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My hand itches to lift her chin, fist all that gorgeous silky hair, and drag her mouth to mine.
Setting the blade aside, she smiles and reaches for the wine bottle, uncapping it. “Wine?” she offers.
“No.”
The wine bottle glugs as she tips the mouth into a glass. “Let me guess, you only drink whiskey?”
“I do. You should too—you’re working here.”
“I drink everything.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I learned a lot about your town today, cowboy. Westons. Hales. A rivalry that’s gone on a century.” She wiggles her brows. “Cow-napping. Cementing in a fishing hole. It’s all pretty diabolical if you ask me,” she teases.
I snort, not in the mood to get into the Weston–Hale feud. “How long you talk to Hassie?” I make a note to have a conversation with her later.
She bats her eyes. “Long enough to get the gossip. Long enough to think you’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”
As she finishes unpacking, I survey the room. A laptop on the nightstand, next to a half-finished cup of coffee. A lone Encyclopaedia Britannica lies on the coffee table. An assortment of stilettos by the door. Tall fringed, sequined boots that are almost as big as she is. Some lacy, pale peach things piled in a chair. Panties. Fuck. My cock flexes.
I’m well aware I’m acting like a nosy bastard. I tell myself it’s because I want to know who’s on my ranch, not because I’m curious about the girl.
A squeak from the counter draws my attention. In a plastic cage, a gray rat runs on a wheel.
Delilah follows my gaze to the cage. “That’s Ratson.”
“Ratson?”
Her lush lips part as she sips her wine. “He’s my son, and he’s a rat, hence, Ratson.”
I shouldn’t, but I grin. She’s adorable.
The thought instantly pisses me off.
I give the room one last scan, then freeze. Her fringed boots. There’s blood on the toe. I’m damn sure of it.
A bleak feeling creeps up my spine.
I glance back to find Delilah’s eyes on me, watching me nervously.
“You never told me why you’re here.”
She smooths her long honey-blond hair behind her ear, looking skeptical at my question. Before replying, she takes a long drink of her wine, then says, “Haven’t you heard, cowboy? A little mystery can be fun.”
Her flirty tone is forced. I watch as she rubs her wrist. The yellow and purple bruises imprinted in her creamy skin. I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it. Wonder if she knows that the shiner she’s desperately tried to conceal with makeup isn’t fooling anyone.
“Like to know who’s on my ranch.” I stare at her hard, like I can get to the bottom of her bruises and her bullshit.
Her lower lip pushes out. “I’m Delilah. And that’s all you need to know.” The fear in her eyes makes me want to punch something. Most likely the person who put it there.
“Drinkin’ that wine like you’ve got a memory to erase.”
Her chin lifts, and she tips more of the bloodred liquid in her mouth. “Maybe I do. What do you care?”
I let out a low laugh. “I don’t. I have my own problems; I don’t need yours.”
She flinches but stays silent.
It’s that long, stretching silence between us that tells me she has secrets. She’s allowed that. Bad pasts, dark pasts, are my business. What’s not allowed is bringing trouble to Copper Run.
Delilah clears her throat. “I still haven’t seen the ranch. Are there animals?” Her brows lift in curiosity, her pretty face schooled into a neutral picture of innocence.
