Chapter 2
Wade
It takes me a second to recognize her.
She’s older, obviously. Softer and curvier in some places, and harder and tireder in others. But her wide brown eyes, full of flight and wariness, haven’t changed a damn bit.
Joelle Connors.
Back when she lived here, she was all elbows and attitude, a teenager trying not to disappear in a house she didn’t belong to, dragged in by a mother none of us could stand.
That woman waltzed into our father’s life and knocked everything sideways.
I stand by my belief that she could smell the cancer on him before he was diagnosed.
She was a hyena who wanted her piece of flesh, rotten or not.
Joelle wasn’t the problem, not really. But she was a piece of it, and a reminder of the whole damn mess.
And now she’s here on my porch.
She’s shorter than I remember, and shabbier. Her faded shirt clings to huge breasts and rides up a little at the waist, revealing the curve of her belly.
She looks nothing like the kid who used to flinch when I passed her in the hall. She looks like a woman. A tired one. A proud one. One whose physical changes indicate she might be a mother.
And Jesus, she’s leaking. Not a lot. Just a slight darkening on her shirt, like sweat, but in a circle around where her nipple would be.
She brushes past me without a word, careful not to make contact, but tension radiates off her like midday heat. I close the door and watch her move through the space like a ghost returning to an old haunt.
I give myself a breath before following because goddamn, her body is womanly, the curve and sway of her hips hitting me like a sucker-punch. I’ve always liked my women with some meat on their bones, and Joelle sure has filled out nicely.
She’s standing in the kitchen now, arms folded tight, although her stance doesn’t feel defensive. She’s shielding her chest from me and maybe protecting herself from the weight of whatever memory walked in with her.
“This place hasn’t changed,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to the corners, taking everything in. “Same chipped counters. Same creaky floorboards.”
“You remember that?”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “I used to sneak out of my room at night for Oreos. Thought if I stepped too hard, you’d come out and bark at me.”
I almost smile. “I probably would’ve.”
She huffs a dry laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. Only nerves.
“You’ve got a good memory,” I say.
“I try not to.” She shrugs. “I didn’t exactly feel welcome here.”
I lean back against the counter, arms folded, aware of how it makes my chest and biceps flex. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But that didn’t stop it from feeling like it was.”
She looks away, and for a beat, neither of us speaks.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and toss it to her. She catches it one-handed, barely, and opens it with shaky fingers. She takes a long gulp, draining half the bottle. “Thanks.”
“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever need to come back.” She exhales and shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “Life doesn’t always go to plan.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She nods, eyes flicking to the window, then back to me. “The ad said live-in. I figured I could work in exchange for room and board and a little extra. Just for a while.”
“And the kid?”
She goes still, like she didn’t expect me to know. Then: “Staying with a friend. For now. But he comes with me.”
I nod slowly. “You ever worked on a ranch before?” She might have lived here once, but she didn’t lift a finger outdoors.
“No. But I can clean. Cook. I’m a fast learner.”
Her voice trembles, but her chin’s high. Still proud.
“Any experience with livestock?”
“No.”
“What can you cook?”
“Whatever you want. My momma taught me the basics, but I follow recipes. I bake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Cookies. Cakes. Fresh bread. All the things a cowboy needs to keep going.”
I raise a brow. “I need a lot of fuel.”
She nods, her gaze sweeping over my body, assessing, and damn, my dick perks up in response.
Down boy, is my first thought, but I dismiss it. This woman used to be something to me, but she isn’t anymore. My dad’s dead. Her momma? Not sure. We’re nothing more to each other than people with a little shared history. Uncomfortable history.
“There are three other men on this ranch. And we bring in other workers when we need them,” I say.
“I can handle it.”
“I bet you can.”
Her lips part slightly, maybe in surprise, maybe in protest, but she remains silent.
“You want to look around?”
“Sure.”
I lead her through the house, pointing out rooms, letting her see the dust, the wear, the things we’ve let fall behind.
Her eyes don’t miss a thing. The chips in the paintwork, the laundry that needs folding, the boxes of my dad’s junk we never parted with.
She’s making a list in her head, cataloguing the difference she can make.
We reach the back porch, and she steps ahead of me to stare out at the land.
“You’ll get used to the quiet again,” I say.
“I already like it,” she replies. “I missed that part, at least. No one watching. No pressure to be something I’m not.”
She turns to me, her arms at her sides like she’s forgotten what’s happening beneath her shirt. It’s damp on both sides now, and her nipples are hard and outlined, leaking milk in large rings.
I swallow.
“Joelle,” I say, low and thick.
She stiffens.
“You know you’re leaking, right?” I let my eyes drift, and her shoulders tighten. She crosses her arms over her chest and avoids my gaze.
“I haven’t nursed for a while. I’m trying to wean.”
“You’re in pain?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’m managing.”
I shake my head. “It’s not going to dry up immediately. You can’t just switch it off. It doesn’t work like that.”
She exhales, biting her lip, probably wondering how the fuck I know.
“It’ll go away if I wait it out.”
“If you don’t taper down slowly, it builds.
You’ll get engorged. Skin’ll go tight, hot.
Might spike a fever. Worst case, you get mastitis.
That's an infection, Jo. You’ll need antibiotics.
Might end up in the hospital.” I shake my head and rub my chin, the bristles there rasping against my work-calloused fingers.
She presses her arms tighter and makes a soft gasping noise, maybe pain or embarrassment.
I step closer, careful not to spook her, wondering what the fuck I’m even doing.
I should offer her the job, but I don’t want to saddle us with a worker who can’t keep up with the pace or isn’t fit for purpose.
I need her to work a few days on trial. We have to be sure she’s what we need before she brings a baby out here—because if she isn’t, sending her away could leave them both homeless.
“Can you stay three days… enough to work out if you fit?”
She bites her lip, eyes dropping, considering her current state and what it will mean. “I can.”
“Good.”
Sweat trickles down her temple, the heat of her engorgement and the dry air in the damned place getting to her.
“You’ll need to drain it,” I tell her. “The milk.”
She freezes. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have a pump?”
She shakes her head. Shit. No pump. There’s nowhere nearby that stocks that kind of thing. It’ll be an order and days of waiting before it arrives.
I consider what I’m about to say for all of three seconds.
If she’s offended and storms off, it won’t matter to me.
There’ll be other applicants for the job.
Ones with less baggage and history. But if she says yes?
My dick thickens behind my jeans. It’s been a while since I touched a pretty woman. And Joelle sure is pretty.
“There are two ways to get rid of milk,” I murmur. “One’s mechanically… but that’s not an option without a pump.” My eyes hold hers.
“The other way?” she asks, blushing like she already knows.
Am I really gonna suggest this?
Caleb would be mortified. He’d come up with a multitude of reasons I’m sick in the head. But he’s always cared more about other people and what they think than I have.
And he’s not here to tell me shit.
This thirst I’ve had has never been sated. Maybe, today, it will be.