Stripped Down

“Was I a pity fuck? I had no place to go, so you took me in because you felt sorry for me?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, but it’s not possible to hurt a man like Angel. Feelings are an optional accessory for Cowboy Ken. “You know it wasn’t like that, Rose.”

“Then tell me what it was like,” I demand. “Make me understand.”

And, oh yeah. The silence that follows is more than a little damning. He pulls his hat off his head, slapping the brim slowly, dangerously on his thigh. Angel doesn’t get mad quickly or often, but once he’s worked up, it’s smart to leave him alone. “I did what I thought was best, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling. Don’t call me anything. Just don’t, Angel.”

For the second time this week, I throw what I’m holding at him. The tube that held my drawings is an awkward length, but he catches it easily. Angel doesn’t like loose ends, and he never leaves things to chance. Since that’s also my cue to leave, I head for my car. Each angry step I take reminds of him, though. I can still feel the soreness deep inside me. He’s been in my body, and I can’t seem to get rid of him.

I don’t want to get rid of him and that’s a problem. Angel’s not mine and he doesn’t do monogamy. He fucks and he leaves, and I’ve had a firsthand lesson. Since sex is out of the question, I settle for slamming the door of my car and tearing down the road.

ANGEL

Rose doesn’t get to fucking walk away from me.

That’s non-negotiable.

I curb the urge the squeeze the roll of papers. I could be in my truck and after her stubborn ass in seconds. I’d catch her, too. Rose is mine. She let me touch her, and she enjoyed every moment. Letting her go now is damn hard, but she needs the space.

If I go after her, I’ll fuck her, we’ll both come, and things won’t change about the house and the ranch. I still need her water and I plan on drilling just as soon as I can get the engineer back in here.

I have a business to run. A ranch to preserve. Blackhawk Ranch is more than a legacy—it’s a way of life and a hell of a lot of people depend on me. Cheap foreign beef has put too many California ranches out of business, making it almost impossible for a man to even sell his cattle for what it cost to raise them. I barely broke even on my herd, but that herd matters. I inherited a ranch full of cowboys and a disappearing way of life I won’t let die. Not on my watch.

So I watch Rose tear down the road in her piece-of-crap car and try to work it all out in my head. She drives that battered pink monstrosity through a cloud of dust, headed nowhere in particular as far as I know, and I still want to be in the front seat with her. It doesn’t matter where she’s headed. For one insane moment, I wish I could consign the ranch and all my responsibilities to hell.

Rose storms off. I stay put. Some things never change.

Since Dare is still inside, either hiding from our drama or actually making a list of repairs, I spread out the plans I hold in my hands. When I look them over, it doesn’t take long to realize I’m holding the plans for a home, not a house or a business. Rose sees more than four walls and a roof. She’s put a piece of her heart on the paper, and I’m crushing it. Fuck.

I’ll send someone out to pick up Dare. Some things—some people—are worth fighting for. I get my ass into my truck and follow Rose.

ANGEL

Rose drives sixty miles an hour, fishtailing over loose gravel and knocking my heart into my throat, until we can almost see Lonesome. Then she abruptly pulls over into a rest area. No blinker, no heads up, just a hard, right jerk of the wheel that makes the car’s bald tires squeal. She needs new treads, and I make a mental note to see it done.

I have no idea why she’s stopping. Maybe she’s just plain tired of my riding her ass. That’s fine with me, but I’m not done with us. She doesn’t get to run from me this time.

Slamming the truck door, I stride toward the picnic table where she’s waiting. Before she can move, I slap my hands down on either side of her, caging her body between my arms and the table. A distant part of my brain—the logical part that isn’t turned upside down and inside out by this infuriating, fascinating, wonderful woman—warns me that this isn’t my best idea. Rose Jordan doesn’t need or want a Neanderthal cowboy.

She doesn’t get what she wants today. Boo-fucking-hoo.

“I didn’t ask Auntie Dee to remember me in her will,” I growl at her. “She was proud, Rose. She wanted to give me something back.”

She glares right back. “You should have told me right away that the place was half yours. Why wait until I got up here to let me know? You know I can’t buy out your share, and that means my home is all yours.”