Page 112 of Roped

I smile and look back at the horizon. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

He goes back to staring in the distance, too, as he replies, “Yeah.”

“Really?” I glance at him. “I’ve never seen you with a horse.”

His lips twitch again. “Well, I don’t like it, riding. But I do know how to do it.”

“Why don’t you like riding?”

“Because it was something Dad insisted I learn. But I never took to it,” he says, his chest moving with a breath. “Although, I may have. If he hadn’t been a giant asshole about it, growing up.”

“I can’t believe you said ‘asshole,’” I joke, even though my heart is squeezing in my chest; I never thought there might be things Breck didn’t like about our father. I know he said he hated Dad when I asked him before, but it didn’t sink in. It definitely makes sense now but I always saw them together that I assumed Breck was exactly like him. Maybe I should’ve tried to get to know him harder.

At this, he finally lets himself crack a smile. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Maybe,” I admit, because he hardly ever curses. “Will you teach me? How to ride, I mean.”

It’s a difficult request to make. Not because there was a time when I thought I’d die like that, falling off a horse. But because it feels wrong, asking someone else to teach me when he was the one who managed to kill my fear. But since he’ll never teach me because I don’t want him to, I’m going to ignore my crazy heart and have fun with Breck.

“Sure,” he says, genuine excitement flickering through his eyes. “Tomorrow?”

I smile again, nodding. “Yeah.”

He nods, too, but then grows serious. He studies my face and I brace for whatever it is he’s going to say. “Look, we’re just starting out, and I want”—he pauses to take a deep breath—“to do this right. I want to be a good brother, do you understand? I don’t have much experience in it, but I want to try. For you. So I want you to know that I don’t like the Graysons.” I stiffen, but he keeps going, “It’s not a mystery. We haven’t exactly been the saints in our decades-old feud, but neither have the Graysons. They’ve done some… bad things. To us. And I know he may not be a Grayson, but he’s our enemy. He has every right to be, I’m not denying that, but if you love him and I know you do, I want you to know it’s okay. I want you to know I’m not going to stand in your way. But I want you to be careful. Only because you’re my sister, and I’d hate—”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, cutting him off, my heart stuck in my throat. No, actually, my heart is sitting at the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out of my body and kill me. Because death is better than this pain in my veins, in the very marrow of me. Still, I continue, “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” he prods.

All I can do is shake my head and tighten my arms around myself, trying to hold it together.

Breck dips his face, catching my eyes. “Because I think he may feel the same way. About you. I know he feels the same way. I saw him these last two days when we were trying to find you, and he looked—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I protest. “Please.”

My brother studies my face for a few seconds, and I wish I could school my features enough to let him know I’m okay. But I don’t have the energy right now. Plus, I want to start this out right, too, and not be a complete basket case, a complete heartbroken mess while I’m trying to bond with my brother, but I’ll just make the best of things. Because I don’t know how to pick up the pieces of my heart yet. I will, one day. But not yet. So this is what Breck gets for now.

Although I’m glad about one thing: My father and that asshole California man did everything in the hopes that the Turners and the Graysons would go to war with each other, so they could swoop in and take their land. But the opposite happened. Our feuding families came together to fight against the common enemy. I don’t know what it says about the future of this rivalry, but I think there may be hope for us yet.

In any case, like the good brother Beck is turning out to be, he nods, accepting my plea.

We finally say good night to each other and part ways, him going back to his room and me going back in through the French doors to my bed to finally sleep. And this time I hope I can.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I’M BACK OUTSIDE because I couldn’t sleep.

I tossed and turned in my bed, stared at the white walls, did some breathing exercises. Or rather simply followed what he taught me over the last few weeks, how to breathe in through the nose, fill my belly with a large breath instead of my chest, and how to let it go with an open mouth. Nothing really helped, so I’m back to watching the horizon, the rolling plains, the mountains in the distance, the night sky.

Which is when I feel it. The prickle in the back of my neck. And my mouth falls open. My lungs expand with the first easy breath I’ve taken since I left that barn, his ranch. God, I’m an idiot. I’m also an idiot for letting my heart race the way it’s doing as I brace myself, prepare myself, to face him.

For the last time ever.

Pressing a hand to my belly, I spin around and there he is. Standing only a few feet away in his usual plaid shirt, rolled-up sleeves, washed-out jeans, and big boots. His Stetson is missing, though. Something about that tugs at my heart, his dark hair mussed up, the ends curling over his ears, his collar. I don’t think I mention it enough, mostly because I love him in the Stetson, but I love his hair. I love how thick it is and how messy it gets, standing up in clumps when he wakes up first thing in the morning. How it falls over his forehead when he dips his face to look down at me. Or when I fist it because he’s dousing me in pleasure and I don’t know what else to do other than claw his skin or pull at his hair, which feels so smooth and rich. So mine.

Anyway, there’s something boyish about his hair, other than being sexy I mean; it’s so adorable, so open. So lovely and vulnerable. So much so that I wish he had his Stetson on. I wish I didn’t have to see something that he usually lets people see only rarely, when he’s done with the world for the day. I also wish the moon wasn’t so strong tonight that I can see the glint in his green eyes. That are, as always, locked on mine.

Watching, staring, taking me in.