toro, that’s for damn sure. And I intend to keep that smile on her face.
As is our habit, I reach up and she’s already twisting toward me, her good leg moving over the barrel. I hold her waist, and Fallon slides down the barrel. Her body sweeps mine as I settle her against me.
“Shit.” She grips my shoulders with her nails. Electricity arcs between us. “My body is Jell-O.”
“How’s your hip?”
We’re both feeling it. Sore muscles. Stiff joints. Exhaustion. But damn if it doesn’t have me happier than hell.
She wrinkles her nose, stretching her leg out the best she can. “Sore. I’ll survive.”
I examine the pretty, sharp angles of her profile. “Maybe you should use your walker tonight.”
She flushes, meeting my stare with wide hazel eyes. I’ve caught her around the house, hobbling without it when I’m not looking. “Maybe you should mind your own business,” she says.
“Ain’t happenin’.” I dip and grip her hips. Hard.
A gasp pops out of her mouth.
I dig the heel of my palm into the side of her hip, massage tight, knotted muscle.
Her voice rises in pitch. “What’re you doin’?”
“Loosening you up.” I look up at her, redirecting my eyes from her thin white tank top, her hard nipples, to her confused face. “Your hip isn’t letting you grip the barrel like it should.”
“I have PT for that.”
“You have me,” I grunt. My fingers must spear a sensitive area, because Fallon whimpers. Her leg trembles. My groin tightens.
“Wyatt,” she gasps, her fingertips sweeping into my hair. Her body arches into mine.
My heart jolts, my cock’s hard as steel. Christ, I want to fuck her. Here, recklessly, roughly, anywhere she’ll have me. Make her scream, make her cry my name. This woman who has me fucking obsessed.
I dig in harder, giving one last knead of muscle, then straighten and scan her stunning face. Pink cheeks. “Feel better?”
She flicks her eyes to me then lowers her dark lashes. “Yes.”
Without words, we turn toward the gate that leads to the cottage. I wrap my arm around her waist and let her use me as a crutch. We slow to a stop when we reach the screen door.
“Goddammit,” she swears.
I scowl. Next to her walker, more roses. Another card.
Despite wanting to incinerate them on the spot, I hand her the flowers. “What does it say?”
Cradling the bouquet in her arms, she flips the card over.
I miss watching you in the ring.
Fallon wrinkles her nose. “God, this asshole again.”
It pisses me off. Some asshole bothering Fallon. Especially after what she’s been through. I don’t like it. Fucking hate it, in fact. Because if anyone is going to get her flowers, it’s me.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, opening the screen door. As she heads in, I glance toward the empty street.
No one around. The setting sun a bright beam of light. Suddenly, all I want to do is lock her in the house and stand guard. The thought of someone walking up to Fallon’s cottage and leaving her things unnerves me.
I head inside after Fallon. She’s at the kitchen counter, walker beside her. Roses in the trash. Country music plays on the radio. A summer breeze drifts through the windows.
Damn near perfect. Fallon’s cottage isn’t mine, but somehow it feels like home.
Living together, being in close quarters, sleeping together, is more than I can take. I have to figure this out. What’s between us, if anything. Because the hard truth is, for me, divorce isn’t an option. And eight weeks will be up too goddamn soon for my liking.
On a groan, I collapse in a chair at the kitchen table and roll my neck out. “I can grill tonight,” I say. Steaks. Potatoes. Beers. After the day we had, all I want is a front porch and Fallon.
I startle when light hands settle on my shoulders. Fallon’s husky voice sounds. “You’ve been working too hard.”
I tip my head back to give her a grin. “Training you and the kids ain’t for the fainthearted.” I groan as the pressure increases. Feels like fucking heaven. “What are you doin’?”
“Returning the favor,” she says with a casual shrug. “Least I can do.” A smile stains her voice. “You’re more out of shape than me.”
I snort then relax into Fallon’s touch. She kneads my muscles, shoulders, and I’m putty in her palms.
“Feel good?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” I whimper as she runs her hands up the back of my neck into my hair. Her graceful touch does something insane to my pulse.
“Pappy texted me,” Fallon says. “Said he might stop by next week.”
I tense, open my eyes. That asshole’s been giving her hope. I swear if that bastard crushes her dreams, I’ll kill him myself.
“You think…” Fallon begins, sounds unsure and soft. “You think he still wants me?”
“He’d be a fool not to,” I say and turn over my shoulder to look at her.
Her eyes are wide for a moment before she blinks and smiles slightly.
“You rode perfect today,” I murmur, keeping my eyes on her gorgeous face.
She levels me with a cool glance. “Because of you.”
Shock slams into me. This fucking woman keeps surprising me, keeps putting me on my ass.
Fallon scowls. “Close your mouth, asshole.”
I let out a soft laugh and face forward. “Not used to compliments.” Once more, her fingers spear into my hair. I groan, my cock flaring against the zipper of my jeans.
I snap, reaching back and capturing Fallon’s wrist. Slowly, I draw her forward until our gazes clash. “You keep touchin’ me like that, Trouble, that’s exactly what we’re gonna have.”
Her eyes narrow in a challenge. “Is that a threat?”
I sit her on my lap. My cock flexes at her heat. “Baby, it’s a promise.”
Fallon’s smile’s nothing short of mischievous as she says, “If you want trouble, I have an idea.”
“What?”
She bites that luscious lower lip of hers. “Whiskey. The hot tub out back.” She offers a casual shrug, though her voice is anything but. “Could give our muscles a good long soak.”
“Hell, I’ll start dinner.” My cock’s at a full-throttle salute.
Her eyebrow arches. “I’ll get us some beers.” Her full lips pull into a wide grin as she slips off my lap. I watch her limp to the counter, those gorgeous hips swaying, feeling like my stupid heart’s about to fuckin’ burst.
Tonight.
Whatever happens between us, it’s tonight.