Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(49)

On his knees in front of me, he settles a firm hand on my wrist. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No.” I tip my head back and blink my wet eyes. “No.”

His gaze moves to my stomach, and he spends a long time looking at me before asking, “Is the baby okay?”

My breath trembles. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I saw him,” I whisper.

“Who?”

A moan slips from my mouth. “Him.”

Davis whips his head to Fallon, who shrugs.

Storm clouds gather in my chest. “You have to believe me.”

“I do, Cupcake.” His voice is soft and free of doubt, unlike the cops who told me there was nothing they could do. I shudder out a relieved sob. This man. I may hate him for not kissing me, but I love him to death for believing me.

Despite his calm voice, tension breaks in his face. A lethal kind of focus. Davis shifts, his dark gaze sweeping across the store. “Lock the door, Fallon, and stay inside.”

And that’s when I start shaking. Shaking like I’ve fallen into the coldest part of a lake in winter. Even with my cheeks flushed hot, even with a sweater, I’m freezing.

“Dakota.” His voice is so low, but I can hear the desperate edge to it.

“What’s wrong with her?” Fallon asks in a small voice. She’s frozen against the counter, hands clutched to her chest.

“Panic attack.” Davis scoots closer, his eyes still holding mine. “But we got this, don’t we, Cupcake?”

I try to wrap my arms around myself to warm the chill, but Davis takes over that duty. His big frame settles beside me and he cocoons me in his arms. Comfort. Home. His chest rises and falls and his skin is so hot, but it’s still not enough to take away the tremor in my bones.

“Breathe, Dakota,” Davis says softly. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

I’m unraveling in front of him, but he has me.

Davis is made for this. His eye contact, his body language, everything. He is a safe space that is made for me.

“If you could bake right now, what would you make?”

“What?” Caught off guard by the question, I blink.

His big thumb traces gentle circles over my wrist. “What would Dakota McGraw, top pastry chef in the nation, bake?”

My teeth chatter. “I can’t bake.”

“Pretend you can,” he orders. His fingers push a lock of hair from my face. “Pretend you’re back in Paris. You finished your shift and now you’re texting me at some ungodly hour about the berries you found at the farmer’s market.”

I close my eyes at the rumble of his voice. Panic ebbs, and just like that, the recipe begins in my mind. The sweetest parts of a strawberry. Ephemeral and delicate batter turned to shortcake sponge. Fresh-cut mint and cream whipped to the highest peaks. A feeling of peace blooms in my chest, exhaling that broken woman I’ve become.

“Shortcake,” I say, breathless. I turn my head, meet those chocolate-brown eyes. “Shortcake with strawberries and mint.”

He grins. “Shortcake, huh? Guess we better get you in the kitchen.”

A small smile. “Guess so.”

“What else?”

“Hot cocoa.” My mind floats down from the ledge. “I’m cold.”

“We’ll get you warm.” He cups my cheek, stares down into my eyes. “Hold on to me. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Davis scoops me in his arms and stands. I cling to his rugged body like for once in a long time, I have a home.





I kick open the front door to the lodge and carry Dakota up the stairs. Her head stays buried in my chest. She shivers like she’s lost in a Montana blizzard.

Fear and rage sweep over me like a rogue wave. I’m still not over the buzz of the tracker sending my heart into red-alert status. I ran. All I can see is Dakota lying on The Corner Store floor, shaking.

And I lost it.

So much for remaining emotionless.

Instead, a jagged edge of raw want carves me up inside.

I’ve kept my hands off her and now all I want to do is wrap her in my arms, keep her tucked against me forever, safe from any speck of darkness lurking in the outside world.

Guilt sideswipes me, making my stomach drop. Not even two weeks in and she’s hurt on my watch.

I can’t even fucking protect her.

This woman who means the entire world to me.

The thought has me letting out a growl.

Dakota looks up at me. “Davis?” she whispers.

I stomp into the bathroom and gently set her on the countertop. Dakota’s inky eyes still haven’t lost their glassiness. I move to the tub and turn on the shower, crank the heat as hot as it can go.

“What’re you doing?” she asks.

“Getting you warm. You’re in shock. Anxiety. Chills. You had a panic attack.”

Her eyes shutter. “A daymare.”

“A daymare.”

Steam churns around us. The mirror fogs.

After testing the pelting water, I come back to her.

She wets her lips and slips off the countertop. “Help me undress?”

“Yeah.” My throat feels like there are shards of glass in it.

Careful of her arm, I take her clothes off. First the puffy parka, then the oversized hoodie and jeans. She shivers in her bra and her panties, her dark hair spilling down over her slender shoulders and porcelain skin. My gaze drops to her belly. Small, slightly swollen, sexy as hell.