Jaxon, Zane, and Don—three of Paint River’s cowboys—stood off to one side, Jaxon and Zane with their fiddles, Don with the banjo. The trio was unofficially called the Paint River Pickers, just three men who loved to play and took every opportunity to do so. The nightly campfire had become a preferred venue.
Cole paused mid-step when he saw Rylan. She was bustling around helping guests with their s’mores and collecting candy wrappers and trash in a little bag. Her red shirt was untucked, her hair pulled over her shoulder in a messy braid. It bothered him that she was still working when it was well past the time she should have been done for the day. He wanted to talk to her about the Birdie-kitten incident anyway. Maybe he could get her to rest a minute in the process. Her back was to him when he started her way.
“Cole!” He glanced around for the source of his name and was surprised to see his mother sitting across the fire, her arm looped through a man’s. He tilted his head to see who she was with, recognizing Jim Gilfoyle, a longtime family friend. A famous novelist, Gilfoyle spent three months of the summer in a private cabin on the property and had been like a surrogate uncle to the Haywood boys for as long as Cole could remember. He must have arrived sometime earlier that day, and given the huge grin on his mom’s face, she was pretty glad to have her friend around. He gave his mom a nod and resumed his path, intent on getting to Rylan.
“Play me something!” Maeve called out. No sooner had she said the words than Jaxon was next to him, thrusting a fiddle into his hands.
The cowboy tipped his hat back and waggled his eyebrows. “Play for your mama.” Cole was tempted to give the fiddle back; he hadn’t played since before Birdie was born. There had to be thirty people sitting around the fire, but it
had
been a while, and hell, why not…
Jaxon raised his own fiddle to his chin and pulled a few introductory chords. Cole tipped his head back with a smile and a nod at the familiar notes. He watched his mother’s face burst into a smile, her hands eagerly waving Rylan over to sit down. His chest welled, sudden nerves making his skin prickly.
Rylan would be watching.
Cole put the fiddle into position and pulled the bow a few times, his brain and fingers immediately in sync as if he’d been playing faithfully all these years. He dared one quick look at Rylan. Her elbows were on her knees, hands cupped together, eyes fixed on him. He looked down at the strings, repositioned the bow, and pulled it in quick succession to start the first three cords. Once that little bit filled the air, excitement from the music’s promise flowed through him.
“‘Morrison’s Jig,’ everyone!” Jaxon introduced. Strongly Irish, it was Maeve’s favorite song, and she wasn’t shy about poking her boys to play it once in a while. Fast and vibrant with complicated finger placement, it demanded perfect bow control and had taken Cole a year to learn to play flawlessly. Despite his not playing for so long, the song came to life on its own, filling the air with full-bodied Irish cheer. The timbre pounded his soul and reverberated into his core. The fiddle sat perfectly on his shoulder, the weight welcome and familiar. Damn if that didn’t feel good.
Evenly paced in the beginning, “Morrison’s Jig” birthed a strain that compelled people to tap their feet or move in some way. It couldn’t be helped—the song demanded it. Low chords, high chords, and a blend of sounds in between revved up the soul. The music beat within him, washing away everything that had been wrong that day, replacing it with pure, high elation. He smiled, feeling it in his entire body.
He suddenly stopped playing and held the bow above the strings, heard the soft murmuring of people wondering if it was over. Then he smiled wider, swung to the left, and started playing again doubly fast, drawing the tones and chords so rapidly that people cheered and leaped to their feet. Zane tapped on a log in accompaniment.
It was a whirlwind of music, and it consumed him. Sneaking a look at Rylan, he saw an expression of pure joy and wonderment on her face. Firelight flickered across her hair as she tapped her foot to the music. Patrons were hopping and dancing around her, but she sat, absorbing everything, enjoying it all. Cole had the urge to drop the damn fiddle and run over to her, scoop her off the bench, and carry her off somewhere.
His wrist and fingers were burning, but he kept it going, pulling the tones round and round as fast as he dared without losing the song’s substance, until he reached the end and raised the bow and fiddle high. The cheering and whooping made his face flush, but his heart raced with exhilaration. Good old Irish fiddle, he thought. Nothing like it.
Cole handed Zane the fiddle, and the trio immediately dived into a new set.
“Come sit,” Maeve called to him. Cole greeted Jim and Rylan as he walked over, flushed when Maeve took his hand and gave it a joyful squeeze. Cole lifted his mother’s hand to his lips, gave her a kiss and a squeeze back. He was hyperaware of Rylan sitting near his right leg. Her face tipped up to catch his eyes, her cheeks flushed a soft pink.
“I don’t have words for how amazing that was,” she said. The urge to carry her off got worse, only now he was imagining hauling her away caveman-style. Over his shoulder with her ass in the air.
Maeve patted Rylan’s arm. “He’s one of the best fiddlers I’ve ever heard, and I grew up with a whole lot of ’em. Natural talent. He takes after my dad, Paddy McBannon.”
“True talent.” Rylan placed one graceful hand over her heart. “It made my chest thump!”
Cole dipped his head and smiled. Her compliment spread over him like warm honey, and it was unnerving. He cared way too much that she’d liked his set. “Fiddle will do that to you.”
Jim leaned over with a smile and grabbed Cole’s hand for a hearty shake. “What did your daddy say, Maeve?” He cleared his throat a couple times and dug up an Irish accent. “Me tinks me garrl fell from da heavens. Only arhn angel can ’ave eyes dat blue.”
The fire snapped and cracked to his mother’s laughter. Cole sat back on the log, some of his fiddle euphoria fading off. Maeve slid her arm around Jim’s shoulder as they laughed. Rylan encouraged Jim to keep talking with his good old brogue. What was this? Cole shuffled his boot in the dirt. They were laughing, teasing, carrying on like…like the Haywoods used to years ago.
Before his brother left for the Marines. Before his wife took his money and ran. Before his asshole father died.
“Did you hear me?” Rylan was looking at him, her skin cast gold in the firelight. He blinked slowly just to take her all in. Her eyes were wide and dark, cheekbones swathed in shadow, her lips tantalizing in the flickering glow. Cole’s eyes fell to her neck, to the open top buttons of her shirt and the material capturing her breasts just right. His jeans got uncomfortably tight as he imagined cupping them in his hands.
“Hmm?” His gaze snapped back to hers. Shit, she looked beautiful.
“I asked how long you’ve been playing. You’re exceptional.”
Exceptional? Decent, at best. At least, that’s how Livy had made him feel about it. She’d hated the fiddle, hated it when he’d played. So he’d put the instrument away, for her. “Ma started me out when I was seven.”
It was unsettling to have her eyes on him like this. “I hope you’ll play again soon.” She stood, stretching her back so her breasts leaned into the fabric. Turning to Maeve and Jim, she excused herself. Cole took two big steps to Rylan’s side.
“I’ll walk you back.” Before he could think, he put a hand to her lower back and guided her around the log bench. He almost faltered from the soft, warm impact of her body on his palm but maintained his stride. She tensed briefly under his touch, and he felt a little shiver shake her body. Cold? No way. It had to be at least seventy degrees out still. The thought that his touch made her react that way bolstered the feeling that this was right.
That being next to her felt so good.
That touching her felt so right.
The fiddle and banjo serenaded them away from the campfire. She glanced at him once as they crossed the yard but didn’t speak. They climbed the stairs on the side of the deck, Rylan two steps ahead of him, her brown braid swaying along her back. He had a bracing urge to undo the strands and run his fingers through them. She paused at the top of the steps, leaning her hip against the railing under the soft porch light. Cole stopped beside her, realizing how easy it would be to put a hand on either side of the railing and trap her between his arms. Then he could press against her and feel those perfect breasts against his chest. Her lips would be soft, her mouth hot and wet when he kissed her and plunged his tongue inside, crushing her against him and driving his hips against her…
She eyed him shyly as she stepped away, almost as if she knew what he was thinking, her fingers running along the smooth wooden railing until they slid off the edge. Cole reached out and caught her hand before it could fall to her side. Her fingers curled around his palm at the same time she drew a quick breath. His thumb swept the back of her hand before he entwined his fingers softly with hers.
Rylan tipped her chin up, moonlight highlighting the flush on her cheeks and the plump, delicious promise of her mouth. A mouth that parted just a fraction before she sucked her lower lip in and worried it between her teeth. Her fingers clenched and released around his. Cole watched her intently as he rubbed his thumb in small circles over her soft palm. A tremor went through her, and his heart swelled.
Her eyes flashed silver, and Cole’s breath hitched as he pressed his torso against hers. God, he could lose himself in those eyes. The soft mounds of her breasts sank against him, raising a hot, steady flush over his forearms and down his spine, straight to his groin. He wanted to kiss her senseless, watch those beautiful eyes close in a clench of passion.
Before he could rationalize all the reasons not to, Cole wrapped a hand around the back of Rylan’s neck, the other sliding around the feminine curve of her waist. Her arms hung loose at her sides, her spine stiffening as he dipped his head low so her breath washed over his lips, hot and moist and sweet, like peppermint. Rylan sucked in a shaky breath, her hands coming up to gently, tentatively, grasp his sides. She fisted his shirt, her neck becoming pliable as he urged her head back just a touch. Fire burned his skin beneath the weight of her hands, urging Cole to take what he wanted. And oh, he wanted to. So badly.
Rylan’s chest heaved. A soft, needy exclamation escaped her lips. Shit, she wanted it too. With a muttered curse, Cole claimed her mouth, his lips brushing hers in a barely there kiss that had enough power to rivet him to the porch. Rylan pulled him closer, her body arching into him as her lips parted under his. He met her mouth with a hard, open kiss that punched him in the brain, threatened to pull the plug on his restraint.
“Oh, God.” Rylan’s husky, pleasure-filled voice hit him like a slap. Cole jerked. What the hell was he doing? He pulled back, surprised to see his hands trembling. Rylan sank back against the railing behind her, both her hands going out to grip it like a lifeline. Her expression was equally surprised and sensual with a heavy dose of doe-in-the-headlights swirled in.
Cole pressed the heel of his palm to his lips. For fuck’s sake, he was making out with the housekeeper. The very hot, very tempting housekeeper. He’d only barely sampled her flesh, but her taste was round and bold on his lips, promising so much more if he’d just dive back in. He couldn’t. Cole backed away as Rylan’s eyes changed from light silver to storm gray.
He turned away, so angry with himself and so aroused by her that he could barely form words. An apology was in order—but he wasn’t sorry. How could he be sorry when holding her, tasting her, was perfect? He might not want to regret it, but he probably would if he didn’t get a rein on his testosterone.
“Good night, Rylan.” Cole stormed toward the French doors to put distance between them before he went back to finish what he started or she pounced him like an angry cat. He couldn’t help thinking it would be win-win either way.
“Hey!” Rylan’s voice stopped him before he went inside. The door lever bit into his palm when he gripped it hard. Her sandals made a scuffing sound across the deck planks as she came closer. “Maybe instead of running away, you could just talk to me.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He shouldn’t engage in this conversation with her. He had kissed her. He shouldn’t have, and it wouldn’t happen again. End. Of. Story.
She cocked her head when he didn’t say anything. “Your daughter gets upset with me, but instead of asking me what happened, you glare and ride off. And now you kiss me, and then jerk away like—”
“I’m sorry about Birdie. I overreacted.”
Rylan rocked back on her heels just a bit. “Oh.” The utterance was soft, as if he’d taken her off guard. “Thank you. I—I truly didn’t mean to hurt her feelings.” Her honest reactions to everything killed him. She was raw and unabashed, and he wished, for one damn day, he could live that authentically. But he didn’t dare make himself vulnerable again.
He opened the door and gave her one last look. “The kiss was a mistake.”
“Right.” Her voice wavered, challenging the truth in his statement as he slipped inside and shut the door. Dammit, it wasn’t a mistake. His heart knew it well…which meant he was headed for deep shit.
Chapter Eight
Rylan was up and off for a run at daybreak. Restless the night before, she felt like she’d barely slept a wink. Cole’s kiss was a permanent imprint on her lips, his taste and the sensation of his mouth on hers on constant replay in her brain. Each time she savored the memory, her body lit with a desire she hadn’t experienced in…forever. It had been so long since she’d been with a man—since she’d
wanted
to be with a man—each new flicker of yearning created by the memory of Cole’s kiss set off a demanding thrum through her blood.
His mouth and his performance on the fiddle had left her awestruck. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered with biceps bulging beneath his dark shirt as he held the fiddle under his chin, he’d looked wild and alive. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, showing off a patch of gleaming skin and dark hair. His thighs firm and legs wide as he’d commanded the music. Hat tipped back, his blue eyes had flashed when he saw how the music captured the crowd. Sexy didn’t even begin to describe how Cole Haywood had looked last night.
She’d tossed and turned most of the night, imagining all the ways she could have a super-orgasm with a man like that on top of her. It was the music—she was sure of it. He’d gotten caught up in it himself and took it out on her. Not that she was complaining. Though she probably should be. One minute he had been watching her with an expression she’d never seen on a man’s face where she was concerned: unabashed want. And the next he had been scowling at her.
The house was quiet when she got back from running and started to brew a pot of coffee. Sweaty and starving, she downed some toast and let her body temperature regulate by walking through the living room and tidying up. She collected hampers and grabbed the dirty towels from the bathroom. With guests arriving last night and the celebrity wedding going on later today, Rylan wanted to help out as much as possible. She’d seen the to-do list for odds and ends that needed to be completed. It was enough to make Rylan’s inner workhorse have a heart attack. Most of the tasks were for Cole and Tucker, though Maeve had a few things she’d hoped to do. When Maeve had come in from the campfire last night, pale and trembling, it was obvious her health wasn’t going to allow it. Tucker had given her a handful of pills and helped her to bed. Right then she’d known Maeve needed more help than she let on.
Wanting to get the housework done fast so she could offer to lend a hand, Rylan stepped into the laundry room and stopped dead to see Cole standing at the washer in nothing but white briefs and his battered cowboy hat. His muscular arms bunched as he threw laundry into the machine, the curve of his back, and the round, firm mounds of his ass covered in stretched white cotton. The luscious view did little to curb the longing that had nagged her all night.
“You can close your mouth,” he whispered. “A cowboy doing laundry isn’t that uncommon.” Rylan didn’t trust herself to speak. Cole started the machine and proceeded to take a load out of the dryer, each bend and movement of his body showing off the strong glide of muscle under supple skin. He snapped a pair of jeans, slid one leg in, then another. Her libido jacked with each delicious movement.
Just throw me on the washer and pound me senseless so I can get over it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you want to put your laundry outside your door, I’ll—”
His voice was light. “I don’t need you doing my damn laundry.”
“Oh” was all she could manage to say. Cole gathered a bundle of clothes in one arm. He looked sideways at her, long and hard. If words were visible, she was sure there would be some hanging from his mouth, but he didn’t let them out. Rylan hitched the laundry basket in her arms to her hip. The lust-fueled haze in her brain tiptoed reluctantly away.
Work. Focus on work.
“May I ask you something?”
His eyes fell to her lips, his arm tightening around the bundle of laundry in the crook of his elbow. “Sure.”
She paused, knowing it was none of her business but needing to ask anyway. “What’s wrong with Maeve? I mean, I’ve seen the calluses on her hands; I know she’s worked hard. And to see her so weak… It breaks my heart.”
“She hasn’t told you? Figures. She’s still in a state of denial about it…” He paused. “Wait. It breaks your heart? You barely know her.” A small line appeared between his eyes.
Rylan slid a hand over her chest with a nod. “I do know her. She makes it easy.” The sudden heaviness was hard to hold back. She’d grown up motherless, something she shared with Birdie. When she was younger and had imagined what her mom might be like, a hardworking country woman like Maeve was pretty close to her childhood fantasy. Cole was watching her while she tried to rope in fast tears. She hated that he saw.
Weakling.
For years, no one had been privy to her inner emotions. She was an expert at holding them in—or had been until Paint River. Ever since she’d gotten here, all the feelings just came out whenever the hell they wanted to.
His tempting lips pulled into a sympathetic line. “Ma does have that effect on people. She’s been through a lot but has never lost her warm heart.” He was pretty perceptive for a man who liked to play the hard-ass. She wondered just how many layers Cole had underneath his rough attitude—she wanted to find out more than she wanted to admit.
The pad of his thumb rested against his lips for a moment. “Ma has multiple sclerosis. That’s why she trembles and gets weak. Some days are really bad, other days she’s almost like her old self. She had symptoms for about five years before she ever told anyone. By the time we finally got her to agree to testing, she had severe symptoms. Falling over. Had to stay in bed for days sometimes.”
Rylan crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Tucker said she wasn’t doing well after the bonfire last night and that she should stay in bed.” Quiet sadness played over his face and Rylan realized just how devastating his mother’s illness was for him. Such little displays of emotion leaked out of him when he probably had no idea they did. Her heart warmed. Cole Haywood, it seemed, was a very loving man under all that tough armor.
“Yeah, she should. The medication should help her sleep most of the morning. I’m taking Birdie to my aunt’s house for the weekend, so Ma doesn’t have to worry about watching her.” The deep tone to his voice made heat spread through her torso and right out to her fingertips. He shifted a little, bringing his bare chest inches from her hands. Rylan couldn’t help but glance over his wide, perfect muscles. He caught her looking and his resulting smile wasn’t just wicked—it was bone-busting lust married to evil. Silence dropped between them, their gazes tangling.
Cole tapped his lip with his thumb, seeming to contemplate a minute. “About last night—”
She didn’t hesitate. “You already said it was a mistake. Noted.” How could he think it had been wrong when his perfect mouth had made her feel…alive? His chin tilted up, his eyes bright with an expression she couldn’t read. He leaned in, the heat from his chest wafting across her bare forearms as he slid sideways out the door.
“Let’s stop while we’re ahead, before we’re both sorry,” he said. “Agreed?”
Bricks tumbled down inside her. Playing with fire and all that. “Absolutely.” Rylan’s resolve turned to steel, years of learning how to barricade her inner self from the outside world coming into play. “Have a good day, M—”
“Don’t.” Cole gave her a half-assed glance. He looked as though he was going to say more, his voice cutting off with a jolt to the sound of Birdie screaming. He dropped the laundry and hurried out into the hall. Rylan followed him, both of them stopping at the base of the stairs as Birdie came racing down, one hand over her head with blood seeping through her tiny fingers.
Panic welled in Cole so hard and fast he had to put one hand on the wall to steady himself. He could handle a lot of shit, but seeing Birdie hurt wasn’t on that list. Her blood matting her white-blond hair and covering the front of her purple nightgown very nearly brought him to his knees. Birdie getting hurt—Birdie being ripped away from him—were his biggest fears. Every drop of blood posed a threat.
He reached for her as she cleared the last step. “What happened?” Sweat broke out along his hairline.
Instead of running into his arms, Birdie ran past him, gripped the hem of Rylan’s shirt and wailed harder. Rylan stood like a statue, arms splayed wide, complete shock on her face. She met Cole’s eyes, her lips parted for a moment before she snapped out of it. Something crossed her face, urgent and full of concern. It was the same look he’d seen on his mother’s face when he or one of his brothers would come in with an injury—the need to make it better. She gave him a questioning look as her hands closed over Birdie’s back in a comforting cross. Cole nodded, a flutter of relief going through him that Rylan would deal with the blood, that she’d make Birdie better.
Rylan hefted Birdie onto her hip and rushed her into the hallway bathroom. Setting her on the sink, she smoothed back what she could of Birdie’s hair. Cole stood on Birdie’s other side, hating that he felt so out of control and useless. He’d raised Birdie since she was an infant; he knew how to care for her better than anyone. Except for times like this. Maeve always stepped in when Birdie was hurt, and now, Rylan. He cupped his daughter’s chin and ushered her hand down. A small laceration marred the flesh on her right temple.
“What happened, baby?”
“I…fell!”
Rylan wet a washcloth and held it to Birdie’s forehead. Cole dug in the cupboard for a bandage and some antibacterial cream, his heart upping a thousand notches at the smooth, sympathetic expression on Rylan’s face. Her hand trembled slightly as she held the washcloth, but her tender touch didn’t go unnoticed.
“Did you roll out of bed again?” Cole held the rest of Birdie’s tangled blond curls out of the way as Rylan cleaned the wound. Birdie hiccupped between sobs, her lower lip quivering as she nodded. Guilt stabbed him at having taken the safety rail off her bed after she begged him to let her be a “big girl.” She’d rolled out twice now. That damn rail was going back on. Today.
“Ry, I hit my table.”
Ry? Cole’s eyebrows went up. Looked like he was being bypassed in the conversation. Rylan put a little cream on a cotton swab and dabbed it on the cut. Birdie kicked her legs as her sobbing grew quieter.
Rylan’s voice was soft and soothing. “You did? That darn table.”
Birdie looked at Rylan with huge, watery eyes. Her downtrodden expression punched Cole in the gut. She sniffed. “I hate that table.”
Rylan opened the bandage, frowning in agreement. Her hands were still shaking. “I hate that table, too, Birdie.” Cole’s skin pebbled with goose bumps at the sound of Rylan wetting the cloth again, and the soft slide of the terry cloth across Birdie’s skin and hair as she wiped the remaining blood away. The gentle tones of her voice as she told Birdie she was good as new made him feel light yet heavy at the same time.
The scene shouldn’t have looked so natural, so
right
, but it did. Rylan helped Birdie down with a reassuring, albeit quick, pat on the head. The knot in his gut was gone, filled with relief that it had been nothing more than a little cut. Birdie wrapped her arms around his leg, and he picked her up, held her tight. Damn head wounds. They always bled more than anything and he knew that. But he still couldn’t stop the worry that something horrible would happen to his Birdie.
“You okay, baby?” He kissed her cheek. Birdie shook her head and buried her face in his neck.
“No shirt, Daddy.” Her little fingers toyed with his hair, her nose pressed into the bare curve of his neck and shoulder. Cole laughed and patted her back.
“I was getting dressed when I heard you crying.” He swung around to face Rylan. She stopped cleaning up the mess on the sink to look at him. The urge to pull her in and kiss her was so strong Cole had to take a step back to stop himself from doing it.
“Thank you,” he said softly. Maybe too softly. It was a cop-out to thank her when she might not even hear it, but saying the words made Cole feel like he was taking one step closer to something he wouldn’t be able to stop. Rylan gave a wan smile, and he knew she’d heard him. He took one more step back. “All right, baby. Let’s get you ready to go to Auntie Penny’s. If you get a headache or a sick tummy, you need to tell me right away, okay?”
Cole sucked in a deep breath, running through his mental to-do list at the same time his brain replayed how natural Rylan and Birdie had looked together—like a family. He shook it off as he climbed the stairs with Birdie on his hip. He’d told Rylan they would both be sorry if they gave in to this attraction between them, and he was sticking to it.
…
The catering truck got stuck in the mud, the gate on the henhouse broke allowing four dozen guinea fowl to run over the manicured lawn, and one of the dogs decided to kill a gopher and deposit the body in the catering tent. Cole managed to mend it all, only to have Pana Bar Noir kick out a panel in his stall. The horse was beautiful but more lunatic than sane and managed to slam Cole against the metal bars of the stall door, immediately setting Cole’s ribs on fire.
Holding his agonized side and cursing a blue streak, he was more than happy when the wedding planners informed him they had everything under control. He loved that part—when the ranch was in order and the event people could do their thing. That meant he was off the hook…for a while. Cole limped into the house, ready to down some ibuprofen to kill the ache in his side.
But then he saw Rylan in the dining room, and the ache started again, only in a spot much lower than his ribs. She wore a gauzy pink dress, hemmed just above her knees with a sleeveless bodice hugging her full breasts. The back scooped low below the tie, showing off her firm back muscles and the curve of her spine. Rylan had her hair pulled to one side, the soft curls gleaming chestnut and red with streaks of sun-kissed blond. He must have groaned a little—at least he did in his mind—because she spun and dropped an earring she’d been holding. His gaze swept her from top to bottom and back up again, settling on her pink, glossy lips. Goddamn, she looked incredible.