CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT’S A RANCH.
Our new hideout. It’s simple and modest, with a four-bedroom house that looks brand-new with a wraparound porch.
A corral and a stable on one side, a barn on the other, and it’s all surrounded by rolling green plains.
But the best part, and the reason why he picked it as a place for us to lie low, is because it sits in the middle of nowhere.
It took us seven hours to drive out here, and the last stretch was navigating a very narrow dirt path snaking through thick woods.
Which is the only way to get to this ranch.
The rest of the woods are not passable. Meaning, there’s only one entrance to watch out for.
That he told me he’d fit with cameras and motion detectors and whatnot.
As amazing as this place is for security purposes, I have to admit the state of it is questionable.
It’s new, but it’s essentially empty. The living room only has a couple of armchairs and a little table.
There’s a bookcase in that room, too, but there aren’t a lot of books in it.
Only one of the bedrooms has a bed, and that bed is a simple mattress and a box spring.
Along with a dresser in that room and a closet with some linens, there isn’t much else.
At least the kitchen is fitted with all the appliances that can be used for cooking—not that I know much about it, but still—along with a little mudroom with a washer and a dryer.
While I don’t need much to survive, I do have concerns about this.
The first one is, where did he sleep last night?
Yesterday, we arrived late and I was half dead on my feet.
So when he showed me to a room and told me this was where I’d be staying, I didn’t question him.
I simply fell on the bed and slept till late.
When I woke up, I found my breakfast in the kitchen, meaning he must’ve been hard at work while I was sleeping.
And he was the one who got shot in his shoulder.
Embarrassed about my laziness, I decided to be helpful.
I took a quick shower; happy to find that the hot water works and so does the rest of the plumbing, and I thought cleaning up his room would be a good start.
Only I couldn’t find his room because every other bedroom except for mine was empty.
So I’m not really sure what we’re going to do about this.
But first, I need to find him. Although I shouldn’t have worried about it, because I see him as soon as I step out of the door.
And he sees me. Don’t I know by now that he’ll never go so far away as to not be able to watch me.
But his eyes, as stunning as they are, are not what get my heart racing.
Or at least, that’s not all. It’s also the fact that he’s up on a horse, riding along the fence of the corral, circling it, wearing his Stetson and his faded jeans, those big boots.
I’ve seen him ride on a horse plenty of times by now so I should be used to it, but I’m not.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s already so tall and large, so authoritative, that everyone around him defers to him in all things.
So watching him up on a saddle, also commanding and controlling that great beast between his legs with such finesse, is a sight to behold.
Or it could be that everything about him just does it for me.
His body, his voice, his dominance and skill, were all made for me. Like he said, I’m made for him.
I squeeze my thighs together and wipe my sweaty hands down my dress before I descend the stairs slowly.
Without taking my eyes off him, I head over to the fence just across from the house and he guides the horse—this one’s black—toward me.
We come to a stop across from each other and I grab the fence as I look up at him.
From this angle, it seems like he’s carrying the whole summer sky, deep blue and clear, up on his massive shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
His face is cast in the shadows, thanks to his Stetson and him blocking the sun, but I can see his eyes move.
As they take me in, my new dress. My skin becomes hot and coarse with goose bumps and a quickening starts up in my belly.
I choose to ignore it, though, because I’ve decided if I’m to stay with him until all of this is resolved, I need stricter boundaries.
What happened between us at that bar, what keeps happening every time we’re in each other’s orbits, can’t happen again.
If I’m going to leave with some pieces of my heart, my very soul intact, then I can’t have him wreck me like he does every time he touches me.
I can’t have him ruin me for everything else in this world.
So I try to focus on important things. To that effect, I blurt out, “I was right.”
He was busy studying me, but at this he looks up.
And I blush. “About the color. Of the shirt you have on. Brown definitely brings out your eyes. Makes them look moss green. Or like the leaves just, uh… just after the rain.”
Fabulous, Peyton. You’re making total sense right now. Also, what happened to focusing on the important things?
“And your dress makes you look like a rose,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“But then again, no matter the color, you always look like a flower of some kind. On top of a princess. Somethin’ delicate and untouchable, so”—he looks me up and down once again—“it ain’t the pink.”
I clutch my dress, which is, indeed, pink. I want to tell him I’m not untouchable. He can touch me any time he wants, but that’s the opposite of what I want or should want. So I push that thought away and say, “Uh, thanks for the breakfast.”
Instead of responding, he lets his eyes roam over me once again.
I shuffle my feet and keep going, “You didn’t really have to do that.”
Nothing to that as well.
“Or keep doing it like you always do,” I continue, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I’m not really a breakfast person.”
Even though I’ve never tasted anything more delicious than what he cooks for me.
This makes him come back to my eyes. He tips his chin at me as he says, “You don’t really have to braid your hair for me every day, but you still do it.”
My heart jumps and I blush even harder. Of course I braided my hair today as well, but I shouldn’t have done that.
Doing it back at Rawhide was pushing it too.
It sends the wrong message, like I’m doing it for him, to please him, to make him happy.
Which is sort of true, but I don’t want him to know that.
He already knows how tangled up in him I am; he doesn’t need to catch on to the fact that I never want to be free, despite all the promises we’ve made to each other.
Not to mention, I need to send myself that message if I want to contain the damage when I leave.
But in my defense, it wasn’t conscious. Not this morning at least.
“And am aware,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
“Aware of what?” I ask, completely forgetting what we were talking about.
“That breakfast isn’t your thing.” Then, he explains, “Watched you miss ’em too many times before rushin’ off to your big, fancy college in the city.”
“That’s why you always insist on me having breakfast,” I breathe out in conclusion, my blood rushing in my veins like I didn’t know how minutely he notices things about me.
Just like his prowess on the horse, I should probably be used to it by now, but somehow I am not and every time he reveals a little piece about myself to me, it feels like the first time.
“Can’t take on the day on an empty belly,” he comments.
“And no juice,” I quip.
“Well, gotta stay hydrated. You drink too much of that bullshit frilly coffee not to.”
“I’ll have you know,” I say with raised eyebrows, “that my bullshit frilly butterscotch coffee is really delicious. You need to taste it. Trust me, it’s mind-blowing. It’ll change your life.”
He runs his eyes over my face before replying, “Tasted somethin’ else that changed my life yesterday and I don’t need to taste your butterscotch fuckin’ coffee to be able to say that.
If I need my mind blown, I’ll just close my eyes and lick my finger again.
” He licks his lips as he continues, “Or my mouth.”
My belly and my pussy clench so hard that I swear it feels like an orgasm. It’s a good thing I’m holding on to the fence or my knees would’ve buckled as I whisper, “You can’t… It’s not still”—I swallow—“on there. Is it?”
My flustered response makes his lips twitch. “It’s called an imagination, Princess. Pretty sure they should’ve taught you that up in your fancy city college.”
I blush, feeling ridiculous and young, something only he can cause, and mutter uselessly, “My college isn’t all that fancy and I skipped most of my classes, so… Whatever.”
His amusement is still thick. “Aware of that too.”
I have a very strong urge to poke my tongue out at him, but I refuse to stoop down to such childish levels. So I gather myself and ask, “Tomorrow, can I make the breakfast? I-I just want to help out.”
“You don’t know how to cook,” he reminds me, as if he knows me more than I know myself, but then again, it’s not really a lie.
“I can learn.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why?”
I look at him for a few seconds, frustrated.
“Because you’re doing everything. Everything.
You’re keeping me safe. You’re trying to figure out who these people are so you can get your sister back.
And you got shot on top of all this. I just…
I just want to do my part. And can’t I just thank you? Can’t I just—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Don’t need it. Don’t want it. Ain’t doin’ it for you. Doin’ it for myself.”