Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(17)

“Listen,” I say, and her troubled chocolate-brown eyes turn my way. “I’m not locking you up, Koty. We have good security at the ranch. You can come and go. And when you head into town, I’ll just…”

“Be with me?” Her words spear through my chest like a knife.

“Something like that.”

“And if you can’t?”

“There is no if. I’ll be there.”

Her lush lips thin. “My father wanted to call you. Not me.”

“Good thing he did. You’d probably be back in that shitty motel, planning to ride a cow back to Resurrection.”

My voice is cool, controlled, when all I want to do is wring every ounce of the truth out of her. Remind her of the promise she made, a promise she broke, a promise that scorches me from inside out.

“And who calls it?” Her chin lifts in that stubborn, defiant way of hers. It’s almost a relief to see that flash of fire back in her dark gaze. “Who says it’s over?”

A vein pulses in my temple. “I say it’s over. When you’re safe.”

I’m already pissed off at her newsflash that she planned to come back to Resurrection without a peep about what happened to her. And now her little announcement back at Stede’s that she plans to run if her ex shows up.

Over my goddamn dead body.

Annoyance flickers through her expression. “How long is that?”

“As long as it takes.”

A frown pulls at her brow. “Davis, you can’t keep me here.”

“I don’t accept that, Dakota. I won’t.”

Her laugh is brittle. “Why are you doing this?”

“You helped me back then.” My voice comes out strangely staccato. “It’s my turn to help you.”

“You owe me.” She punches the lock on the truck, a soft sheen to her eyes, a wobble in her voice. “Got it.”

“Now wait a damn minute.” I lock the doors again, keeping her in so she hears me. “It’s not pity or obligation. I made a promise to your father that I’d look out for you. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“This doesn’t involve you, Davis.”

I clench my jaw and growl. “The hell it doesn’t.”

We sit three feet from each other. Me, on the driver’s side, Dakota curled up against the passenger door. I’m close enough to her that I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the obsidian darkness of her eyes. Dark enough to rival the night.

“I won’t put you in the middle of my mess. Or use you to put my life back on track. I have to do it.” Her delicate jaw tilts, flexes in defiance. “I’m not your problem, Hotshot.”

It takes all I have in me not to growl in frustration. I don’t fucking believe this. She’s on the run, in goddamn danger, for Christ’s sake, and she’s arguing with me.

The fact that it turns me on only pisses me off more.

“You’ll always be my problem, Dakota.” My breath comes out in a harsh exhale. “And you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Her mouth parts, but she stays silent.

I unlock the doors and hold out my hands. “No lock and key, okay? No house arrest. You go and do what you want. And I’ll be there.”

This time, a hint of a smile plays on her face. “Like a…bodyguard?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I used to do this, you know. I’m good at it.”

She presses her lips together, looks down at her stomach. “Right. Fine.”

We exit the truck, and I come around to Dakota’s side. She stands there for a long second, dark head swiveling as she takes in the ranch, swathed in shadows. The wild howl of the winter. The sting of the winter air. And yet, all I see is her.

Fuck me.

Dakota McGraw is one beautiful woman. In the moonlight’s glow, her beauty shines. Full lips, hourglass curves that I long to run my hand over. Her long dark hair flutters in the wind like a raven’s wing. My hands clench into fists, my cock thickening at the thought of tangling my fingers in those dark locks, weaving each strand around my— “Davis?” Dakota blinks at me. “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah.” I grab her bag. “C’mon.”

Christ, when did I lose control of my facial expressions?

Hands to yourself, Montgomery.

She’s not mine. She never has been. She’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake. Traumatized. The last thing she needs is a man. The last thing she needs is me.

Duty means keeping her safe. Discipline means keeping my fucking hands off her.

We make it halfway to the lodge when I hear footsteps.

My heart trips, and I freeze when Dakota curls a hand around my bicep.

“Davis,” she whispers, leaning into me. “Someone’s there.”

Tensing, I follow her eye line. I hear it again.

The squeak of the front porch, wooden floor boards rattling. The low shuffle of boots. I feel Dakota trembling beside me, the way her breath has picked up, the way her shoulders could meet her ears.

“Breathe, Koty,” I say, palming the small of her back, before moving in front of her.

I reach for my hip, cursing under my breath.

I left my Glock in the truck.

Already, I’m fucking up.

Bone-white moonlight dances across the lodge, and a shadowy figure descends the stairs.