Page 76 of Savage Rancher
75
JAKE
Out with Lily. Back by 10. Love you.
Anote. She left me a fucking note like I'm some kind of boyfriend and not a man who swore to protect her.
I read it twice, my jaw working. She didn't tell me to my face. She left me a fucking note. I turn to the screen, watching the feed Mason rigged in the bar. Only the fact that she’s laughing with her friend and obviously happy—and that Luke’s in the parking lot—keeps me from going into a cold rampage.
Part of me wants to drag her back here by her hair. The other part—the part that loves her—recognizes what she's doing. She's testing whether I trust her or if I'm the kind of man who chains her down.
She's about to find out I'm both.
I pull out my phone and text Luke.
Update?
Riot
She's inside the Rusty Spur with Lily Carter.
Got eyes on Turner. No movement. Hasn’t gone near Emma.
If he so much as looks at her wrong, I’ll move.
I exhale. Good. That's what I needed to hear. Because, given how I feel, I’m liable to take Turner out and then take Emma over my knees.
She wouldn’t like that.
And I don’t like that I’m hanging on to my control by a thread.
76
EMMA
We’re deep into Lily’s story about that mare, her breech foal, and the emergency C-section at two in the morning, her hands moving, her eyes bright, when she stops mid-sentence, her gaze shifting to something over my shoulder. Her expression changes, shuttering.
"What?" I ask, starting to turn.
"No. " She grabs my arm to keep me facing forward. "Cole Turner just walked in."
My stomach drops. Of course he did.
I don't turn around. I force myself to take another sip of beer and keep my expression neutral. "Is he looking at us?"
"He's at the bar, ordering a drink," she says, staring past me. She pauses, then her eyes dart back to mine. "He saw us."
My heart thuds in my chest, which is ridiculous. We’re in public, in a crowded room. Other than Jake’s arms, this is the safest place in the world. "Is he coming over?"
"No." Lily's voice is calm, but there's tension in her shoulders. "He's just sitting there."
I risk a glance.
Cole Turner is perched on a barstool, one elbow on the bar, a whiskey in front of him. He's dressed casually—jeans, a button-down shirt, boots, like he’s a regular guy.
But he's watching us.
He’s not overtly staring. His gaze flicks to our booth, then away to his phone. Then back again, casual, like he's simply taking in the room.
