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I handed over the driving duties to Finn and settled Kinsley into the front seat. Opening the back door, I nudged Grady awake. “Move over.”
“Hey! Look who’s a free man!” Grady greeted me with a sleepy smile as he adjusted to a sitting position.
“For now. I have to report to prison in three days.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“No, dumbass.” I rolled my eyes.
Finn steered us into the night, driving back to the farm. The ride was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
My eyes were drooping and my head was hanging by the time we got back to the farm.
Without a word, we all headed for our tents.
Kinsley crawled in first, and I followed. I grabbed her boots and pulled them off her feet.
“Why thank—”
I crawled over her, crushed my mouth to hers, and laid her back.
“We need to sleep,” she said but was kissing me back.
“This helps me sleep.” I slid my hand up her shirt and palmed her breast.
I needed something to shut my brain off after the night I’d had. I needed to stop thinking about whether or not he was dead. I needed to let off some pent-up tension. I need Kinsley. I always needed Kinsley.
“Wyatt.” Her hands roamed over my stomach, and her nails raked across my back. “Did you talk to the cops about—”
“Please, Kinsley, not now. I’ll tell you everything. Just please, not right now.”
My tongue plunged into her mouth. I was desperate to be inside her. I tore her shirt off, wanting to feel every inch of her skin on mine.
“Okay,” she murmured before giving herself to me thoroughly and completely.
Chapter 33
Bless the Broken Road - Rascal Flatts
Kinsley
We spent the next few days lying low at Wyatt’s farm, caught in a tense waiting game for any word from the police. While Wyatt and the guys busied themselves with outdoor and barn work, I took it upon myself to give the house a thorough cleaning since Wyatt had managed to get the power turned back on. Thanks to Alice’s efforts, the place wasn’t in terrible shape, but it still required a good dusting. I also laundered all the bedding and linens, eager for us to enjoy the simple comfort of sleeping in an actual bed.
The house was quaint—three bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a kitchen with laughably limited counter space. The furniture, outdated as it was, hinted at cosiness with a bit of effort and updating.
As I moved through the kitchen, my fingers brushed over the worn wooden table, my mind wandering to what life might be like living here. Through the window, I watched Wyatt repair the barn door, his brow furrowed in concentration and his white t-shirt clinging to him with sweat.
Was this my future? Watching Wyatt work from the sidelines, raising a family in this little home, isolated from my own family and the life I knew? The thought of Wyatt’s high school sweetheart dropping by added an unwelcome twist to my musings. This wasn’t the life I had envisioned for us. I cherished the rodeo’s vibrancy, being close to our friends, and the warmth of returning to my family afterward.
Yet the man outside, diligently fixing what was broken, held my heart. If he hoped to stay here, to root himself in this soil...
A tear broke free and ran down my cheek. I brushed it away, scolding myself for my selfishness. Wyatt was grappling with the uncertainty of his father’s life, and here I was, lost in my head over stupid little things.
Distracting myself, I turned to the groceries we had purchased the day before, trying to plan dinner despite my limited culinary skills. Cooking had never been my forte; I had always been more inclined to follow my dad around the ranch than stay in the house and learn from my mother, who was an exceptional cook.
I picked up a chicken, turning it over in my hands, clueless. The oven, an ancient relic in this old kitchen, offered no inspiration. I set the chicken back down, a nagging thought surfacing.
I bet Grace knew her way around a kitchen.
