Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(34)

I glare at him. “Ford. I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine, you fuckin’ lockbox. Keep that shit to yourself. Like always.” His eyes meet mine, smug. “Come find me when you put her name on your boot.”

I grunt. He doesn’t need to know it’s been there since the first time I met her. Dumb, horny Davis was an idiot. But he wasn’t wrong.

With a weary sigh, my brother reaches into his pocket and uncaps a small bottle of pills. Reaching for the whiskey, he takes a swig and swallows a handful down.

I frown. “What’re those?”

He wiggles his brows. “A stash, man.”

I make a fist on the desk. Ford may act like the sunniest guy in the world, but years ago, my brother fought his own battles with anxiety and depression. They’re either the good kind of pills, or the bad, but I can’t get a clear look at the bottle to see.

I shake my head and loosen my jaw to say, “You’re the last person who needs a stash.”

Poking the past is a risk, but Ford doesn’t take the bait.

“Secrets, man,” Ford drawls, but his eyes are dim. “You got yours, I got mine.”

“Don’t fucking quote my own goddamn self to me, asshole.”

It’s what I told him and my brothers when I got home from the Marines and they asked about the bullet in my shoulder.

With a grin, Ford stands and heads to the door. He pauses on the threshold and nods at the computer. “If you’re wondering, Dakota’s a 36D.”

“Christ.” I glare at him. Ford’s lifelong superpower is being able to guess a woman’s bra size. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He cackles and disappears into the dark.

I stare out into the falling snow and the darkness that surrounds the ranch. Shadows crowd my head.

Dakota. My family. The ranch.

I can’t afford weakness. Can’t afford to fail.

Eyes on the security monitors, I reach for the whiskey and take a long, stinging gulp.

For the first time in a long time, I’m suddenly unsure about it all.





An anguished cry pierces the air.

I crack my bedroom door. Listen.

Another shout comes from Davis’s room.

Softly, I pad down the hallway. When I reach the closed door, the whimpered moan that follows has my heart dropping.

After a second, I slip inside.

Davis, twisted in the sheets, cries out. I freeze. The sight’s so familiar to me.

“No,” he groans. Sweat streams down his face. His bare, muscled chest heaves. “Please.”

Keena stands beside him. She whimpers, pawing at the side of the bed. A rumpled blanket lies on the floor.

I tiptoe into the room, aching for him. I know all about his nightmares. The suicide mission that killed Davis’s team. The bullet he took that got him sent home.

One step, and then a second, and I’m by his bed.

Sitting beside him, I sweep a hand over his broad shoulder. Gently, I shake him. “Davis. Davis, wake up.”

Silence. Keena stares daggers as she whirls herself into a frenzy near the open door.

And then Davis jerks so violently, I gasp.

He launches himself out of bed, stumbles, but I catch up with him, grabbing his shoulders. “Hey, Hotshot, hey.”

Davis stands there, dazed, wounded. My heart tugs.

“It’s okay.” I should go. Instead, I wrap my arms around his trim waist. And it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. “It’s okay,” I say, looking up at him.

“Dakota,” he pants, leaning his forehead against mine. His big body heaves as he comes down from the nightmare. Our breath heats the space between us. His bare chest brushes my breasts and my stomach does a slow curl of warmth.

It’s nice being held. Feeling safe.

It’s been such a long time.

Then his massive, muscled body clenches. Davis pulls back, his handsome face twisted in horror. He looks down.

My wrist is locked tight in his grip.

I never even felt it.

He drops it like I’m on fire.

“You were having a nightmare.” Worry clouds my voice. I hate that he still has them.

A ragged breath leaves him. “Christ, Dakota.” His brown gold-flecked gaze burns. “I told you never to wake me up. I could have hurt you.”

Both hands go to his hair as he takes a step backward. Away from me. It stings.

I stare him down. “You would never scare me, Davis. Loud noises, sure. Killer clowns, maybe.” Stepping forward, I rest a hand on his tense chest. His heart rapid-fires. “But not you.”

“Dakota.” He palms my shoulders, and I wait for him to push me away.

“I’m not afraid of you, Davis.” I tilt my chin up. “There is one man I fear in my life, and it’s not you.”

I know what he did overseas. I know who he killed. I know who he lost. And I am not afraid of him.

He swallows, guilt clouding his face.

I reach for him, but Keena intercepts, weaving her way through his legs, until Davis untangles from me to run a big hand over her fur.

“She hates me,” I say as the dog keeps her I-will-kill-you eyes on my face.

“She’s protective,” Davis says, avoiding my gaze. But he snaps his fingers and points at the door. Keena, ears back, slinks into the hall.