Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3) (12 page)

“And what was Penny doing while you were listening to all this?”

“Oh, I was still fucking her. But only my dick was in it. My head was wondering what kind of shit Lucinda was pulling, because I just knew things weren’t going to end well.”

“And they didn’t.”

“Nope,” he said, finally thumbing the button to release his seatbelt and scraping both hands down his face. “That’s when Les came home. Their house was pretty small. You walked in the front door and you could see straight to the kitchen. And Penny’s room opened up off the living room.”

Everly easily pictured the whole tableau—mother, father, daughter, and the Dalton Gang hell-raiser in the middle of it all. “So when Les walked in the front, he could see his wife sitting at the table with a beer and a cigarette, and see your bare ass in his daughter’s bed.”

“That’s about the size of it.” He wrapped his fingers around his steering wheel, twisted his hand back and forth. “He didn’t know who to go after first. He just stood there while I scrambled back into my pants, hoping I’d get them zipped before he took a knife to my dick.”

Her chest ached from her jackhammer heart. “Jesus, Boone.”

“He went after Lucinda. His fists. His belt. A rolling pin. It was marble,” he added, and Everly gasped, then nearly vomited when her stomach began to roil. “Penny was screaming the whole time, still naked, crying at her dad to stop, beating on him until he turned and started beating on her. Lucinda wasn’t making a sound. After I got my pants on, I took off for the kitchen, yelling at Penny to call 9-1-1 and tangling with Les.

“He caught me in the jaw with the rolling pin, but I ducked and it glanced off instead of breaking my face. I smashed a blender into his head. He came back with a chair. After that, we just used our fists. It took the sheriff forever to get there. Lucinda was unconscious. Les had heard the sirens and was long gone. Penny was sitting on the kitchen floor sobbing, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, the phone in one hand, smoothing back Lucinda’s hair with the other. I had to manhandle her to get her to put on her clothes.”

At that, Everly started shaking, her hands first, then the whole upper half of her body. Her eyes were wide open, and she was looking at Boone, but all she could see was Toby. His fists. His belt. There had never been a rolling pin, but she didn’t doubt if she’d stayed there would’ve been that, or worse. A blender or a knife or a chair.

Her voice scratched her throat on the way out. “What happened to Lucinda?”

“She spent a week in the hospital. Les, it turned out, hadn’t gone far. The sheriff found him in the back room of his shop, blood still on his hands.”

“Did he go to prison?”

“For battery, yeah, though not the attempted murder he deserved. I had to give a statement. My folks had to come to get me, so they heard the whole thing. It was probably the worst experience of my life. For weeks after, I spent more time at the Daltons’ ranch than I ever had. I needed to keep busy, and Dave always had something I could do.”

“And you?” She swallowed, tasted bile. “How badly were you hurt?”

“Bruises. A few cuts. Nothing that needed stitches like Penny’s.

Tears were spilling down her cheeks when she pressed the fingers of one hand to her mouth. “Boone. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Still—”

“It was a wake-up call I needed, but it’s over and done with, and I’m fine. But now you see why I didn’t want you to hear this from someone else. It’s bad enough that you had to hear it at all.” He reached for her free hand, then suddenly frowned. “Criminy, Ev. Your fingers feel like ice cubes.”

She let him take both of her hands to rub between his, unable to tell him what she was thinking, the memories of flinching away from Toby, of the second trip to the ER that had put an end to his intimidation and to their relationship. That had put an end to the life in Austin she’d loved.

“C’mon.” He tugged her toward him. “Let’s go in. Get you some hot tea or something.”

Hot tea. Something she needed. Not the sex they’d come here for. He helped her across the cab and out the driver’s door, and she leaned into his big body when he wrapped her close with one arm.

She stayed tucked against him as they walked up the driveway, as she unlocked the kitchen door and they went inside. Once there, she felt capable of drawing a full breath for the first time since he’d begun his story.

And she thought she was going to be okay until he looked at her, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, and said, “Tea first, but his time, no scarves.”

THIRTEEN

“I
S THAT AN
order or a request?” She stared at him, her skin blanched of color, her voice as flat as the pastures that spread from the ranch house and barn to the horizon.

Boone wanted to kick his own ass even more than he wanted to get his hands on her, and he wanted them all over her, everywhere. He wanted her flat on her back, begging beneath him. He wanted her on her knees begging, too. But something was wrong, and he wanted first to know what it was, because her being okay was all that mattered.

He held out his arms. “Neither one. It was my very bad attempt to lighten the mood. C’mere.”

Exhaling fully, she did, shutting her eyes before she buried her face in his chest. Her arms went around his waist, then she pressed her wrists between his shoulder blades, her fists at the base of his neck holding him, as if she couldn’t bear his leaving.

He thought back to the truck, how cold her fingers had been. How wide and frightened her eyes. Her reaction hadn’t been just to his story, no matter his description of that night. She’d been remembering something else. He was certain of it. Maybe the something Faith had mentioned. The something Everly hadn’t told him about, keeping him at a distance—the same way she’d done with the scarves.

Even now she was trembling, her whole body aligned with his and shaking. And her shaking was getting to him. He wasn’t about to bed her when she was this upset. He just wished he knew what had gone wrong. Yeah. Because all he’d done was give her the grisly details of a man nearly beating his family to death . . .

The pit of his stomach started gnawing, and he tightened his arms around her. “Everly?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this about Lucinda taking that beating? Because as bad as it was, it was a long time ago. Last I knew, she’d recovered and moved on. Les, I don’t give a shit about. And I imagine Penny’s okay, too.”

She lifted her head. “And you? Are you okay?”

Her concern was for him? “About what happened that night? Yeah. Why?”

“It didn’t stick with you?”

“Well, sure. Stuff like that does. But I don’t think about it much. Once in a while, maybe,” he said, his hands sliding down her back. “Like when I drive past their old house, or see a tow truck. It’ll come back then.”

She dropped her gaze to his shirt front. “I don’t know if I could be that strong.”

“It’s not about being strong. It’s more knowing nothing about that night can be changed. It’s accepting that and letting it settle and putting it away. Doesn’t do a bit of good to dwell on what’s done with. A man could go crazy, doing that,” he said, pushing down thoughts of what might be going on in her mind. “And I try not to borrow more crazy than I have to.”

But she surprised him with a tender smile, saying, “Listen to you, going all cowboy-philosopher.”

“I’m not
that
deep,” he said, watching something in her eyes flare to life. Her fingertips weren’t cold anymore where she’d tucked them inside his shirt collar. Her body wasn’t shaking beneath his hands. She was thinking about how things were between them in bed. He knew it.

He was thinking about those things, too, but it still wasn’t time. “Are you going to be okay? With my baggage?”

She threaded the fingers of one hand into his hair. “I’ll just add it to the weight of my own.”

“Yours heavy?”

“It’s . . . not light,” she said, screwing up her nose in a grimace.

“I’ve been wondering ever since Faith told me . . .”
Calf nuts on a cracker
. “Shit.”

Her hands slipped from his neck to her sides and she took a step back, pushing a fall of hair from her face as she lifted her chin. “Faith told you what?”

“Something happened. Those were her words. Nothing more,” he said, gripping the back of the closest of her kitchen chairs and leaning against it. “No details about what it was. Just . . . something happened.”

She took a few seconds to let that sink in, then circled the table and asked, “Why were you and your sister talking about my past?”

“I asked her why you came here. She said if I wanted to know, I needed to ask you.” He remembered more, bowed his head and told her. “She said you’d been hurt enough. And that I’d better not hurt you because you were her friend.”

More seconds ticked by, a slow sort of death knell. “And when did you and your sister have this conversation?”

“Sunday. At my folks. We were washing dishes after supper—”

“
You
were washing dishes?”

Her question had him looking up again, and frowning. “Faith was washing. I was drying. What?” he asked when she started shaking her head, adding another, “What?” when she gave a disbelieving sort of snort.

She moved one hand to mirror his on the back of a chair. “You cleaned up the other morning after breakfast.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re kidding, right? This is more of your trying to impress me with your assets?”

It wasn’t either of those things, and he wasn’t sure why she thought it was. “You cooked. I cleaned. That’s the way my momma taught me it worked.”

This time, the smile that came to her mouth seemed almost ready to stay. “I really need to get to know your momma.”

Now he was curious. “How can you have lived here for four years, been friends with Faith, gone to school with Faith, and not know my momma?”

“I met her and your dad at their anniversary party, but only briefly. I . . . don’t get out much. Except for work. And lunch each week with the girls. And even that took a lot of persuasion by Faith.”

“How come?”

She shrugged, then pulled down all kinds of shutters over the teasing of moments before. “Like Faith said. Something happened. I came here to forget about it. Or at least to get over it. That meant sticking close to home where I knew I’d be safe.” She took a deep breath, blew it out. “And . . . I didn’t mean to say that.”

He was glad she had, because now everything was making sense, his putting her in the path of Les Upton, her needing that first time to hold him down with scarves. “When Faith said you’d been hurt, I didn’t know she meant physically.” Which is why Everly had gone ice-cold when he’d told her about Les beating Lucinda.

Again, she brushed back her hair. “I’d rather not talk about this.”

He got that, he supposed. He didn’t exactly like talking about his past. And he hadn’t talked about all of it. Just enough for her to realize he was pretty much an open book. He didn’t see much of a need not to be. And he’d respect her wishes.

But down the road, he’d want to know. And if this thing between them got real, he’d expect her to tell him. Just like he’d expect her to want to hear all of his truths—the good and the bad. Hard to build a lifetime of trust without a solid foundation. Until then, well, he
had
promised her lunch.

“What’ve you got in your fridge?” he asked as he turned to open the door.

“So you cook as well as clean?”

“I’m not Clay. Or Arwen’s Myna Goss. But I do okay.” And anyone could manage grilled cheese.

She pulled out a chair and sat, letting him rummage. “I guess living alone on the ranch means you’ve had to learn.”

“I learned a long time ago,” he said, finding bread in the box on her countertop. “But living alone on the ranch means if I want supper, I have to cook it. If I happen to be in town when I get hungry, and happen to have the cash, I’ll stop off at Arwen’s, or the Blackbird Diner.”

“Or treat a friend to a wonderful steak dinner at the Rainsong Cafe?”

Was that what they were? Friends? “That, too. Though less often. I don’t get to Fever Tree much.”

“Well, if we ever get there again together, I will be paying for dinner. That was way too pricey a meal for a struggling rancher to cover.”

“If I wasn’t able to cover it, I wouldn’t have agreed to go,” he said, pulling out Jarlsberg, Cheddar, Gouda, and Parmesan. He left the goat, the blue, and the Brie. “You like a little cheese to go with your wine?”

“I do,” she said with a laugh. “I have bread, cheese, and fruit for dinner at least a couple times a week. I’d say I’m low maintenance when it comes to food—”

“Except you didn’t get all of these at Nathan’s, so your maintenance meant a trip out of town. For cheese,” he added, giving her a look over his shoulder.

“I went out of town for more than cheese,” she said with a laugh, “But yes. I picked up my favorites, along with a case of wine, when I was in Austin last week.”

“You go back often?”

“Only when I’m in the mood for new shoes.”

He wasn’t sure if she was teasing. Rather than ask, he went looking for a cheese grater. “I’ve seen your closet, you know.”

“You’ve seen the closet in my bedroom.”

“You got scarves in the other ones, too?” he asked, still not looking at her, his heart beating a little harder, his pulse racing a little faster.

She took longer than he’d thought she would to respond. “Did the scarves bother you?”

“Did they keep me from enjoying being with you? No.”

“But?”

He found a bread knife and a cutting board, started slicing her loaf of French. “I wondered that morning why you tying me up wasn’t part of the fun. Why you needed me bound before you even touched me.”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me. That you were guaranteeing your own good time. But now that I know about you being hurt, it’s got me wondering . . .” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. He didn’t want to finish the sentence. She’d made it clear the subject of whatever had happened to her was off-limits. But she’d also made it clear that whatever had happened had her feeling less than safe.

Had tying him up been some sort of bulletproof vest?

“That’s not exactly true,” she finally said, her voice behind him tiny and soft.

“Which part?” he asked, as he turned on the fire beneath the skillet he’d found, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t felt the knots against his skin for hours after.

“I did touch you. Before you were bound.”

They’d danced. She’d helped him into the backseat of her car. She’d most likely had to help him out and into her house. So, yeah. She’d touched him . . . And that’s when it hit him like a horse’s hoof to the gut that she wasn’t talking about any of those situations.

He finished slicing through the bread, crumbs scattering on the cutting board, and laid down the knife. Then he turned to look at her, leaning back against the counter. “You took off my clothes.”

She nodded. “You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

He could lie, but doing so would serve no purpose beyond masking his chagrin that he’d gotten falling-down drunk on his sister’s dime. “Not a goddamn thing.”

“I thought I was going to have to leave you in the car,” she said, her gaze cast down, her finger following patterns in the table’s wooden top. “You were snoring before I ever pulled into the driveway.”

“The saloon’s like six, seven blocks from here.”

“You were snoring before we ever got out of the parking lot.”

“Dadgum. That was some good beer Arwen was slinging.” But that wasn’t the part of that night he was interested in revisiting. “Did you wake me up, or just roll me out of the car and through the house?”

“I don’t know if you actually woke up, but you did walk in pretty much under your own steam.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, crossed his feet at the ankles. “And then you took off my clothes.”

Her throat worked when she swallowed, when she returned her gaze to the pattern in the table’s pine. “I didn’t want you leaving bits and pieces of your ranch all over my house. I got you to take off your boots in the laundry room. Then decided it was as good a place as any to leave the rest of your things.”

He’d found his keys and his wallet on her kitchen table when he’d gone in for breakfast the next morning. And his clothes, all of his clothes, had been freshly washed and dried, and waiting on the chair like she’d said. “The rest of my things. Including my drawers.”

“You’d had them on all day. I thought while I was washing . . .” That was all she said, but she shrugged, leaving him to think how personal a thing it was to have a woman dealing with a man’s day-old drawers.

“You put me to bed naked.”

“I did.”

“And that’s when you touched me.”

“It was.”

“So, tell me about this touching,” he said, his balls tightening, his cock thickening. “What type of liberties did you take?”

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Not as many as I did later. But enough.”

“You touched my manly business.”

Her gaze came up then, and a tiny desperate laugh escaped her mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

“Me? Or—”

“All of you.”

“So . . .”

“It was just before you turned over onto your stomach. You’d fallen onto the bed. One leg on, one leg off, your arms spread wide. And your . . . penis . . . It was . . . loose, like your . . . balls. All of it relaxed and just laying there. I ran my fingertip around the ridge of the head. That was all. But since I didn’t have your permission, I apologize for invading your privacy.”