Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(18)

I move into a fighting stance, mentally calculating how fast I can turn a duffel bag into a weapon of mass destruction, when there’s a hoot from the darkness. “Y’all make it back?”

Fucking Ford. I wonder if my idiot brother knew just how close he was to getting his head bashed in by a duffel bag.

With a ragged breath, Dakota lets loose of my arm. The loss of her contact does strange, herky-jerky things to my heart.

“Goddamn it, Ford,” I snarl, my pulse slowing its panicked tripping. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

Ford gives me a crooked grin. “Gun in the glove box?” Ignoring my under-the-breath curse, Ford’s eyes dip to Dakota’s cast but all he says is, “Hey, Koty.”

“Hey, Ford,” Dakota says weakly, mustering a smile. She tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Good to see you.”

“You too, honey.”

Ford elbows his way around me. All I can do is watch the affectionate reunion as he pulls her in for a hug. I clock her reaction, resisting the urge to yank her back to me, to make sure she’s okay with the contact.

No one will ever touch Dakota again without her permission.

“You back to stay?” Ford asks when he releases her.

Dakota’s shoulders sag. “Looks like it.”

Ford arches a brow, his expression settling into cool curiosity. Uncertainty. “You staying here?”

I give Ford a shove. “Yeah, she’s staying here. Now shut the fuck up and get lost.”

With a look that tells me we’ll talk later, my twin lopes off.

Dakota sees right through me and tilts her head back to apprise me. “You’re the only one who gets to play interrogator, is that right?” She arches a brow.

My jaw flexes. “That’s right.”

We climb the porch steps. I open the door and let her in. It’s pitch black, and I flip on the overhead lights, a great chandelier of antlers that cast a soft glow over the room.

Dakota slips off her parka, and my gaze drops to the small bud of her belly. It’s more noticeable without the jacket, and my heart twists. The thought of her carrying another man’s baby burns me from the inside until my emotions feel charred.

A selfish, stupid thought. There’s no good reason to be acting like this.

I rub a hand over my jaw, getting my bearings. “This is the lodge,” I tell her. “For guests. We’re off-season right now. Open back up at the end of May.”

Her gaze narrows as she looks around the place. “So, this is Runaway Ranch, huh?”

“This is it.”

“What made you decide to fix it up?” Dakota brushes her fingers over one of the stained plank walls.

You.

“I needed a project,” I grunt, glossing over the real reason for turning the 17,000-acre piece of land into a working ranch. “Charlie needed a life.”

“And let me guess, you put everyone to work.”

A rare smile tugs at my lips. “Something like that.”

“It looks so different, Davis.” She takes a step, eyes on the ceiling. “It was just an old building that Fallon and I played hide and seek in when we were kids.” She squints at a spot near the stairs. “You ever find that trap door with the slide?”

I chuckle. “We did. Think Wyatt even gave it a spin or two.”

She turns toward me. Her bright smile’s a shock to my system. “Show me around?”

And I do.

Dakota examines each space with a curious expression, gracefully touching furnishings with her fingertips. There’s awe in her eyes as she sees the hard work of the last six years. Timber beams in the cathedral ceiling. Wood plank floors. Cognac couches with plaid loveseats arranged in a U-shape. The massive stone fireplace in the great room. The pine bar with the neon BAR M sign blinking bright pink behind it.

Dakota presses her good hand to her chest. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

I usher her forward. “I don’t know where we’d be without it.”

When we get to the kitchen, Dakota freezes.

“It’s a chef’s kitchen,” she breathes.

“It is. My little sister designed it.” I step inside but Dakota lingers in the doorway, admiring the expensive stainless-steel appliances Emmy Lou insisted on. “She likes to bake, too.”

“Shame.” Her soft tone is wistful. Slowly, she follows me in. “This big kitchen just sits empty all these months.”

I open the huge fridge and curse at the meager contents. Moldy bags of salad, a ham steak, and a twenty-four pack of Miller High Life. On the large steel counter is a family-sized can of green beans.

I curse again when I see the joint sitting in the ashtray.

Fucking Wyatt.

I turn back to Dakota, and my gaze falls to her stomach. Even though we had dinner at Stede’s, I ask, “You want something to eat?” Not that there’s much I can make for her.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine.”

I frown at the strain on her face. She’s not fine. Her dark eyes dart around the kitchen like she’s looking for an exit, and there’s a slight tremble to her shoulders. Something has her on edge.

“Can you bake with one arm?” I ask in a low voice.

Dakota glances toward the steel countertop. Another wave of rage crashes over me at the sight of her bruised jaw.