For a second, I imagine chasing her down—forcing her to hear me out. To see it my way. Because I can’tfinallyfeel this only to have her walk away.
But no.
Never.
She has to want me the way I want her.
She has tochoose me.
Christian and the deputies wrap things up. Martin sits in the back of a cruiser. His ranch hands—including Clyde—are alreadytracked back to their bunkhouse. I shake hands with my boss, promising Leonora and I will come around tomorrow to file reports.
But my stomach knots.
Not my promise to make.
He nods toward the house. “Don’t screw this up, Deputy.”
Easier said than done.
After the horses are settled and the calf fed, I mend the fence. Secure the herd. The chores don’t feel foreign anymore.
The ranch feels less like a workplace.
More like a home.
I hope.
The firefighters roll out. Promises of reports linger in the air. But I don’t know if she even wants to look at me again.
Or whether I’m already locked out.
My throat tightens as I test the knob.
It clicks free, the door groaning open.
I move around the dark house quietly. Unsure if I’m still welcome.
But if I can keep her safe and warm. If I can try to explain, I’ll do that.
I build up the fire until it roars. I don’t turn on lights or sit in front of the hearth like I own the place. Instead, I straddle the bench seat of her kitchen dining table in a darkened corner, posture straight, palms flat on my knees.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Twilight bleeds to ink before I hear the door crack open upstairs. Then the squeak of boards, the thud of heels on the landing.
I smell her before I see her. Sandalwood and rosebuds. And something harder. Steel.
She crosses to me, clicking on one lamp. It fills the room with a golden, diffused glow. The kind that makes my chest ache as it kisses her face.
The first-aid kit lands on the table with a hollow bang. Then her holster and pistol. Deliberate. Controlled.
She lifts her leg, resting it on the bench seat in front of me and pulling up her denim pant leg. Heat curls low as she reveals a curvy calf and an ivory switchblade stashed in her boot, setting it next to the gun. She straddles the seat, facing me.
I pull my shirt free, unbuttoning the black and gray flannel, grimacing at the muscles already stiffening in my shoulders, neck, and back, and the sting of busted knuckles. When I pull my Henley over my head with a grimace, she sucks in a little puff of air. My jeans suddenly fit much tighter.
Don’t even think about it, Kincaid.
