Cowboy Up(28)

I press a swift kiss to her shocked lips before taking her hand and guiding her toward my house. The same house that makes me feel like I’m drowning in my solitude is looking a lot better now that I’m picturing her inside it with me.



I flip one of the two steaks on the cutting board and rub my own mixture of seasoning on the meat while Caroline shifts nervously on the barstool in front of me. She hasn’t said much since we got inside. Every time I catch her looking at me, she ducks her head and blushes. It’s cute as hell how shy she is. It’s been thirty minutes of us playing this game while I prepare our dinner, and so far the only thing she’s willingly asked me about is the ranch.

Safe topic, I reckon. Nothing that requires much input from her and not something that leaves the door open for me to press for more on her.

Not that I don’t mind talking about how well the Davis ranch does breeding horses, especially if, by doing so, I make her more comfortable with me. But I’m not a patient man when it comes to something I want, and make no mistake, I want this woman.

“Tell me why you were runnin’ back at the party,” I ask her softly, continuing to handle the steaks. Hopefully by keeping my attention off her while I probe, I won’t freak her out with the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since she collided with Dell and me.

She sucks in a harsh pull of air. The sound makes my hands freeze before I look up from my task to study her. She doesn’t like attention, something I don’t need to know her better to figure out, but with that pained sound, I want her to see the sincerity behind my asking so she can’t doubt that I genuinely want to know what upset her. When she doesn’t answer, I give her what I hope to hell is a reassuring expression of compassion before I turn and walk the four feet to the large farm-style sink to wash off my hands. I feel her stare follow me the whole time I clean my hands, dry them off, and walk back to the island. This time I stand next to the food I was prepping so I can press my hands down on the counter and wait. I keep my face calm, and I hope she senses she can trust me and open up.

“You aren’t going to finish gettin’ the food ready until I talk about what happened, are you?”

My lips twitch.

“I probably should just tell you all the ugly parts of me so you’ll understand what a waste of time pursuing this would be. Save you from gettin’ upset when you realize you’re wastin’ your time on someone broken,” she mumbles.

“Darlin’, you’re not broken. You’re still standin’, which means you’re just a little dinged up, maybe even a little bit bent, but you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who isn’t.”

She frowns a little, her eyes searching mine rapidly. “You really believe that?”

“Sure do. You aren’t ever truly broken until you can no longer keep movin’ forward and they’re lowerin’ you into the ground. It’s what you call the ugly parts of someone that prove to others just how strong they really are.”

I was expecting her to look away, but when I stop talking those dark eyes watch me with such intensity I almost feel like I should look away, but I hold her gaze and let her take whatever time she needs to weigh my words. To find the truth in them, even if she isn’t ready to fully believe them. You don’t change your beliefs at the drop of a hat, but all it takes is one moment of doubt that there could be another way for things to start coming into focus. I’ve seen bent. I’ve seen fractured. But if the people I know who’ve been both can find what they need to be happy and move on, so can this beautiful woman who has me wrapped in her spell.

“My mother was there,” she finally says, as if that explains it.

I frown. “Who’s your mama?”

“Misty Michaels.”

Well, shit. I keep my face as clear as I can but inwardly cringe, curse, and kick shit—trying to keep the disgust I’m sure she was waiting to see from her. Well, sweetheart, that isn’t gonna happen. There aren’t many people’s names I could hear and instantly want to curl my lips, but Misty Michaels is one of them. Regardless of what I think of Caroline’s mama though, I damn sure won’t condemn the woman in front of me just because the woman who birthed her has her nose so high in the air you’d think she could smell the angels passing gas. I could’ve taken one look at this girl, sweet and shy with just a little fire flickering inside of those brown eyes, and known she wasn’t a thing like her mama.

“I take it y’all aren’t close?”

She laughs humorlessly. “Well, let’s see. . . . If your mama had called you a whore after you had just finished beggin’ her to help you, would you continue to be close to her after?”