Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

Our love.

I found my way home.

In a new pickup truck with a grown man, we recapture our irreplaceable bond. It arches between us, bigger, stronger, and more formidable than ever, extending from one heart to the other.

The bridge between us wasn’t lost. The pieces have always been here. They just needed to be fitted back together.

I lean up and touch my brow to his, reveling in the connection. “I never stopped loving you.”

“I hate you!”

Conor’s husky scream echoes across the sunny meadow, spooking the livestock and hardening my cock.

She doesn’t hate me.

She never stopped loving me.

It’s been three days since her groundbreaking declaration. Three days of trauma-focused therapy, which has proven more difficult than I expected.

The therapy is straightforward. Conor is the difficult part. But fuck me, I can’t get enough of her fire.

“Someone’s going to see me, you perverted prick!”

She’ll calm down, eventually. In the meantime, I have a killer view of her flexing ass.

I cinched a saddle on the fence at the far end of the east pasture. No one’s working near here this afternoon, and the fencing in this section is newer, sturdier, with thick wooden rails that hold her restrained body beautifully.

Heavy straps buckle the saddle in place and prevent slipping. More straps cross her back and bind her legs to the fence.

It took some wrestling to get her into position—face down and bent sideways over the saddle. Her pretty tattooed arms dangle on one side, her legs tied down on the other.

I stand behind her, torturing myself with the sight of her backside in frayed cutoff shorts. Every time she squirms, the denim inches higher on her creamy white legs.

I didn’t tie her arms. Not because she’s not ready. God knows my cock is ready. But she needs her hands free for the pencil and leather-bound journal I gave her. To be honest, I’m surprised she hasn’t hurled them at me.

“I’ll write down the damn words.” She pitches a glare over her shoulder. “Stop staring at my ass and unstrap me!”

“You said you’d rather hang your saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it.”

“You’re so fucking sick.”

“Write that down.”

I spent the last three days ordering her to keep a journal of every feeling and memory that surfaces. Words, pictures, prompts, details, anything that comes to mind. I touch her wrists constantly, and her flashbacks are growing fewer and farther between. But she needs to learn how to parse her distressing thoughts.

She carries a lot of blame—for the ravine, her dad’s abuse, and Lorne’s incarceration. By changing how she perceives the past, she can change how she feels.

Problem is she refuses to write anything down. Just getting her to vocalize the memories is like pulling teeth. She needs some motivation.

So I strapped her to a saddle with the journal.

She still hasn’t written a single word.

It’s time to coax some memories out of her.

From my pocket, I remove my phone and select a Chris Stapleton song to play on repeat. The thrumming chords of Whiskey and You draw her attention. As I begin to softly sing along, she goes still, lulled by my voice.

A dreamy look settles over her face. She rests her cheek on her arms, where they fold on the saddle beneath her, the journal forgotten in her hand.

Jesus, her expression, the waves of fiery red hair around her graceful shoulders, the gentle curve of her spine… My heart clenches.

She’s the kind of beautiful that brings a man to his knees, and for whatever reason, she loves when I sing. So I spend the next few minutes serenading her with all the soul and emotion she deserves.

Once she’s soothed into listlessness, I shift out of her line of sight and slip a flask from my pocket. A few hearty swigs saturate my breath and heat my throat. Then I return the flask and continue to sing.

The taste of whiskey warms my blood, but I don’t make a habit of drinking. It would be too easy to numb my troubles with a bottle. I’m afraid it’ll consume me, and that’s the last thing Conor needs.

“You were singing to her.” She lifts her head and finds my eyes behind her. “When you were with Sara Gilly, you were singing—”

“Beautiful War.” I climb onto the fence beside her, and the wood rail groans beneath my weight. “I knew you were outside the door. I was singing to you, Conor.”

Her face pinches with pain, and her shoulders shudder.

“I read and reread your letters every day.” I stroke the leather cuff on my wrist, tracing the scratches and dents. “I never take this off.”

“You wore it when you fucked other women?”

I nod, and her eyes lose focus, dulling beneath a sheen of tears.

A bone-weakening coldness spreads through my body. Sorrow. Shame. Heavy, inconsolable regret.

“Whatever you’re feeling,” I say quietly, “write it down.”