At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(41)

Colt levels Jonas with a steady stare, pulling his hand from the doorframe and stuffing it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Don’t talk to your mom like that.”

“Whatever.” Jonas shakes his head with a huff.

Then without another word, nor a full breath, from any of us, Jonas turns on his heel and thumps his way up the stairs. When his door slams, I wince, unable to look at Colt.

“All good?” Colt tilts his head, getting a read on me.

Golden rays of sun stream in through the cracked front door to silhouette his sturdy frame, and his worried expression fosters an unbearable urge to throw myself into his barrel chest. He looks like he’d cure all my problems with a single good hug.

“Y-yeah, it’s all—no, it’s not all good. I don’t know what’s going on with him today.”

“Probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“No…” I look toward the empty staircase, the knot in my stomach cinching tighter. “I don’t know if it’s his friends, or his dad, or…or if he just hates me.”

Our relationship feels like a torn and tattered piece of fabric, and each time I pull one stitch tight, another comes loose. We’re unraveling, and I’m too crappy of a seamstress—and a mother—to mend everything.

The quick brush of my foot slides a few of Jonas’s shoes out of the walkway, leading Betty to believe I want her to come say hello. I crouch, petting a line down her furry back, and she licks my free hand.

“I thought…it’s stupid, I guess, but I thought we were past this. He’s been such a good kid since he started hanging out with you.” Betty flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs.

“He’s a great kid, Whit.”

I quietly scoff at that. “Yeah.”

Colt steps closer, then crouches down on the opposite side of Betty to join me in petting her. A near miss of our hands has my heartbeat thrumming in my chest, pleading for the spark of his fingers against mine.

“It’s obviously your call whether Jonas should be allowed to come fishing today after what just happened. But some time apart might be good?”

The intricate dance of our hands rises to a crescendo when his callused thumb grazes my skin; like a gentle breath on an ember, it kindles the fire in my core. I let my pinky loop around his, and our hands fall still.

“He’s never going to talk to me about it,” I quietly admit.

“If he’s still allowed to come fishing, I can try to talk to him…if you want?”

And to think I had to beg Alex to talk to Jonas…and he still didn’t do it.

I give him a slight nod. “He doesn’t open up to a lot of people, but he trusts you.”

Which is exactly why I can’t do anything to fuck this up. Swallowing the emotion clinging to my throat, I pull my hand back, letting it fall to my side as we both move to stand. Over the course of the last month, Jonas has found a friend and confidant in Colt. And if I were to explore the way my pulse races and core tightens when I look at him, I’d risk all that and so much more. If I cost him this, my son would never forgive me.

Whether it’s how quickly I stood, or the way my head’s swimming with thoughts of Colt, or the three cups of coffee I drank on an empty stomach this morning, I suddenly feel light headed. Reflexively, my hands press against his firm chest for support, and he catches my elbow. Unfortunately, the feeling of his firm, warm hand wrapped around my arm has the opposite of a steadying effect.

“You okay?”

“Stood up too fast.”

I have to stop touching him. Each time my skin makes contact, the withdrawal becomes harder.

“You don’t need to worry about Jonas. He has a great mom, and he’s going to turn out just fine.”

Blinking back the burning behind my eyelids, I force a weak laugh. I realize my hand is still firmly on his pec, thumb swirling over the thin cotton of his stupid T-shirt. A rumbling resonance from inside his hard chest vibrates against my palm, and I take notice of the way his heart speeds up when our eyes lock.

“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I am.”

I step toward him, unbidden. “Colt, I—”

Knowing exactly what I need, his arms widen ever so slightly, calling me into him right as the tears start to fall. I swipe my cheek across my shoulder to wipe away the wetness and my body folds into his arms.

I bury my face in his collarbone, listening to the rough touch of his work-worn hand catch on my hair with every gentle stroke. He muffles the sobs in his large chest, flooding my nostrils with the calming sandalwood scent of his body wash.

My theory about his hugs was partially right.

I’m not cured, but I’m healing.





Colt


Once the sun has set, the air cools off in a hurry at the ranch’s high elevation. Still warm, but the bunkhouse no longer feels like a sauna.

I throw open my bedroom window and flop backward in nothing but boxers, letting the evening breeze lap over my skin and the sound of crickets echo through the plain, beige room. We’re pretty lucky in that this building used to be a family home, and the Wellses never bothered tearing down walls to create one giant open space. From what some of the other ranch hands have told me, a lot of places offer staff accommodation that resembles something like summer camp bunks.