30 #2
“Listen.” I fold my arms across my chest, sit back in my chair. “If you’re lookin’ for a one-night rodeo, don’t do it with Fallon McGraw. She’s like a little sister to me. Not to mention, she’s my responsibility. I promised Stede I’d look out for her, and that includes when it comes to you, too.”
Wyatt glowers, straightens up. Defiance flashes in his blue eyes. “Yeah, but she’s my—”
“What?” I look at him hard. “She’s what?”
A muscle in his jaw works. “Nothing.”
“You finish that sentence, you mean it.” I reach over and pour myself a shot so I’m on the same footing as my brother. “Don’t fuck with her heart. Because I won’t hesitate to kick your ass.”
Wyatt flinches. “I swear, you always think the worst of me, man.” He twists his hands in his hair, keeps them there. “I’m never gonna be like you. I’m not perfect.”
Fuck.
The lecture I was about to deliver falls out of my mind. I see that little kid from Wildheart, running across the field to me because he had fallen from his horse. And I picked him up, and I told him it would all be okay.
I’m still that brother.
“I’m far from perfect.” I clear my throat and exhale. “And you’re right. I don’t give you enough credit, Wyatt. You’re not me and I’m not you. And I’m sorry for last year. Not believing you with the Wolfingtons.” It’s an apology that’s long overdue.
“Hell.” Wyatt looks stunned. “You hit your head last night?”
“No,” I grunt. “I didn’t.”
I look toward the window, at the sky that’s turning pink and purple with the sunrise. Then, I say, “I love you, Wy. And I’m proud of you.”
Wyatt’s mouth falls open.
A chuckle rumbles out of me. “That shuts you up?” He says nothing and I go on. “I’ve been looking out for you since you were yay-high,” I say dryly. “You gonna listen to me or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Do I know everything about women? No. I can’t pretend that I do. But I know about not taking the chance when you have it. I did that with Dakota. I fucked up when I let her go. Six years of agony. I don’t want that for you, Wyatt.”
He nods, and I can see the pain break in his eyes all over again.
“But I also know that you have no right to ask Fallon to sit it out if you won’t commit.” I hold his cloudy gaze, making sure he understands. “You can get jealous all you want, but asking a woman to wait around for you when you ain’t ready…you got no claim. Simple as that.”
Wyatt takes a heavy breath. “I know,” he croaks. “I’d play her game if I thought I could win.”
I give him a look. “Who says you can’t? You’re no quitter.”
He grins and sits up, caps the whiskey. “You’re a damn good brother. Even if you are a bossy bastard.”
Snorting, I reach out and loop an arm around his shoulder.
Wyatt tenses. “What is this?”
“I’m hugging you, asshole.”
“Oh.” He awkwardly pats my arm. “Thanks, man.”
I bark a laugh. “Eat a fucking sandwich and sober up. You gotta ride tomorrow.”
With that, I exit the Bullshit Box, looking toward Ford’s shop.
One brother down. Another to go.
The reverberation of the impact wrench hits me as soon as I step inside the garage. The scent of oil and gasoline hang heavy in the air. Tacked to the particle-board wall are posters of Babe Ruth and newspaper clippings of the Braves. The black cat Ruby pawned off on Ford sunbathes on a workbench.
Pulled up alongside Ford’s mallard green Dodge Dart Classic is a vintage John Deere. Like Wyatt rescues those horses, Ford rescues scrap metal.
I watch my brother’s shaggy head of hair flop around until he looks up from the hood of the Dodge.
When he turns off the impact wrench, silence lands. Heavy and tense.
After clocking his bandaged hand, I meet my twin’s gaze. “You put your fist through the jukebox, Ford.”
“Sure did,” he says evenly. He steps away from the car to wipe his good hand on a rag.
“Last night, that shit you pulled with Wyatt…” I glare at him. “You put him in a headlock as much as you want, but fucking with his heart, that’s a dick move.”
“I know.”
Our gazes clash. We’ve been in our fair share of arguments through the years, fought over girls, horses, and chores, but there’s been nothing we haven’t gotten over. We’ll get over this. I just might have to tie him to my truck’s hitch and do a few donuts in the pasture first.
I step up to square off with him. “Look, this whole doomed relationship act is getting old. First with Ruby. Now Dakota.” I shake my head. “Ford, if you ain’t happy with your life, fix it. You can’t go back to that place. I got one brother back; I’m not losing another.”
“It was that song,” he mutters.
That goddamn song will be the reason Ford gets admitted to the psych ward.
Ford’s face screws up. “Every time I hear that song, I think of Savannah. And when I think of Savannah, I think of that goddamn kid. I can’t hear that song without wanting to put my fist through something.”
Ford picks up a baseball and tosses it up in the air, then catches it again. There are things people never heal from. Ford’s taken more than his fair share of heartbreak in life, and I’ll never forgive the woman who broke my brother’s heart.
“Savannah…”
He flaps his hand. “Me and Savannah could have gone either way, D.” A hard edge laces his drawl. “She wasn’t the one.” He looks me in the eyes and exhales. “You don’t gotta fix me, man. I’ll be okay.”
“You drink too much.”
“I reckon I do,” he says easily.
“Whatever you’re goin’ through, get right,” I tell him, jabbing a finger. “You’re not pushing us away by acting like a prick, but we sure as hell won’t take your bullshit, either.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I figured that out pretty damn fast when Wyatt punched me in the kidneys this morning.” His mouth curves up at the corner. “Kid’s got an arm.”
He sobers and reaches over to scratch his black cat. “There’s no excuse,” Ford says. “I’ll make it right with Wyatt and Dakota.”
“See that you do.” I cross my arms. “Because she’s not going anywhere.”
“Your girl, huh?”
“Yeah. My girl.” The words feel right in my mouth. Fucking perfect, in fact.
“She’s good for you.” Ford moves across the garage to his ’57 Chevy and swipes something off the hood. “If you buy a goddamn ring without telling me, I’ll kick your ass.”
I grin. “Count on it, brother.”
“Found this.” Ford comes back to me to slap a severed metal tube into my hand. His gaze is grim. “From my Chevy. Cut brake lines.”
I freeze. “When? On the ranch?”
“No. In town.”
Fuck. Panic grips me by the jugular.
Ford lifts his brows. “What’re you thinking, D?”
“Bullshit Box,” I growl. “You, Charlie and Wyatt. Fifteen minutes.”
Then I haul ass across the ranch, desperate to get back to Dakota.
Classic rock and roll hits me the minute I step through the front door of the lodge. The Rolling Stones sing about brown sugar, and I smile when I see my clean kitchen messy as hell. The soft movement of Dakota and her belly is slowly becoming my favorite sight.
I’m ready for it. All of it.
Too damn beautiful for words. Barefoot, she’s changed out of last night’s clothes and into a long slip dress. Her belly’s hugged by a blue apron. Dark hair rolled in a messy bun. Golden April sunshine falls through the window, bathing her in an ethereal glow.
I watch her size up a big bowl of batter before reaching a hand toward the lip and getting a hard grip. At the contact, she closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek, and her knuckles go white as she lifts the bowl, using her healing arm to boost its bottom. A sob slips from her mouth.
But there’s no tentativeness, no recoil.
I want to go to her, but I stand my ground. She needs to do this. There’s something in her face, in her rigid shoulders, that I haven’t seen since I picked her up at that side of the road motel.
A shaky little breath puffs out of her and then she comes alive.
She carefully pours the batter into cupcake tins and returns to the flour.
She cuts butter into chunks. One-handed, she sprinkles flour on the counter, adds milk and yeast. Armed with a spine of steel, she measures every ingredient with a sniper’s precision.
She’s slow, but she’s sure.
Steady.
Strong.
I’ve never been more goddamned proud.
Meeting my gaze, she nods her head at me.
I drop the wires on the counter and stride toward her until she’s in my arms. She smells of warm dough and cream. I cup the back of her head and bring her sweet mouth to mine.
“You knocked me loose, Hotshot,” she murmurs against my lips. “I couldn’t wait.”
I run my hands down her body, her soft curves fitting perfectly against my palms.
When we pull back, I stare at what she’s created. She hasn’t just baked. She rose from the ashes. Left her past behind in a mess of dough and flour.
Dakota exhales a shaky shudder. “I’m free,” she says, gesturing at the mess. Her hand cradles her belly, leaving behind a white flour handprint.
Fear twists my heart.
My gaze moves from her to the cut brake lines lying on the table.
Dakota’s ready to fight. And it scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.
Because he’s here.
Eventually, he’s coming.
And she knows it.