one
Tarr Olson adjusted the collar of his button-down shirt, checked his reflection in the mirror above the sink, and tried not to wonder for the eighth time whether he looked like a man going to Thanksgiving dinner with his friends, or a man chasing a woman who’d made it very clear she didn’t want him.
He sighed as he pulled his sleeves down over his forearms and buttoned the cuffs slowly, methodically. His knuckles were still a little scraped from trying to fix the busted heater in the RV—something he had yet to mention to Tuck, because he wasn’t in the mood to be razzed forstillliving in the RV, two months after the wedding.
He didn’t want to live with newlyweds. It wasn’t that hard to understand, was it?
So he’d bought an RV, and he parked it at the site where his house had been under construction for the past nine weeks. He appreciated that Tuck and Bobbie Jo let him shower in the mansion, and he actually liked the coziness of the RV.
He’d never needed a huge house; Tarr much preferred a wide open space, a big yard, a huge pasture with as many horses as hecould put on the land. So the RV wasn’t a bad place to live—if he was still living in Tennessee.
Colorado had a much different winter season, and Tarr obsessively checked the weather every day to make sure he had the supplies and energy he needed to survive.
Honestly, survival was so hard these days.
He exhaled and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension that sat across the back of his neck rent-free. From his work around the facility, to keeping himself fed and warm in a shelter that didn’t have electricity or running water, to making sure Briar Prescott was taken care of—all of it had combined in the past three months to show Tarr he only had to sleep a few hours each night.
For a moment, he considered texting Hunter, Deacon, and Tucker and telling them he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t make it to the farm for turkey and cranberry sauce.
But if he did that, Tucker would show up on his doorstep.
Maybe he should take a leaf out of Tuck’s game plan when it came to Briar. Tarr had watched his best friend flirt shamelessly with his now-wife. His feelings for Bobbie Jo had never been a secret to anyone, but Tarr felt smothered by his hidden, repressed feelings for Briar.
“Thanksgiving,” he said to himself as he crossed to the small closet and pulled out a jacket. “Time for food, family…and finally drawing the line.”
He’d asked Briar Prescott out a couple of times since her encounter with the coyote. She’d turned him down both times. So he’d retreated again—but only when it came to trying to get her to go out with him.
He showed up at her cabin every single day, whether she told him to leave her alone or not. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
She’d healed really well from the attack, to be honest. Her leg only bore a scar now, not that she ever let Tarr see it. He’d seen itwhen the doctor had removed the stitches, and he could still see the marks all along her abdomen, whether his eyes were open or closed.
That side wound hadn’t been as bad as he’d originally thought, though Briar had gotten seventeen stitches to get her skin sealed back together again. He’d sat with her while she slept, ordered or made food so she could keep her strength up, and set timers to make sure she took her medicines on time. Then she wouldn’t wake up in a massive amount of pain.
He’d seen her cry, and listened to her yell at him to get out and never come back, and held her in his arms while he soothed her and his feelings for her deepened and deepened and deepened.
“So not fair,” he muttered—what he usually did when telling the Lord he wasn’t satisfied with how things were going in his life.
And when it came to Briar Prescott, Tarr was absolutely dissatisfied. He wanted so much more than she’d allowed, and he swiped his phone up from the top of the slim bureau he’d crammed in beside his bed.
He’d texted her a few hours ago, before he’d gone out to do the morning feeding, about the Thanksgiving luncheon out at the Hammond Family Farm.
I’m good, she’d said.But thanks.
He growled, because hehatedit when she told himI’m good.
Ab—so—lute—ly—hate—d—it.
He looked up, his mind sparking at him, situations between Tucker and Bobbie Jo firing through his memory.
Maybe he really did need to be more explicit with Briar.
At the very least, he was done following her rules. He was done waiting for permission to care. Done waiting for her to recognize how good they could be together—if only she’d let him in.
“I just want a chance, Lord,” he whispered. “Is that too much to ask? A real opportunity?” He closed his eyes and forced his mind to go blank, quiet, still. “Not a single date with hardly any conversation, and not me forcing myself on her to make sure she heals up good.”
He opened his eyes, seeing the narrow interior of his RV in a whole new way. “A real try.”
He felt like he’d thrown out everything he had, but deep down, he knew he hadn’t. It only felt like the eleventh hour, because of the miserable way he laid awake at night, dreaming of holding Briar when they were both happy and laughing, instead of when she sobbed into his arms after a painful physical therapy appointment, or wept into his chest, frustrated about the slow speed at which she’d healed.
