Page 17 of May's Cowboy Roman
Her arms dropped to her sides.
“Slade and Dawson don’t know the half of it. They think they’re working with a legitimate operation because that’s what the paperwork says.” My jaw set hard enough I could feel the scar pull against it. “I’ve known longer than I should and I haven’t said a thing.”
Rachel's hand found the doorframe. Her knuckles pressed white.
“So when I tell you that you're getting into something you don't understand,” I said, “I'm not trying to protect a rodeo. I'm trying to protect you from the people who've been profiting off this a lot longer than you've been holding a notebook.”
She didn't move.
The night was quiet around us. A dog barked somewhere behind the cabin. A cottonwood shifted in the wind off the ridge. My pulse was loud enough I could hear it in my own ears, and I'd just told her more than I'd told anyone in years.
I didn't regret it. That was going to be a problem.
Rachel's hand gripped the doorframe tighter. Her knuckles stayed white, but her eyes never left mine, assessing, cataloging every word I'd just handed her and weighing it against what she'd already pieced together.
She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
I crossed the threshold. The cabin smelled like her. Like clean soap and ink from that journal on the table, and a hint of coffee gone cold. She shut the door behind me, clicked the lock, and didn't say a word.
I hung my hat on the hook by the door and faced her. “Are you going to write about it?”
She crossed to the kitchen table, picked up her notebook, and set it down again without opening it. “I don't know yet.”
That stopped me. Journalists like her didn't hesitate. They chased the story, then printed it. But she stood there with her arms loose at her sides, watching me with that same unflinching attention.
“Why not?”
“Because you're telling me this.” She moved closer, one step and then another, and stopped an arm's length away. “And I need to know why.”
Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, loose strands catching the lamplight. I wanted to tuck them back, wanted to feel the weight of them against my palm. I kept my hands at my sides.
“I’ve seen it before,” I said. “Three years back. Different supplier, same pattern.” I stopped. I hadn’t ever said any of this out loud. The words felt strange in my mouth, like they’d been waiting too long to come out. “Someone got hurt. Bad.”
Her breath caught, then she closed the gap between us. Her hand lifted, hesitated, then settled on my forearm light and steady. I felt it everywhere.
“Is that how you got hurt?” she asked.
I looked down at her fingers on my arm, pale against my tanned skin and waited for the urge to pull away. It didn’t come. All I wanted was more. More of Rachel. More of her touch.
“No.” My voice dropped. “A horse panicked after someone crowded it too hard. There was a kid in the way, so I stepped in, and the gate took part of my face when the horse came through it.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” She didn't flinch and didn't glance at the jagged line pulling down my face. Just held my eyes while her thumb brushed my arm, slow.
Heat built low in my gut. I'd already crossed lines tonight by coming here and telling her this much. But her hand on me, simple and unafraid, undid something I'd kept locked down for years.
I covered her hand with mine. “Rachel.”
She stepped into me, her chest brushing mine. Her free hand came up and traced the edge of my jaw, her fingers cool against the stubble and skimmed the scar without pausing. Like it was just part of me, and not the hideous thing that made people look away.
“You don't have to protect me, especially from you.” Her mouth parted, close enough that her breath warmed mine. “But you want to.”
“Yeah, I do.” I slid my hand to her waist and pulled her flush against me. She fit perfectly, her soft curves pressing into my harder edges. I let my palm span her side and felt the give of her body.
She tilted her head, her lips inches from mine. “Then stop holding back.”
I kissed her. Not like the quick kiss at the pens. This one poured everything I'd been holding back into it. My mouth took hers hard, demanding, and she opened for me, her tongue meeting mine, hands fisting my shirt and pulling me closer.
I backed her against the wall. The kitchen table bumped behind us, and her notebook hit the floor, pages splayed. She didn’t seem to care.
