Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

I hand it over and watch her blank expression as she swipes through the photos. They leave nothing to the imagination and show numerous settings—in a car, in an alley behind a restaurant, and through the bedroom window while the professor fucked Kendra Forde in Conor’s bed.

When she reaches the end, she gives the phone back. Rather than gripping my shoulders for balance, she returns her hands to the branch and averts her eyes.

“You knew.” I study her emotionless expression. “At the very least, you suspected. I think you stayed in the relationship because Levi Tibbs’ release was approaching, and you knew you would come home and have to face me. It’s easier to guard your heart and push me away when you have the boyfriend excuse.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“You forget I know you, Conor. I’m not wrong about this.”

“I’m ready to go back.”

Go back to the house? Or go back to school? I don’t ask, because we’re not finished.

I swap my phone out with hers in my pocket and scroll through her contact list.

“What are you doing?” She reaches for it, teetering on the stump and quickly returning her grip to the branch.

Pausing on Miles, I press Call and put it on speaker. He picks up on the second ring.

“Conor?”

I hold up the phone to her face and hike an eyebrow.

She tucks her lips between her teeth and returns an arched brow of her own.

“Conor?” Miles says. “Are you there?” A pause. “Hello?”

End it, I mouth.

Fuck you, she mouths back.

I hang up the call and power off the phone. “You want to stay with this guy?”

“Take me back.” She delivers a look forged in fire. “In two seconds, I’m going to step off this stump and walk through poison ivy.”

She’ll do it. Or at least try.

I give her my back. Then I give her a ride to the horse.

She resorts to silent treatment, carrying it all the way to the stable, through the tasks of putting away Ketchup, and during the walk to the house.

I let her have her silence, because there’s reflection in it. Soul-searching introspection. Progress. I gave her a lot to contemplate, and like I told her, I don’t need to fix her. I just need to be there while she works through the grieving process.

Tomorrow, there will be more to grieve when the sun shines a spotlight on the south pasture. The well pads, access roads, and total annihilation left behind from oil and gas drilling rigs—it’ll crush her.

I dread the look in her eyes, the one that will ask, Why didn’t you stop this from happening?

I did stop it, but not before it left deep, devastating scars on her mother’s land.

Gutted and rebuilt from floor to ceiling, the Cassidy wing is no more. As I roam through the new master bedroom, turning in a circle and taking it all in, my lungs release a thousand pounds of tension.

Every trace of Dalton is gone, his room replaced with a suite three times the size. There are no painful reminders of the father I lost. Nothing to taint the rugged sophistication and grandeur of the space.

“You did this?” I glance at the imposing shadow at my side.

“A couple of years ago.” Jake rests his fingertips in his front pockets, his dark brown eyes fixed on me. “The wing sat empty for four years. Dad didn’t say shit when I started tearing down walls.”

“Wow.”

The wow factor is the vast openness of it. The bedrooms that belonged to Lorne and me became part of the new suite, the walls removed between the rooms to maximize the square footage.

A buttery leather couch and stacked-stone fireplace sit where my bed used to be. The en-suite bathroom was completely renovated and enlarged, taking up part of Lorne’s old room. A massive bed fit for an overbearing cattle rancher dominates everything around it.

Heavy furniture, stone accents, rawhide finishes, and a rustic cast iron chandelier—it’s a man cave on a triple dose of steroids. Unpolished yet elegant, it’s sexy and virile and oh so Jake.

The ambiance embodies his roughhewn sex appeal, the very air infused with his intoxicating scent of leather and testosterone. But the intricately painted mural on the far wall makes me question who exactly he designed this room for.

Black horses gallop across a rural landscape streaked with every color of the Oklahoma sunset. It’s a swirly, light-filled illustration in an impressionist style. Like the paintings I used to collect.

Like the tattoos on my arms.

I step toward it and caress a hand along the brush strokes. “Why did you add this?”

“I missed you.”

I glance back and find him staring at me. Our eyes connect, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. The subtle movement is so disarming my body inflames with tingly hot flashes.

“Thank you for this.” He holds out his arm and cups a hand around the leather cuff, staring at it with possessiveness and affection.