Originally, I’d planned to be in Montana for another week before returning to Cole County. A week away from knowing Betty was right there, believing I didn’t want her. I do; I just can’t. I shouldn’t.
Pop is the reason I’m out here in the field, with my t-shirt hanging out of my back pocket, and sweat droplets burning my eyes. Apparently, the promotion hosting this junior barrel race competition was requesting a few pickup and patrol horses. Per usual, Pop volunteered. It made no sense to me. We’ve never supplied horses for that sort of thing, but my father is the type to solve a problem if he has the resources.
Gray mentioned they were short a few guys this week and needed an extra hand. It wasn’t a question of whether I would help or not. It’s always a yes if I’m available. We all grew up hereat Boulder Ranch, in a way, so it’s only natural to want to keep it alive. So here I am, throwing hay bales.
Too bad Gray bailed the moment he saw River. I can’t blame him. The guy is fucking glowing being married to that gorgeous woman. He and Tate have been through a lot of shit over the years. They both deserve the happiness they’ve found.
The timing worked out well since I’d just closed another deal, and Hunt could handle the others that were pending. Choosing to count this as a blessing instead of a curse, I’ve worked at Boulder and our home ranch during the day and spent the evenings with my parents the past few nights. They’re getting older, and time waits for no one. A thought that seems to hit at the worst time, as Betty’s laugh punches me in the gut.
Every breath comes in a heaving pant as I drag myself back up to the Miller house. I should have stayed at my own, but why not torture myself knowing I’m feet away from the one woman I refuse to have.
My head snaps up, and there she is. Her laughter rings out through the humid spring air as her head falls back, my cock twitching at the sight. I’m so exhausted there’s no way my old ass should be able to get hard right now.
The man she’s with grips her waist, helping her keep her balance as her feet cross one in front of the other, fighting to control her cackle.
Whatever he said can’t be that damn funny.
The guy stops at the door, his hand finding that same hip I’d held a week ago. Then his lips touch the same mouth I’d devoured. Betty leans into him, giggling before they pull apart and she slips inside.
What the fuck? A week ago, she was all over me. She was mine. Who the hell is this asshole moving in on my…
Stop that, Nash. She’s not yours. You made that clear.
A million emotions course through me as he stands at the door as if waiting for her to open it again, only to knock. I hold my breath, hoping she doesn’t.Please don’t open it, baby. Fuck!
My breath lodges in my lungs as I hold it in, hoping she leaves him out here when we might only be minutes from a storm. Yet, the door creaks open, her face appearing around the edge as she smiles brightly at him. Will she ever smile at me like that again?
Inching closer, it’s a strain to hear the words exchanged, but I don’t miss the glow of happiness that never leaves her face. Or his deep laughter as she takes his hand and pulls him inside.
I’m barely thinking as I storm toward the house, my shirt balled in my fist. Punching in the code, the door clicks open, and Betty’s laughter drifts from the kitchen.
There’s no stamping down my emotions as I march in that direction. My head is screaming that some other man has his hands on my woman.My woman?Betty isn’t mine. Yet I can’t stop what’s about to happen.
Clearing my throat, Betty jumps away from the man who just had his arms around her waist and his tongue down her throat.
“Nash. I… What are you doing here?” Her eyes are wide as they rake over my naked torso, the dirt and sweat still clinging to my skin. I’m not a territorial man. Jealousy isn’t part of my makeup, and I don’t flex like I’m hot shit to impress a woman. I never have, yet here I am in the kitchen of the Miller house, making sure every muscle pops with my molars painfully grinding, witnessing another man’s hands on that woman.
“I’m helping out for the weekend. Tate said I could stay here at the house,” I explain calmly.
“Oh, well. Tate’s wrong. The rooms are all full. We’re down one after the pipe break earlier this week.” She takes a step closer to the guy whose face I am just starting to place. Some nobody calf roper that’s new to the Boulder circuit.
Taking a step closer, my palms rest on the island. The surface is spotless except for the two tumblers sitting in front of them. “Tate offered the couch; I already know about the room. And who are you?” I cock my chin toward the man who still dares to touch what’s mine.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Betty apologizes, stepping out of his hold, but guiding him around the island. “I assumed y’all would have met. Nash, this is Ward Ferrell.”
He sticks out his hand to shake mine, my grip tighter than necessary as I keep my eyes focused on his face. “And you are?” I ask again.
His smile is warm and inviting as he releases my hand. “I, well. I competed here opening weekend. That’s how I met Betty here.” His arm drapes around her shoulder, his fingers rubbing idly.
When he’d touched her before, she’d leaned into him. She welcomed his hands on her skin, but now she’s stiff as if she can’t decide if she should or not. It reminds me of when my sisters started dating and bringing boys home. Magnolia was always unsure if it was okay to share a kiss or hold hands, while Savannah didn’t give a shit. She’d sit on the guy’s lap while my dad stared daggers at them, and the guy sweated so much he left a spot on the couch.
Before I can respond, the guy continues. “A good friend of mine’s daughter is competing this weekend, so I booked one of the cabins. It was the perfect opportunity to take Betty on our first date, too.” There’s not an ounce of smugness in the guy. He’s genuinely excited that he got to spend time with her. And by the glint in his eyes, he’s hoping there will be a second.
“Hope you two had fun, but I need a shower and some sleep,” I all but growl.
“You can have my room again,” Betty chirps. The high-pitched tone of her voice is fabricated. Forced happiness so she canpretend she’s fine. This guy wouldn’t notice it, but I’ve known her for most of her life.
“Are you two leaving?” I hate that I’m fucking standing here giving them the third degree, like I’m not a grown man with some fucking self-control. My molars grind, and the muscles in my jaw flex so hard I want to cry out. I have no right to stand here and make them feel uncomfortable or act as if I have any claim to Betty when I don’t.
