I turned. Winnie was leaning against the doorway of the shed, hair wild from riding, cheeks flushed pink. She looked like heaven and trouble wrapped in denim.
She jogged over, eyes bright. "You survived the feed store. Proud of you."
"Barely," I panted, wiping my forehead. "Earl interrogated me about us. Said the whole town is talking."
"Of course he did. Earl is worse than the church ladies." Her eyes drifted to the truck seat. "New hat?"
"Yeah. Figured it was time to replace the one I lost." I grabbed the black Stetson, settling it on my head. I tilted the brim down. "How do I look?"
Winnie bit her lip, her gaze dropping to my chest, then back up to my eyes. The air between us crackled, hot and sudden.
"It looks good," she whispered, stepping into my personal space. "Really good. The cowboy thing... it suits you."
"Yeah?" I reached out, my hands spanning her waist, pulling her flush against my sweaty body. I didn't care about the grime. I needed to feel her. "What else suits me?"
"Me," she replied, bold and breathless.
She surged up, kissing me. It tasted like sunshine and sweet tea and promises I was terrified I couldn't keep. I kissed her back desperately, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, my hands gripping her hips like I was trying to anchor myself to the earth.
For a moment, the declined card didn't exist. My father didn't exist.
There was only Winnie, pressing against me, her heart beating against my chest.
When we broke apart, she was smiling, totally oblivious to the storm brewing behind my eyes.
"Come on," she said, tugging my hand. "Pops made lunch. And I want to hear about your manual driving skills—tell me you didn't kill my baby's transmission."
I forced a laugh, following her toward the house.
One month. I had one month to figure out how to choose her without losing everything—or how to lose everything and make sure she was enough.
WINNIE
Riding more than a horse
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Thursday Night, 10:47 PM
"Let me work with my hands / If you wanna saddle up, just the two of us" – BRELAND
***
The silence in the ranch house wasn’t peaceful, it was heavy, pressing down like a physical weight. Downstairs, the grandfather clock ticked a slow, rhythmic heartbeat, the only sound other than the settling of the old timber beams. Pops was long gone, snoring faintly in the master suite, and Elise’s room was dark, the silence there feeling hollow now that she was halfway out the door.
It was just me, the oppressive humidity of a storm that refused to break, and the kind of restless, skin-prickling heat that had nothing to do with the weather.
I was sprawled across my bed, the sheets kicked into a tangled nest at the foot of the mattress. The bedside lamp cast a low, amber pool of light, highlighting the sheen of perspiration on my collarbone. I was wearing a pair of cotton sleep shorts that had been washed so many times they were practically translucent, and a ribbed white tank top that clung to me like a second skin. No bra. The air was too thick for layers.
My legs were restless, knees falling open as I held the Kindle above my face, eyes devouring the words while my free hand drifted idly, subconsciously, over the curve of my hip.
The book was trash. Glorious, filth-filled trash. I was at the climax—literally—of The Duke’s Forbidden Governess.
‘Lord Sterling pinned her against the velvet divan, his cravat undone, his eyes burning with a primal fire. "You undo me, Miss Clara," he rasped, his hand sliding up the silk of her stocking to find the damp heat of her desire. "I shall ravage you until you cannot remember your own name."’
My breath hitched. My nipples were painfully hard, rubbing against the ribbed cotton with every shallow breath I took. A heavy, liquid ache throbbed low in my belly, a persistent pulse that demanded attention. I squeezed my thighs together, seeking friction, feeling the slick wetness dampen my panties.
The door handle turned.
