Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(76)

I give a nod, upturn the bread onto a cooling rack. “Here.” I slide the moderately chunky loaf Fallon’s way. “Try this. It’s a new recipe.”

My sister tears off a hunk, her pearly candy-pink nails glittering in the harsh kitchen light. She chews, then closes her eyes and says over a mouthful, “Fuck. I think I’m closer to God, Dakota.”

I laugh. “I got good.” I’m still a long way off from baking with two hands, but with the cast off, I’m getting close.

“I’m serious,” she tells me. “You got great.” Her face darkens as she stares at me. “And I hate that man who took that away from you.”

I smooth a hand over my stomach and smile. “He didn’t take everything.”

Fallon’s phone lights up. Danny it says on the screen. She scrambles to mute it, and I pounce on it.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

I follow my sister into the store, watching as she busies herself at the till.

I arch a brow. “Are you seeing someone?”

Fallon lets out a strangled laugh. “I’ll tell you tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“Girls’ night,” she says without enthusiasm. “Me. You. Ruby. Nowhere.”

A Friday night at Nowhere, Resurrection’s rowdy local dive bar, is asking for trouble, but if it means spending time with my sister, I’ll take it. The invitation has my heart soaring. Another glimmer of us. The little sister who hung out and opened up to me.

I pull out my phone. “Yeah, I just have to—”

“Text your bodyguard with benefits, I get it,” she says dryly.

My cheeks heat. “Fallon.”

I text Davis a quick Going to Nowhere with Fallon and Ruby and pocket my phone before I can see his reply.

She lifts a cool brow. “Well? That’s what you two are doing, isn’t it? Knocking boots. Especially now that you’re having his baby?”

I laugh and cover my face. “Oh god.”

“I knew it,” she says with a smirk. “That big, handsome cowboy wanted more than just your cupcakes back in the day.”

I snort. “You’re the worst.” But she’s not wrong. Sometimes cupcakes and cowboys are all a girl needs.

Fallon crosses her arms and tilts her head. “It’s sweet what Davis did for you.”

“Yeah.” Flushing, I finger the dog tag around my neck. “It is.”

“If only all Montgomery men had common sense.” She dips down, hefting the gym bag she keeps under the front counter. Peeking out of the poorly zipped side, riding boots and heels. A helmet and a pair of leather gloves. I frown. Fallon never rides with a helmet. Another one of her ways she defies death.

“You living out of suitcases these days?” I ask.

She zips up her bag, hooks it cross-body style. “Something like that.”




Twenty-eight weeks pregnant and bellied up at Resurrection’s local dive bar on a wild Friday night with my sister and Ruby.

The night’s never felt more perfect.

The jukebox pumps at unholy decibel levels, the neon so bright I could get a tan. Peanut shells and spilled beer cover the floor as we cross to the bar.

“What do you want?” Beef, the bartender, grunts. His long black beard trails the sticky bar top as he wipes it down.

“Tequila,” Fallon says. “And something pink for Ruby, and water for Dakota.”

“Hi,” Ruby chirps with a wave.

He lifts his chin at her, and his scrutinizing eyes slide to me. “Dakota.”

I give him a nod, smiling at his bad attitude and tattoos. To me, he’ll always be that sweet boy who took me to homecoming my sophomore year. “Beef. You still got the band?”

He straightens up. Pride crosses his craggy face. “The Turbofuckers? Hell, yeah. Still rocking in my garage.” His big hands drum the counter. “Glad you’re home, Koty.”

“Thanks.”

Another grunt and Beef’s gone.

Fallon settles onto a barstool with a happy sigh. “God, I already feel drunk and I just sat down.”

“Place hasn’t changed,” I add, roving my gaze around the neon lights.

“It’s where I met Charlie,” Ruby says. “Bar fight.”

Beef hurls down our drinks. A tray of shots, a gaudy pink drink in a tall, curvy goblet with a big bendy straw, and a large water with a cherry on top.

Fallon grabs my drink and leans over the counter. “Beef, if you put booze in this, I’ll knock your ass up to your receding hairline.”

A raise of Beef’s middle finger. “Stop bitching at me, Fallon, and suck it.”

I watch as my sister sips my drink before passing it to me. The sweet act of protection makes me smile.

She looks at me suspiciously. “What?”

“You love me.”

Her cheeks turn bright pink. “Shut up.”

I laugh as my stomach bumps, then I groan. “Ugh, it’s like a squirrel going sicko mode inside my body.”

Fallon tentatively splays a hand out on my belly like it’s an alien about to burst. My sister has zero maternal instinct. It would not be abnormal for her to eat her young.

“Kid’s doing barrel rolls,” she says with a pleased grin.