I smirk at him, feeling the happiest I've felt in years.
Jagger clears his throat. "You two done making eyes at each other? We've got two more stalls."
Wyatt and I exchange a quick look, a shared heat that no one can mistake. Then we get back to work.
For the next hour, we move like a team. The barn starts to resemble something livable again, with manure cleared and fresh straw spread. By the time we finish, the breakfast bell rings.
Wyatt leans his pitchfork against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. "Well, sugar. Think we earned some food?"
I laugh, breathless, my heart thumping in a way that has nothing to do with the physical labor.
Jagger groans. "It's so weird hearing you call her 'sugar.'"
"Sorry," Wyatt offers Jagger with a shrug and a grin.
Jagger shakes his head and leaves the barn, but he doesn't have the same angry air he did earlier.
Wyatt leads me out of the barn, where morning sun slices through the chilly air.
The bell rings again, and the kids all yell, "Breakfast!"
When Mason and Jagger are far ahead of us, Wyatt steps closer, murmuring, "Thanks for saving my ass in there."
I meet his gaze under the shadow of his brim, teasing, "Don't make me regret it, Wyatt Houston."
"Never again, sugar," he vows.
And for the first time in years, I believe him.
28
Wyatt
One Month Later
There's a funny thing about routines. You never realize you're building one until it's got you by the throat. And Willow's got me tighter than a bull rope in the final seconds of an eight-second ride.
I'm loving every second of it. The tighter she pulls, the more I crave. She could suffocate me with her schedules and meetings. All I feel is her love and the direction I'd been missing in my life. Or maybe I didn't want it because she wasn't attached to it. But I'm finally a peaceful, happy man.
Jax has me on another rope. Every day this past month has been a blur of bruised knuckles and two-a-day practices until my thighs scream.
Between the grueling workouts, I have endless meetings with Willow about cleaning up my reputation. Whatever she advises me to do, I agree to, and so far, it's working.
But good things never come easy. I've had to toss my ego aside so I can crawl out of the grave I dug for my career. After the train wreck at The Buck and Bruise, I had doubts that any sponsor would touch me. But Willow secured the deals with Tough Rider and Roughneck Armorworks. With two contracts in hand, there's enough to keep me in the circuit so I can make my big comeback. Only this time, I'm determined not to screw it up.
Sometimes, I pull up to the Butterfly House and dwell on my life like a lovesick fool. I lean back in the driver's seat, knowing Willow's inside, and wonder how she's still with me.
Sooner or later, she'll come outside, either in tiny pajama bottoms and goose bump-covered legs or skinny jeans made to haunt a man. She'll cross her arms over her chest to keep herself warm, rasping, "Could hear your truck a mile away. You plan on coming in sometime tonight? Or should I put dinner in the fridge for leftovers tomorrow?" Then she'll toss me a smile.
Sometimes, we don't make it inside the house. I'll pull her into the truck and try to put the last orgasm I gave her to shame. Too often, dinner goes cold, and we eat it under damp sheets.
Every morning, I get up at the crack of dawn, making sure I earn my keep. Willow whines when I get out of bed, but I never stay. I'm still trying to prove to Jacob and the rest of the Cartwrights that I'm a man who's worthy of her.
This morning is no different. I'm hunched over the workbench in the barn. The cold bites my fingers as I retie a loose knot in Spitfire's lead. Mason's somewhere outside, cussing loudly at the tractor that won't start. Jagger and Alexander are in the corral. Sebastian went back to Dallas with Georgia.
The wood door creaks, and Willow's voice floats over to me. "You're gonna freeze your ass off out here, Houston."
I grin. "Thought you liked my ass cold. Builds character."
