Kiss My Boots(12)

I deflate instantly, something Clay picks up on, because he drops the legs he had resting on the porch rail, his boots slapping against the wood with a loud bang that makes me jump. He stands to his full height and erases the distance between us, towering over me as always, wrapping me in his comforting arms.

He’s been my hero since I was a baby. He stepped up when it became clear the Davis siblings could only count on each other and made sure I was protected, loved, and sheltered. In many ways, he’s more of a father to me than my own ever was, and even if I had tried to build that gap with our late father before his death, this special connection would only ever be with Clay.

“I’m a mess, Clay,” I whisper softly against his flannel shirt. His arms spasm around me, but he doesn’t release his hold.

“Nah, you’re not a mess, sugar, just a little dusty.”

I smile into his shirt, breathe in the familiar scent of earth and leather, before stepping back to gesture to the row of rocking chairs. “Might as well get cozy for this.”

Clay’s eyes flicker, but other than that he doesn’t give me a clue to what he’s thinking.

“Remember Tate Montgomery? Fisher and Emilie Ford’s grandson?” I ask after we both settle into our seats. The slow rolling of the wooden rocker gliding against the porch floor dances through the air around us, making me aware of the silence emanating from my big brother.

“Yup,” he finally answers, low and menacing.

“He’s . . . resurfacin’,” I continue, figuring that’s a damn good way of explaining his return.

“Meaning? He’s comin’ to settle out some things his paw left or something a little more . . . indefinite?”

“I would say the former.”

Clay hisses a breath through his teeth, the sound harsh and sharp. “That what has you actin’ like a lost pup?”

How do I explain to him how I feel? Men don’t get this sort of stuff, or at least that’s what my experience has taught me. Leigh does, and even though I know she would drop everything for me in an instant, she’s got so much going on with her upcoming wedding that the last thing she needs is my bullshit. Which is why I’ve done my best to put on a good front with her since I called Tate in her office two weeks ago.

“I’m not really sure. I feel like I did back when I realized he really had disappeared without a word. You know we got close that last summer. The same hurt I felt then when I would call his number only to find it disconnected is back. I think about how he always said nothin’ would keep us from our future—together—only to have him torpedo our relationship himself, and I feel rage. I’m sad that I’ve lived my whole adult life measurin’ every man showin’ interest in me against Tate and what he did. Now he’s comin’ back and the biggest thing I feel is fear because he still has such a powerful hold on me.” I take in a gulp of air, feeling oddly close to tears. “I heard his voice on the phone, Clay, and the years just washed away. I have to stay angry. If I don’t, I’m terrified I’ll give him whatever he wants just to feel the happiness I had with him. That fear turns into an all-consumin’ panic when I think, what if he casts his line, gets his hook back in me, then decides I’m not a catch worth keepin’ and tosses me back again?”

I glance over at Clay when he stops rocking. His expression is stony, but not angry. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it almost looks as if he’s peaceful yet determined.

“What, Clay?”

“Just waiting for you to realize what you just said.”

I think back, replaying my words, and then it hits me. The air stalls in my chest and my eyes widen.

“Just because it’s been years, sweetheart, doesn’t mean feelin’s are just gonna vanish. You two always did burn hotter than hell when you were together. Even before I made you sit down and tell me why you were takin’ him leavin’ so hard, I knew there was somethin’ there. Mighta been young, but you were never stupid. What’s your gut tellin’ you? Think hard, Quinny. Push back that hurt and fear. Really think about what it’s tellin’ you.”

“To run,” I whisper.

“Run where?”

“Straight to him.”

Clay nods his head slowly, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Then I guess you need to cowgirl up.”

I feel some of the heaviness lift when Clay utters the saying we use between us when we’re facing something challenging. Cowgirl up, or cowboy up, is as good as a dare in our book.

“Easier said than done, big guy.”

“It’s only as hard as you build it up to be in your mind, Hell-raiser,” he stresses, his voice sure and true. “Take it one day at a time. Don’t think I haven’t heard about him gettin’ his paw’s old truck into your hands. He sure did move mountains in order to get that done all the way from wherever he is. When he gets back in Pine Oak, sit down and figure out what happened between y’all. After you have all the facts, then I reckon your gut’s gonna be talkin’ a lot louder.”