Page 5 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"She’s not going to a bus station," I say. The words are out before I can stop them. They feel like a vow.

Andy steps closer, his shadow falling over me. "Cag. Think about what you're doing. This isn't a stray dog. This is a Marchand. She’s leverage for them, or she’s bait. Either way, she’s trouble we can't afford."

"She’s not leverage," I snap. My hands curl into fists. "She’s a woman who was being forced into a life she didn't choose. You saw the way she looked, Andy. She tore that dress to get away. She’s done with them."

"And you believe her? Just like that?" Andy shakes his head. "You’ve got that look in your eye. The one you had before. Don't do this to yourself again."

"This isn't that," I lie. It’s exactly that, but a thousand times more intense. It’s a physical pull, a magnetic force dragging me toward the truck. "I’m not dropping her in town so her father’s goons can find her. I’m keeping her here. At least for tonight."

"And then what?"

"And then I'll figure it out."

Andy looks at the truck, then back at me. He sees the set of my jaw. He knows I’m not budging. He sighs, a heavy sound that tells me he’s giving in, even if he hates it. "Ruthie is going to have questions. Sadie is going to ask why there’s a princess in the driveway. And if Willick shows up looking for her, I’m not the one who’s going to hide her."

"I'll handle it," I say.

I turn my back on him and walk back to the Ford. My pulse is a frantic rhythm in my ears. I reach for the door handle and pull it open. The scent of her hits me again. Magnolia and something sharp, like adrenaline.

Juliette looks up at me. Her dark eyes are searching mine. "What did he say? Are you taking me back?"

"No," I say. I reach in and take her hand. Her skin is soft, her fingers trembling. "You're staying here. With me."

I lead her out of the truck. She stumbles slightly on the gravel, her thin wedding shoes not meant for this terrain. I catch her by the waist, my arm wrapping around her. She’s solid, warm, soft where my arm lands, and she settles against me like she means to stay. My chest tightens hard.

I look down at the dashboard before I shut the door. The cottonwood hawk waits where I left it, its body carved smooth while the wings remain rough and half-formed. I started it years ago, back when I still believed every piece of wood eventually told a man what it wanted to become.

This one stopped talking.

Or maybe I stopped listening.

I haven’t completed a carving in three years.

I look at Juliette. She’s staring at the ranch, her mouth slightly open. The wind catches her hair, blowing a chestnut strand across her face. I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers linger on her skin.

She’s staying. I’m going to finish this.

I lead her toward the bunkhouse area, away from the main house. I can feel Andy’s gaze on my back, but I don't care. I don't care about the water rights or the legal documents or the threat of her father. All I care about is the way she’s leaning into me, looking for protection.

"Where are we going?" she whispers.

"To the tack room," I say. "I have a place there. It’s quiet. No one will bother you."

"Are you sure?" she asks, her voice small. "I don't want to cause trouble for you, Cag. I saw your brother's face. He doesn't want me here."

"It doesn't matter what he wants," I growl. I stop and turn her toward me, my hands gripping her shoulders. The lace of her dress is rough under my palms. "I’m the one who found you. I’m the one who kept you. You're mine to look after. Do you understand?"

She looks up at me, her eyes wide. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't look offended by the claim. She looks relieved. Like she’s been waiting for someone to say those words her entire life.

"Yes," she breathes.

I lead her through the shadows of the barn. The air here is cooler, smelling of dry hay and ancient wood. We pass the stalls where the horses are settling in for the night. They huff soft breaths, their large eyes watching us. I don't stop until we reach the back of the barn, near the forge where Kenny works. The ladder to the loft is steep, but I guide her up, my hand firm on the small of her back.

The loft is my sanctuary. It’s filled with the smell of saddle oil and old wood. There’s a narrow cot in the corner, covered in a heavy wool blanket. A small table holds my whittling tools and a stack of wood. This is where I go when the world gets too loud, when the ghosts of my failed wedding start to haunt me.

I shut the door and lock it. The sound of the bolt sliding home is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard in years.

Juliette stands in the center of the room, looking around. She looks like a ghost in the dim light, her white dress glowing. "It’s... it’s beautiful," she says.