Chapter 4
Daniel
The coffee’s gone cold in my hand.
I’ve been standing at the kitchen window for twenty minutes, watching the sun climb over the east pasture, replaying the same moment on an endless loop.
Her face when I pulled back. The shock. The heat. The fury.
Mine.
I said it like I had any right to. Like she was something I could claim with a word and a kiss in front of half the town.
The taste of her is still on my lips. Black coffee and something sweeter underneath—something that kept me hard and restless half the night, tangled in sheets that smelled nothing like her.
Behind me, the kitchen door swings open. I don’t turn around.
“So.” Tom’s voice carries that particular tone—the one that means he’s about to enjoy himself at my expense. “Heard you caused quite a scene at Spur and Spoon yesterday.”
I take a sip of cold coffee. Say nothing.
“Mabel Kerry called Kitty last night. Then Doris from the feed store. Then Pastor Mike’s wife.” Tom pulls out a chair, the scrape of wood against tile deliberately loud. “Apparently, my cousin kissed Delaney Phillips like he was staking a claim on government land.”
“Tom—”
“In front of God and everybody, they said. Hands on her face. The whole production.” He’s grinning. I can hear it. “Declared her yours. Asked if anyone had opinions.”
I set the mug down harder than necessary. “You got a point?”
“Several.” He kicks out the chair across from him. “Sit down. You look like you haven’t slept.”
I haven’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt her mouth under mine. Soft. Startled. Then—one perfect second before the fury hit—responding. Her lips parting. That tiny sound in her throat.
I sit.
Tom studies me with that irritating perceptiveness he inherited from his mother. “You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” He leans back, arms crossed. “Because Kitty’s worried about her sister, and I’m worried about you, so you need to start making sense.”
I drag a hand over my face. The stubble’s rough—forgot to shave. Another sign that my legendary control is cracking at the seams.
“They were talking about her.” The words come out rough. “Those town gossips. Calling her desperate. Saying she was lingering, hoping someone would settle for her.”
Tom’s expression shifts. “Ah.”
“She heard them. I saw her face, Tom. Like she’d been gutted and was trying to hold everything in so her sister wouldn't notice.” My hands curl into fists on the table. “And they just kept going. Laughing.”
“So you kissed her.”
“So I kissed her.”
Silence stretches between us. Outside, a horse whinnies, demanding breakfast.
“Did you kiss her because you wanted to shut them up?” Tom asks quietly. “Or because you wanted to kiss her?”
Both. Neither. I don’t know anymore where the protective instinct ends and the wanting begins. All I know is that I’ve been thinking about her mouth for weeks, and when I finally tasted it, the reality was so much better than the fantasy that I nearly lost my mind right there in the diner.
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, Daniel. It matters.” He leans forward. “Because if you kissed her to make a point, that’s fucked up. But if you kissed her because you’ve been wanting to for weeks and finally had an excuse—that’s something else entirely.”
I don’t answer.
Tom nods slowly as if my silence confirmed his suspicions. “That’s what I thought.”
The kitchen door swings open again, and Miss Maggie bustles in with a basket of eggs and a look that says she’s heard every word.
“Morning, boys.” She sets the basket down and fixes me with sharp eyes. “Daniel, you look like something the barn cat dragged in and decided wasn’t worth eating.”
“Thanks, Miss Maggie.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank whatever demon possessed you to kiss that girl in public without courting her proper first.” She cracks eggs into a bowl with efficient violence. “Your mother would’ve had words.”
“I'm aware.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got a woman who’s already been publicly humiliated once in this town, and you just made her the center of attention all over again.” The whisk clangs against the bowl. “Good intentions don’t mean much when the road to hell is paved with ‘em.”
The words hit like a fist to the sternum.
She’s right. I was so focused on defending Delaney that I didn't think about what it would mean for her—being claimed like property in front of everyone.
You made a spectacle of me with that kiss.
I sigh. “I need to fix it.”
“You need to earn it,” Miss Maggie corrects. “There’s a difference. Fixing implies you can undo what’s done. You can’t. But you can show her you’re worth the trouble you caused.”
Tom stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Kitty said she barely slept, but she’s planning to come to work today. Something about not giving anyone the satisfaction of thinking she’s hiding.”
That sounds like Delaney. Stubborn as hell, even when she’s hurting.
I nod, determined to make things right. “I’ve got an idea.”
Delaney shows up at nine sharp.
I’m in the barn when I hear her truck—Havenridge’s old Ford, borrowed from Tom. The engine cuts off. Door slams. Footsteps on gravel, then the creak of the barn door.
I’ve faced enemy fire. Been trapped under rubble with my leg pinned and my lungs full of dust. Watched men die next to me and kept moving because stopping meant dying too.
None of that scared me as much as the thought that she might not show up today.
I keep my back to her, running a brush over the horse’s flank. The gelding’s ears swivel toward the sound, his one good eye tracking movement in the doorway.
“Operations meeting isn’t until ten.” Her voice is professional. Clipped. Cold enough to frost the water trough.
“I know.”
“Then why did your text say to meet you here at nine?”
I set down the brush. Turn to face her.
Shadows lurk under her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in its usual severe ponytail. Her spine is as straight as a fence post. She’s wearing jeans that hug her hips and a flannel shirt buttoned up to her throat like armor.
But her chin is up, and her gaze is steady. The sight of her refusing to break makes me want to cross the barn and kiss her again. Slower this time. Longer. Until she stops looking at me like I’m the enemy.
“I want to show you something.”
“Daniel—”
“It’s not about yesterday.” A lie. It’s entirely about yesterday, but not the way she thinks. “You’re coordinating operations for a working ranch. You should know how to sit a horse.”
Her expression flickers. Fear, quickly masked. “I told you. I don’t ride.”
“I know.” I move toward her slowly, the way I’d approach a spooked animal. “That’s why I’m going to teach you.”
“I don’t—”
“Delaney.” I stop three feet away. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough to smell her—something clean and warm that makes me want to bury my face in her neck. “Please.”
The word costs me. I don’t say please. I give orders, make decisions, handle things. But right now, with her looking at me like I’m a threat she’s calculating how to neutralize, I’ll beg if I have to.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Fine. One lesson. But if that horse tries to kill me, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough.”
I lead her to the horse’s stall. The gelding watches her approach with his good eye, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring as he catches her scent.
“Delaney, meet Captain Winky. Captain Winky, this is Delaney. She’s going to be spending a lot of time around here, so be nice.”
Her mouth twitches. “Captain Winky? Let me guess. Tom’s idea.”
I shrug. “You know what he’s like when it comes to naming animals.”
“A goat called Cheese Puff, a rooster called Major Pecker, and now a horse named Captain Winky.” Delaney huffs a laugh and shakes her head. “Why’s he only got one eye?”
“Accident before I got him. Barbed wire.” I run a hand down Captain Winky’s neck, and he leans into the touch. “Took him two years to trust anyone enough to let them in his blind spot. Now he’s the steadiest horse on the ranch.”
She studies the gelding with her signature sharp gaze. “He’s big.”
“Fifteen hands. Not that big.” I grab a lead rope and clip it to Captain Winky’s halter. “Come on. We’ll start in the round pen.”
The walk to the arena is silent. Delaney’s tension is a physical thing—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her hands keep curling into fists. She’s terrified. She’s furious about being terrified, and even more furious that I’m witnessing it.
I get that. I do.
In the round pen, I ground-tie Captain Winky and turn to face her. “First thing. Horses read emotion. If you’re scared, he knows. If you’re angry, he knows. The trick isn’t hiding it—it’s acknowledging it and choosing to trust anyway."
“That sounds like therapy, not riding lessons.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
Her jaw tightens. But she doesn’t leave.
I show her how to approach from Captain Winky’s good side, how to let him smell her hand before touching his neck. She’s stiff at first, flinching when he shifts his weight, but she doesn’t back away.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now, I’m going to help you mount. Left foot in the stirrup, grab the horn, swing your right leg over. I’ll spot you.”
“Spot me?”
“In case you lose your balance.”
She shoots me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. But she moves to Captain Winky’s side, takes a breath, and puts her foot in the stirrup.
Her first attempt is awkward—she doesn’t push off hard enough and ends up hopping on one foot while Captain Winky stands patiently. I step in close, hands settling on her waist. The heat of her burns through the flannel.
“Again. Push off with your right foot, use your arms.”
She tries again. This time I boost her, my hands sliding up her ribs as she swings into the saddle. She lands with a startled sound, fingers white-knuckling the horn.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’ve been holding your breath for the last thirty seconds.”
She exhales shakily. Captain Winky’s ears flick back, then forward again.