His eyes held the promise of death. There was no question about it.
“I think I was in his way?—”
“Don’t make excuses for that asshole.”
Shame had me casting my gaze to my lap again.
“Did you fall?” he asked, softening his tone.
I nodded. “I went to the hospital that night, just to make sure everything was okay.” I met his stare again. “The baby is okay. And I never saw Daniel again.”
Beck’s teeth ground together before he tore a hand through his hair and moved his focus out the windshield. He was staring at the ranch, but it was like he wasn’t really seeing it.
“Beckham, I’m okay.” I set my hand on the one he still had on my leg. “None of that was your fault.” Because I knew Beckham. Knew he’d blame himself if he could, because holding that responsibility was easier to him than accepting he had no hand in stopping the bad things that happened.
“I should’ve never let you leave,” he whispered.
“And what were you going to do? Stuff me in your truck while you went off to ride broncs?”
“If it would have kept you safe.”
But both of us knew that wasn’t even close to a possibility. We were both too eager to be free to be contained. It was what had torn us apart.
Through the windshield, I saw the front door swing open, and a little girl with long brown hair came barreling out in short sleeves and fuzzy slippers. She shouted something as she bounded to the truck.
“What do you want to tell them about the baby?” Beckham asked, his tone low despite his eyes lighting up at the sight of the girl.
“They think he’s yours?”
“If Wyatt talked to them, then yes.”
“And if he didn’t?”
There was a long, heavy pause, and our gazes met.
Beckham would sacrifice everything for me, but I didn’t want him to pretendfor my sake.
“If you want me to say he’s mine, I will.”
He showed no hesitation, and it made my chest sting.
But I didn’t get the chance to answer as a woman who looked nearly identical to the girl appeared on the porch, tears in her eyes and a pained expression on her face.
Beckham was out of the truck in an instant, leaving his door wide open as he met the little girl halfway. He scooped her up, hurrying toward the porch and up the steps. Seconds later, Callan emerged, coming to the woman’s side and setting a hand on her elbow. The two men studied something on her hand while the little girl buried her face in Beckham’s neck.
The sight had my heart skipping a beat.
I climbed out of the truck, quietly closing my door and then Beckham’s before crossing to the porch. My approach felt like I was imposing on a private family matter, and the knowledge that I wasn’t part of it had me blinking back tears. I blamed the pregnancy hormones.
“You need stitches,” Callan stated as he inspected her hand.
“Cal, it’s fine,” the woman insisted.
As I hit the top step, I saw the blood dripping down her arm.
“He’s right,” Beckham agreed. “That cut won’t heal right on its own.”
“But Avery—” she started.
