Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

“I don’t understand you.” I pace along a bay of windows. “You lied to me about Ketchup. Fucked Sara Gilly before you broke up with me. And you’re thanking me for a stupid bracelet?”

He flinches, and the cords in his neck go taut. “I didn’t fuck her. Didn’t so much as kiss her.”

I whirl on him, hating the flutter in my chest. “You’re lying like a no-legged dog. I saw you. You were…were…buck ass naked!”

“I never removed my boxers. You saw what you wanted to see.”

“I didn’t want to see any of it.” My mind swims, and my heart pounds. “I don’t believe you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. So you can stand there, looking all”—gorgeous, seductive, irresistibly fuckable—“aggravating, chewing on your lip and wearing that bracelet. I’m not buying whatever it is you’re selling.”

A crooked grin pulls at his mouth. “I’ll let you get settled in. Jarret put your bag in the closet.” He turns to leave.

“Wait.” I glance at the king-sized mattress draped in linens the color of his eyes. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

He pauses in the doorway and rests a forearm on the frame, facing me. “I’ll sleep in Jarret’s wing tonight. It’s remodeled with two master suites now.” He lowers his arm and straightens. “This was your wing, and this is where you’ll stay.”

I look back at his bed and imagine wrapping myself up in his manly cowboy scent. I want that so badly I shiver.

Because I’m a dumb, pathetic girl who will never ever, ever, ever get over Jake Holsten.

“And Conor?”

“What?” I find his gaze across the room.

“You’re the first woman who’s ever been in this room.”

He strides away, leaving me discombobulated, disgustingly pleased, and irritated as hell.

I take a shower in his ginormous bathroom, blow dry my hair, and put on a clean camisole and cotton shorts. The huge bed beckons, but my mind’s in such a tizzy there’s no way I can sleep.

Am I off base for distrusting every little thing he does and says? Well, I can’t trust him. That’s for damn sure. But I can’t ignore my gut, either. Deep down, I know he can help me.

I’ve felt more in the last few hours than I have in four years. Through our shared childhood and that innate part of him that knows me so well, he has the ability to force me to come to terms with the past. He can give me closure.

If anything, he gave me the incentive I needed to end things with Miles York.

He still has my phone, otherwise, I’d call Miles right now.

I wouldn’t cheat on you, Conor.

I’m so fucking lucky to be the one you want. I wouldn’t throw that away.

“Ugh!” I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands. “That spineless, two-timing dickhead!”

God, those photos… He fucked Kendra Forde in ways he never fucked me. Because I wouldn’t let him. I gave him boring, missionary sex. Of course, he strayed. No man wants to be with a skittish, unadventurous nutjob.

I should’ve broken it off with him when he was on the phone. I wanted to, but not in front of Jake. No matter what happens in the next two weeks, I need to walk away with my dignity.

Standing from the bed, I wander to the dresser and lift one of the Stetsons. Faded from the sun and frayed by the wind, this hat has spent more time with Jake than I have.

I bring the underside to my nose and breathe in the essence of his hard work. If what he told me is true, he’s been running all over hell’s half acre for the past few years. Operating a cattle ranch, dealing with hitmen, renovating a wing of the estate, and stalking me?

How much of it is true? The threats against my life, the charade with Sara Gilly, his missing father—what does it all mean? And where is John Holsten anyway? He wouldn’t walk away from Julep Ranch. Especially not because of a woman. If any of Jake’s claims are legit, his dad is elbows-deep in that shit.

I need answers.

Returning the hat to the dresser, I stare at it for a second, reluctant to let go.

Fuck it. I wriggle it onto my head, shove bare feet into my square toe boots, and clop out of the room in search for Jake.

I find him on the back porch, reclined in a chair across from his brother.

Jarret holds a harmonica to his lips and peers at me from beneath the rim of his hat. Then he closes his eyes and returns to his bluegrass melody.

Jake doesn’t move a muscle to acknowledge my presence, but his gaze is on me. Sharp and invasive, it burrows and plunders.

His elbow sits on the arm rest, his fingers loosely curled beneath his rigid jaw. Jarret continues to hum on the harmonica, the notes cutting. Too angry for bluegrass.