I’m out of the car before he can say a word, my saddle bag slung over my shoulder. I have to get inside. Hunker down and find some way to ignore everything happening outside.
But when I reach the door, I freeze. The bag slips to the ground, and I’m so close to losing my shit, I can’t form a coherent thought.
The lock swims in and out of focus. Why can’t I make my hands move?
Bag. Keys. Inside.
Nash’s warmth at my back shocks me enough to blink up at the wreath that’s been hanging on my door for months. I should take the damn thing down, but…Graham and Q gave it to me when they invited me to Christmas dinner. An invitation I politely refused so I could spend the day alone drinking too much bourbon.
“You’re shaking. Where are your keys?”
I glance down at the saddlebag, then watch, unable to move, as he drops to one knee and rummages around inside.
I should care that he’s pawing through my things, but when he rises, keys in hand, nothing else matters.
Another flash illuminates the porch. My vision goes white, my heart racing. A strong arm wraps around my waist.
“Easy now,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you.
Like yesterday. Was it only yesterday?
The door swings open, and I catch the lingering scent of the candle I burned last night—citrus and sage—from my living room. It helps center me enough to lean into him, to let him take control.
“Careful.” His deep voice is like spun sugar. Sweet and rich and oh so dangerous. But I don’t protest when he guides me over the threshold, flipping on the lights before he shuts the door behind us.
He’s in my house. Holding me.
Hell, no.
I twist out of his arms—I don’t like to be touched, let alone held—but before I can tell him to leave, blinding light flashes in every window, thunder explodes overhead, and the old house shudders.
I can’t think. My lungs won’t work. It’s like all the air in the room is suddenly…gone.
I’m back in Texas, mud soaking into my Wranglers as I sob over my husband’s body with the storm raging around me.
My ass hits the floor. A voice in my ear urges me to breathe.
“You didn’t listen. Why didn’t you listen?” I whisper.
“Listen to what?” Gentle fingers skim my cheek. “Raelynn, look at me.”
Even if I wanted to, I can’t. All I see is Brooks gasping for air, his life fading away in front of me.
“Raelynn!”
Nash. He’s still here, his arms tight around me, his breath warming my neck. I swallow a sob, and instead of miles and miles of pasture, over his shoulder, I see the pale, painted bricks surrounding my fireplace.
Grief—as fresh as the day Brooks died—flares ice cold. For a moment, it’s like I lost him only hours ago. Until the ache in my shoulder grounds me in the present.
“I’m…okay,” I rasp when my chest no longer feels like someone’s prized heifer is taking a nap on it. “You can let go.”
“Take a deep breath for me and I’ll consider it.”
I should protest. I don’t let anyone handle me. But in his arms, my panic starts to fade. Maybe…being held isn’t as terrible as I thought. So I stay put. Drop my head onto his shoulder and inhale his scent. Coffee. Fresh cut wood. Leather.
I was right about him being strong. And he’s so very warm, even now that my wet clothes have soaked his sweatshirt.
