Chapter 2
“Bellamy?”
I freeze at the voice. That fucking rough, gravelly voice that still haunts my dreams.
Hank straightens, big hands clenched around an axe. Below him is a tree stump. On top of that, a split log that looks comically small in comparison to Hank’s wildly tall frame.
I jump back, putting much-needed space between us. “Jesus, Hank.”
Every emotion I own pools in my belly like warm honey. I hate it. It feels like a thousand years since I left Hank, since we signed divorce papers, but the man is still as unfairly handsome as ever. With his golden-brown hair and deep sapphire eyes, Hank Blue is one dreamboat of a cowboy.
“What are you doing here?”
One brow rockets straight up on his rugged face. “Me?”
“Yes. You.” I frown when I notice that, despite the windchill, he stubbornly wears a cowboy hat and a lone flannel in lieu of a jacket.
The scruff on his face is new. Not quite a beard, but effortless laziness, like he can’t be bothered to shave. A few more faint crinkles line the corner of his eyes.
I like both.
My core tightens.
A muscle jerks in his jaw. He looks down at the chopping block, his broad shoulders lowering. I bet he wishes that log was my head.
“What.”
Chop.
“Are.”
Chop.
“You.”
Chop.
“Doing.”
Chop.
“Here?”
Through his many manly frustrated grunts, he doesn’t look up. Not once.
He’s not happy to see me. Why would he be? Three years ago, we shattered to pieces, and I left him. If I were him, I wouldn’t forgive me either. But that doesn’t mean I have to take his surly attitude.
“It’s my Christmas.”
He lifts his head, hits me with one of his familiar, exasperated looks. “Your Christmas to what?”
“To stay at the cabin.”
Now, he lifts the axe.
I flinch.
With an under-his-breath mutter of “for Christ’s sakes,” he sets it aside. “It’s my Christmas, Bell. My cabin.”
I dig in my boots. “We both own the cabin. It’s in the contract. And it’s my weekend.” When he stares at me, I snort.
“Unbelievable. You forgot.” Sighing, I tip my head back and study the snow now falling from fat gray clouds.
Hank Blue never forgets a damn thing.
But why would he remember this? It’s not his job. Not anymore.
“It’s my thirtieth birthday.” I face him beneath the trees as the Montana wind steals its way beneath my thick parka. “We agreed I could stay here, remember? In the divorce?”
“Fuck.” Hard gaze softening, he drags a hand down the whiskers of his jaw.
He opens his mouth to say something. What, I’m not sure, because before he can speak, my knees go out from under me.
A pair of paws lands on my chest. A red, drooly tongue drags its way down my chin.
“Oh my God!” I gape at the furry face, then propel myself up and fling my arms around the blue heeler.
She wriggles, panting against my neck, but I hold on tight as joy zips through me. “Zelda, girl! My sweet, silly mashed potato pup.”
She was a gift for Hank, for Christmas the first year we were married.
With one brown eye and one blue, she’s adorable, but the goofy underbite that makes her look like she has a perpetual grin is what made me scream “she’s mine” when she was a tiny puppy.
The instant I saw her wiggling and squirming with her siblings, I had to have her.
And looking at her now, I can’t believe I ever left her.
“Oh, I missed you,” I whisper into her thick scruff.
After she’s given me a few more sloppy forehead kisses, I press my hands into the cold earth and push my way to standing.
She sticks to my side, her tail thwacking against the side of my leg.
“Hell, what are we goin’ to do about this?” Hank considers me, blue eyes searching my face. Serious. Assessing. Always working out problems in that marvel of a brain of his.
Me, I was quick to act, to react.
I eye the cabin steps, wanting nothing more than to dramatically storm up them and slam the front door in his face.
Instead, I blow out a puff of breath, shivering in the biting cold. “We are not doing anything. You’re going and I’m staying. Simple as that.”
With a toss of my hair, I turn away. There. That should do it.
I’ve only taken two steps before Hank’s boots crunch leaves and gravel beside me. Zelda trots ahead, lunging for snowflakes, snapping and biting.
He scoffs, breath a white cloud in front of him. “You can’t just show up here and tell me to go.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I look around for his vintage Bronco. Why didn’t I see it before?
All I find is a junky rusted truck nestled in a grove of trees.
I chance a glance at him in my periphery and see it. That jaw set in stone. The little line between his eyes that he gets when he does the crossword or fixes a saddle.
It makes me move faster. “You live just over the ridge. It’ll take you minutes to get home. I spent eight hours on a plane, then three more in a rental car. I can’t just pack up and leave.” Not to mention I have a bed and a bottle of wine calling my name.
Key out, I reach for my bags, but before I can grasp a handle, Hank hauls them into his arms. Without a word, he stomps past me up the stairs and throws open the door.
“You don’t have to do that.” I follow him, watching grudgingly as he carries my bags into the cabin.
Zelda bounds behind us frantically, as if she doesn’t know what to think of my appearance.
“Already done.” Hank drops my bags onto the floor without flourish.
I cross fast over the threshold, refusing to look up at the silver star-shaped mistletoe hook hanging above. Even so, I tense at the visceral reaction, at the memories that careen through me.
Waiting for Hank on Christmas Day for our mistletoe kiss. The tree farm was closed, and cider simmered on the stove. The scent was strong in the air, though suddenly, it was joined by the harsh tang of blood.
Breath hitching painfully, I look down at my stomach.
“Bell?”
Hank watches me, his brow knitted in concern.
It’s then that I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging near the entryway and understand why.
The bags under my eyes are heavier than those he just lugged inside for me.
My dark windswept hair could host a family of rats, and my sweater hangs off my body courtesy of the fantastic combination of stress and depression.
I look like a winter crone.
“I’m fine,” I say before he can ask.
My attention drifts. To the cabin. Picture-perfect charm.
Unlike the cowboy glowering beside me.
A dusty mahogany-colored leather couch faces the rock-wall fireplace.
Above the mantel, an oil-painting of the ranch during winter.
Nestled in a corner, two mismatched chairs and a small table meant for games and cozying up with books on a neighboring bookshelf.
The kitchen’s tiny, tucked away between exposed wood beams. A butcher block island, hunter-green cabinets, shelves and hooks make the most of the space.
Across from the kitchen, a ladder that leads up to a loft.
The place is moody and rustic, making me want to hole myself up for the holidays.
The joy of seeing the cabin evaporates in an instant, and I frown, watching as Hank sets his hat on the coffee table, watching as he shakes the chill from his lean frame and wanders to the wood burning stove for warmth.
My stomach drops when I see his bags strewn around the house.
His things are everywhere. A crossword puzzle book.
A nonfiction paperback about Wyatt Earp.
A bottle of whiskey. Coffee cups everywhere because Hank’s MO has always been pouring five cups of coffee a day and never finishing any of them.
Zelda’s tattered dog bed propped in a corner.
Shit. He’s unpacked. Made himself at home.
This absolutely cannot happen.
Standing beneath the warm glow of the cabin light, it’s hard not to take him in.
I’ve always been attracted to the man. A divorce won’t change that fact.
His golden-brown hair’s tousled and messy, curled at the nape.
Longer than I’m used to. Those long legs, that ass are stacked with muscle.
The corded veins in his thick forearms run down to big, tan working man’s hands.
Hands.
That’s when I see it. My mind squirrels.
“Hank.” My heart flutters. Ignoring the traitorous little organ, I set my hands on my hips. The best disappointed ex-wife move I can muster. “Your ring.”
“It won’t come off.” He grunts, steamrolling over my protest. He lifts a tan hand, causing the silver band to flash in the firelight. “Gained too much weight.”
Liar. I narrow my eyes at his hard, post-divorce vengeance body. Gained too much muscle is far more likely.
I blink away the thought. I won’t dig into what it means. Don’t want to. Don’t care.
“Hank.” Frustration simmers in my veins. I don’t want to spend my Christmas fighting. I don’t want to spend my Christmas with him. “You need to go.”
“Stop telling me to leave, Bell.” His voice is low, rough.
“We both can’t stay here,” I remind him quietly. I cross my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps. “Please, Hank. I need this.”
He peers at me, his blue eyes full of questions, like he’s looking for an answer in the memory of my face. Then, after a resigned sigh, he moves through the house, collecting his bags. As he meanders closer, I catch a whiff of his scent. Coffee and pine and horses.
There’s that ache again. Stomach. Heart. Thighs.
He’s leaving. Good. As relieved as I am, I’m also sad about it. A fact that pisses me off.
Time flies, but it feels like I was in that bar with my cowboy only yesterday.
That night, I watched the cowboys.
Thanks to a flight delay, I was stuck in the middle-of-nowhere Montana.
I ventured out of my hotel and went to the locals’ bar on Main Street.
Buck’s Bar. I parked myself at a high-top with my sketch pad and a vodka soda.
It’s said inspiration is found in the strangest of places, and for me, that place was Silverwood.
It wasn’t my usual scene, but the view was spectacular.