Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(116)

I can’t wait anymore. Hands shaking, I reach for Dakota and haul her into my chest, earning chuckles and sighs from the guests.

A clog of emotion settles in my throat. She’s locked in my arms, her heart against mine. “You look beautiful.”

She palms my chest. “Not too shabby yourself.”

“Last chance to run,” I gruff.

Tears well in her eyes dangerously fast. She curls her fingers around mine. “Never,” she says on a broken whisper. “You’re stuck with me.”

In Fallon’s arms, Duke begins his tiny whimper.

Dakota’s wide eyes slice to mine. Fuck. By now, we’re well accustomed to our son’s demands. We have minutes until he nears meltdown status.

“Marry us now,” she commands the justice of the peace.

He does. No dry eyes in the house. The ceremony goes on even when Dakota nurses Duke mid-vow. We’re not waiting. Not any longer.

After we say “I do,” Mama Belle wails in the front row. Stede blows his nose into a big white handkerchief, breaks out a flask, and passes it around the guests. Duke screams his tiny head off and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

Then it’s time for the real party. Everyone crowds into the lodge for the reception and drinks. Music pumps out over the newly installed speakers.

I glance over my shoulder to where loud cackles float from the lawn. My brothers, sister, and Ruby are trying to two-step across the front porch of the lodge, blitzed out on moonshine from Stede’s stash. Fallon is suspiciously absent.

I use the distraction to snag Dakota’s wrist and pull her back behind the lodge. “Peace and quiet.”

She falls into me and loops her arms around my neck. “No more peace. We have a baby and my boobs are about to burst.”

I cup her breast. “Where is the baby?”

“With your mother.” Dark eyes laced with lust, she giggles and grips my tie. “I have to say… Marine mode is hot, but daddy mode is hotter.”

I kiss her shoulder, the tiny freckle on her lip. Dakota’s gaze drifts as she watches Fallon, cigarette in hand, bound down the front steps, headed for God knows where.

“What if he broke her, Davis?” she murmurs.

“Not Fallon.” I tip her chin to meet my eyes. “She’ll be okay. We won’t let her break.”

Dakota’s cloudy eyes clear. I press her back against the side of the lodge and hook my finger through her dress strap. A fire builds between us.

“Since we got a babysitter, think it’s time we go back to sneakin’ around.”

A magnificent smile stretches across her face. “Oh, you do, do you?”

I’m already leaning in. I need that full mouth on mine. Need her against me. “I do.”

I clasp her neck and bring her in for a kiss.

We pull back, panting, and I keep her against me. I don’t dare let her go.

A warmth spreads in my chest, behind my eyes. “I love you, Koty,” I rasp out, my voice thick with emotion.

Dakota lets out a sigh of contentment. “Thank you.” She tilts her face to look up at me. “You changed my heart, my last name, my entire world, Davis.

“Every day,” I promise. “Every day, I will change your life.”

Years ago, when Dakota left Resurrection, she left me dreaming of the day she would be back in my arms. And here she is. So much joy I never thought I deserved. But now, I know I do. My wife. Our son. Our life.

Our home on Runaway Ranch.





SOME YEARS LATER


“Like this?”

“Perfect,” I say and step aside to watch Duke roll the rolling pin over the dough. I smile and note the cute quirk of his tongue. Solemn, quiet intensity is my seven-year-old son.

Duke frowns as the rolling pin sticks to the dough. “Shoot.”

I dip my hand in the silky flour and dust some over the surface. “There. Try that.”

“Okay.”

This is our Friday after-school tradition. The scent of freshly baked bread. The set of the coral sun. The plumes of flour cascading in the air.

Just us, prepping at the bakery for the weekend. And we always get in a game of Cowgirl Coven. I moved in the pinball machine not long after we opened. I want my son to love what I love. Even if it doesn’t last, some part of him will always know what makes his mother tick.

I ruffle his dark, fluffy hair. “What kind of pie are we making today?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Peach.”

“Good choice.”

After smacking a kiss on the side of his head, I leave him to it and disappear into the front. With a sigh, I run my eyes over my dreamy little world.

The Huckleberry. My bakery, adorned in hues of lilac and lavender. The bakery has been open for almost six years and is beloved by locals and food critics alike. After a write-up in Food & Wine, it’s been an extreme sport to keep up with the demand of tourists.

Cowboy Cupcakes. Ruby’s Bucket List Carrot Cake. And, of course, my iconic huckleberry and lemon cinnamon rolls.

The chimes above the door jingle. I smile at the familiar stomping stride and the sound of little feet.

“Mama!”

I swipe my five-year-old, Lainie, up in my arms. “Hey, dirty girl.” I dab at the mud on her cheek. There’s grass in her wild chocolate-brown curls. “What happened to you?”