Chapter 32

Cole grabbed his duffel bag, hoisted it over his shoulder.

Goodbye Tabby. Goodbye Heartbreak Heroes and a big goodbye to the Western Tour.

He flung a last glance at the time on the motel clock. 5:30 a.m. Glared again into the dark of his room before he left it, looking at nothing in particular.

Stupid, stupid, woman.

She wouldn’t accept help if it came disguised as pie and rocky road ice-cream with her name on it in flaming neon lights, even if she was going under for the last time.

He’d replayed the argument all night, and it had slammed into his troubled dreams. Though he’d said a whole lot more in his re-creations than he actually had in person, and it had come out exactly right.

She’d pretty much been speechless too, in his replays. He’d especially liked the bit where she’d flung her arms around him and followed that by ripping his clothes off. Like she couldn’t wait and had been holding herself back monumentally the whole time.

They’d had angry sex. Scorching hot, wild, angry sex. Then…had it again. A few more times, until they were both spent.

Yeah. That part had been good.

But now it was early morning, and she wasn’t actually there in his motel room, naked, half under the covers like she’d been in his imagination. Beckoning him back into bed for round twenty-five. He’d gone outside and peeked over at her motel unit. The curtains had been tightly drawn.

A helpless type of anger swirled through him.

Well, if he couldn’t sleep, he damn well would get an early start. Much earlier than he’d texted Tabby he’d be leaving.

Uncontrollable sadness hit him, but he forced it down, under his worries and past regrets. By the way their conversation had gone last night, she wasn’t going to be seeking him out any too soon. She probably wouldn’t even see that he was gone. Or when she did, would be glad.

He headed to his rent-a-truck, got in, threw the bag beside him. Where a certain woman should be and wasn’t.

But he mentally appreciated the fact that if she had been there, it would have clunked her. He slammed the door, drove off.

Then damn it all, five minutes into his big escape, he couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t do it.

“Enough.” He turned the truck around, found himself back at the motel. Tore out of the vehicle, stomped to Tabby’s motel-room door, then pounded on it.

“Tabitha. Open up.”

He almost thought she’d ignore him, half expected her to. But his heart nearly rent in two when she did open the door.

And there she was. Makeup perfectly applied, that early, but for all that?

Eyes red. Puffy, watery. A smear on her cheek where tears had fallen within the last few minutes.

Huh?

Okay, now, hell. He really did feel like a jerk. All that anger he’d felt diffused to nothing. Nothing at all.

And where the new words—the words he hoped he’d have better success with came from, he’d never know.

But he also knew, a bit of psychology never hurt with this weird new species called humans. Especially with the female subset.

“My Ma’s being run ragged at the Ridges. Some of the hands have moved on. We need help.”

Disbelief crossed her features and her mouth dropped.

“Yeah, yeah, save it. Can you come and help for a bit? Not for your sake, but to help us out. You’d have lots of time to do your writing and you could ogle the local cowboys and come up with more ways for innovative sex for your next book. Who knows what you could write if you were actually on a ranch and not in a sanitized city environment?”

Another brainstorm hit him. Don’t beg. Make her need to prove you wrong. “That is, if you’re not too delicate for real work. Or too…up there.”

He stopped. Let the insult drop, fill the air.

It did.

She blinked. He saw the switch in her eyes as she stopped thinking of her worries, and flipped over to his words. To the possibility.

And to the implied insult.

Now yank it away. You know how.

“Forget it. Sorry I mentioned it. You writer types are…”

“Writer?” She bristled. “You think we can write about stuff and make it come alive if we’ve never done it? The hell with that.” Her eyes stormed, and he found he liked that better than the crying.

“You don’t know everything, Cowboy. You may have the world in the palm of your hands and horses and animals under your purview. You may be able to face the elements and come off the winner, and you might be fine on your big old ranch where you grow your own food and you’ve got everything you want, whenever you want, including no pollution and that big old sky.” Her eyes flashed at him.

“But you’re no better than me. I’ve lived. I’ve loved and I damn well know how to do stuff and make it work. You hear? I know how to get things done.” She fixed a mean stare on him. “I’m not too proud to shovel shit, Mister Fancy Pants Cowboy. But if I come, there’s only one thing, and this is a deal-breaker.”

What now? Hell. If he couldn’t do it…

“This little cat’s part of the deal. If you don’t want her, or if any of your fancy-ass cowboys are allergic, then we don’t go anywhere near your high-falutin’ Dawson Ridges Ranch spread. You hear me?”

Relief rushed through him, and he almost laughed. “The day Dawson Ridges can’t support a wee scrap of a cat is the day we file for bankruptcy.”

Which was all too damn close as an actual happening—but she didn’t need to know that.

“Get your stuff, your gear, toss it in the back of the truck. I’m not your servant. But I will settle that scrap of a cat in the cab. I saw an old, half-busted cage out back in the trash—she’ll do fine in that. Work for you?”

They stood, gazes seething, locked on each other. Chests rising, as the anger of their communication cycled through them.

But she tossed her bags in the back. Soon Sheba was settled in the cab, belted in, in the malformed cage on a soft, pink towel the girl at the front counter slipped him. There were premium treats and cat food, also from the girl, who apparently wanted to share her own stock. He’d slipped her a tenner for that.

Premium—as in the case of bloody hell—they charge that much to feed a wee cat?

But as the sun started to rise over the hills, they were off, on the wide-open road, heading for his home. The one he somehow needed to take this tight-assed woman to, along with her scrap of a mangy cat, the one with half an ear missing.

Because if he hadn’t wrangled her into coming, somehow, this time, in a very weird, unexpected way…

…it wouldn’t have felt as much like his home. At all.