Country Nights Page 9

  “Here, let me help you.” He comes around the table, standing behind me and wrapping his arms around me. When his hands slide down mine, my heart flutters so fast I lose my concentration. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he’s ridiculously hot or the fact that he’s touching me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “So it’s going to be nice and smooth … like this.”

  The cue ball hits the center of the rack and the balls disperse. A striped ball lands in a corner pocket.

  “If you need any more help, let me know,” he says.

  “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” I reach for my wine, pretending to be insulted.

  “Hell yeah, I’d love it. What hot-blooded American man wouldn’t enjoy being that close to a gorgeous girl like you?”

  “The flattery is completely unnecessary. And a major distraction. You’re just trying to throw me off my game.”

  He shoots a solid yellow ball into another corner pocket, cool and effortless. “Your turn.”

  Sliding my stick across the green felt, I accidentally hit the cue ball so hard it skips off the table and rolls across the room.

  “That’s exactly what I was going for, so ...” I reach for my wine.

  “Right.” He smirks, his eyes full of amusement.

  “I wish I could blame it on the alcohol, but unfortunately I’m barely feeling this drink.”

  Seth retrieves the ball and returns to my side. “Here. Let me show you one more time.”

  His body presses warm against the back of mine, his arms around me once more. Sliding his hands down my arms with slow intention, he stops when his hands find mine.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  His left hand moves down my side, gripping me at the hip and turning me to face him.

  Before I have a chance to process what’s happening, his hand cups the side of my face and his mouth closes in on mine.

  “Seth.” I turn my face away, biting my lower lip. His beer breath fills my lungs and lingers on my lips.

  “I’m sorry.” He exhales, though I don’t know if he’s more frustrated with himself … or me.

  “I know we were flirting and having fun and everything, but I—

  “Leighton, it’s fine,” he says, head cocked. “I got impatient, and I couldn’t resist. I’m not going to kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

  Relieved, I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s just that I’m leaving, and I could see myself really liking you, and I don’t want to kiss you because then I might get attached. That, and I’m just not in a place to get involved with anyone right now.”

  The other night, at the butte, I got caught up in the experience, surrounded by beautiful scenery and a charming man with stars in his eyes every time he looked at me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to capture a sweet moment and take it home with me.

  But not anymore.

  I don’t want to so much as risk getting attached.

  My life is complicated enough as it is.

  And I don’t even want to begin to think about why the hell River’s face flashed across my mind the second Seth’s lips touched mine.

  “Hey, don’t even explain it. No means no. I get it.”

  “In this case, no means … I wish I could, and I’m sorry that I can’t.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  Taking a step toward him, I place my hand on his cheek. “Thank you for being so … understanding. A true gentleman.”

  He smiles, his eyes falling to my mouth before returning to my watchful gaze. He wants to kiss me again. If things were different, I’d let him. I’d let him do a lot of things to me …

  He’s charming and kind and considerate. If I were in the market for a fresh relationship, he’d be first on the list.

  “Let’s get back to the game,” I say, eyeing the pool table. “I’m in a mood to kick some ass.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible bluffer?” he asks.

  “All the time.” I wrinkle my nose.

  “I want to take you out again before you leave,” he says. “Just for a ride. I’m restoring a sixty-five Shelby Cobra. Just waiting on one part and it should be up and running.” Seth peers up at me from across the table. “You want to be the first to ride in it with me?”

  Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”

  A harmless little drive never hurt anyone.

  The house is dark when I return, except for the flicker of the TV in the living room. An infomercial flashes across the screen, the volume turned low. Sprawled out on the sofa is a sleeping River, his hat covering his face and his arms folded across his chest.

  Carefully peeling his boots off his feet, I place them neatly by the foot of the couch. A pale blue throw is folded on the back of the recliner. I grab it and spread it over him. It hardly covers the length of his body, but it should keep him warm and comfortable until he wakes up and takes himself to bed.

  River doesn’t move, doesn’t stir.

  A wisp of dark hair covers his forehead, and I’m almost tempted to brush it away. This man spends every waking hour of his life so guarded and walled-off. He needs to be touched and cared for again, the way I imagine Allison did once upon a time.

  I bet she was good to him.

  I bet he loved the hell out of her.

  A love like that from a man like this must’ve felt pretty powerful. I’d give anything to experience what that feels like, but I suspect only a lucky few will ever have the privilege.

  Wiping a rogue tear from the corner of my eye, I click the TV off, whisper the quietest “goodnight,” and tiptoe upstairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  River

  I peek my head out from the shop when I hear the smooth purr of a truck engine and my dog barking up a storm. Leighton left for Molly’s not ten minutes ago, and I’m not expecting any deliveries.

  Wiping my oil-stained hands on a shop rag, I head around the building and stop when I see my brother climbing down from his shiny new Ford.

  “River,” he says, hooking his aviators on his shirt pocket. “You about done with that part?”

  I say nothing, motioning toward the shop, and he follows me back. Retrieving the muffler from a shelf in the back, I hand it over. The less I have to talk to my brother, the better. Nothing good ever comes from engaging in conversation with this narcissistic asshole.

  “How long has this been sitting here?” There’s a hint of incredulousness in his tone that makes me want to knock out that pretty boy smile he takes so much pride in.

  “Couple of weeks.”

  Rubbing his hands along his jaw, he shakes his head. “Would it’ve pained you too much to give me a call? You know I’ve been waiting on this.”

  “Guess it slipped my mind.”

  Rolling his eyes, he inspects the muffler. “It’s not perfect, but …”

  “I suggest you take it to an actual body shop next time.” I hook my thumbs through my belt loops.

  He scoffs. “Why waste perfectly good money when we’ve got a master welder in our family?”

  “You need anything else, Seth?” I exhale, counting the seconds until this prick gets the fuck out of my hair.

  His lips press together. “Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me? Got a hot date?”

  I don’t answer.

  “It’d be nice if you did,” he adds. “You gotta move on sometime, River.”

  “Get the fuck off my property.” My teeth grit. I see red. I feel everything.

  Seth lifts a hand in protest. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just saying what everyone else is too afraid to say to your face. Someone’s got to.”

  “Get. The fuck. Off. My. Property.”

  “Fine.” Seth turns to leave, kicking dust beneath his boots as he walks—which I’m sure is intentional. Stopping, he turns back. “I always knew you’d never amount to anything without Allison. She was the only good thing about you, and you didn’t even deserve her.” He
sneers. “And look at you now. A waste of fucking air. Your little family would be so proud right now, don’t you think?”

  Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I’m charging at him. His shirt is gathered and twisted tight in my hands, his back is pressed against the shop wall, and my face is so close to his I can smell last night’s beer on his breath.

  His eyes flicker with more amusement than fear, and while I’ve never wanted to kill anyone in my life, the thought resides in the back of my mind for a noticeable second.

  “What are you going to do, River?” Seth laughs before his expression fades into something darker. With a forceful push, he shoves me away. “Hurt me. You know you want to.”

  “You’d enjoy that too much,” I say with a sneer. “Won’t be doing you any favors. I think I’ve done enough of those, don’t you?”

  “More like the other way around.” Pulling his shirt into place, he straightens his shoulders as he walks off.

  My jaw tightens, locks.

  I stand outside my shop, watching as my brother returns to his truck, climbs inside, and peels out of my drive. When he’s out of sight, I get back to work, hands shaking and vision still bathed in angry red.

  I’m almost done changing the oil in the tractor when Leighton appears.

  “Molly sent me home with some lunch,” she says. “It’s in the house. You want to go eat?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “How are you not hungry? You’ve been up since six o’clock this morning working.” Her hands rest on her hips. “Come eat. I’ve got a funny story to tell you about one of her boys. You’re going to die laughing.”

  “I’m good.”

  “River.” She sighs.

  I drag my hands on the front of my jeans, rising to meet her stare. “Fine.”

  “Did something happen in the span of the last hour?” Leighton asks.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I manage to convince myself not to take my disdain for Seth out on her.

  “Sorry,” I say. “My brother stopped by a little bit ago. He tends to put me in a mood.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “I wish I didn’t.”

  “Aw, he can’t be that bad,” she says as we head out of the shop.

  I follow her to the house, resolving to force myself to eat since I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of me.

  “You don’t know him like I do,” I say. “No one does.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Leighton

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “This was my dad’s favorite. I assumed everybody liked tuna noodle casserole.

  River picks through his dinner with his fork, separating the peas from the rest.

  “It’s fine,” he says.

  “I can make you a sandwich,” I offer.

  He shovels a bite into his mouth, shaking his head. It’s kind of him to eat what I cooked when he’d clearly be more content with a frozen TV dinner.

  The sound of hail pinging on the roof grows louder by the second. It started pouring rain a couple of hours ago, and River had to come in from the field, so I thought I’d make a little comfort food while he relaxed.

  “Sounds horrible out there.” I get up from the table, making my way to the window over the kitchen sink. “The sky is green.”

  He’s not the least bit fazed.

  “Come look,” I say.

  “You’ve seen one green sky, you’ve seen them all.”

  “It’s like this sick, putrid green,” I marvel. “And those clouds … we should watch for funnel clouds. Do you have a weather radio?”

  He takes another bite of casserole before pointing to a little white box on top of the microwave. Grabbing it and extending the antenna, I flip it on and listen carefully.

  “The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning in effect until seven PM for the following counties: Appaloosa, Barwick, Bonesteel, Denniston, Fire Creek, Porterstown, Sioux Valley, Underwood, and Wharton … tornadoes, hail, and damaging winds in excess of seventy miles per hour are expected … if you reside in these counties, please seek cover immediately. A funnel cloud has been spotted twenty miles west of Bonesteel Creek. Again, please seek cover immediately,” the voice on the radio instructs.

  “You hear that?” I ask River, who seems to be in his own little world. “Let’s head to the root cellar.”

  Glancing up, he shakes his head. “Go for it. I’m staying here.”

  My jaw hangs. “You can’t. There’s a tornado coming.”

  “They always say that. Nothing ever happens.”

  “You have no way of knowing nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He stares blankly ahead.

  “Where do you keep your flashlight?” I don’t wait for him to answer as I rummage through random kitchen drawers. Finding a red flashlight in the third drawer, I test it to make sure it works before grabbing a couple bottle of waters from the fridge and a blanket from the living room. My cell phone is the last thing I take. With my arms full, I move toward the door. “Come on. I’m going to need help getting into the cellar with all this stuff in my arms.”

  Groaning, he takes a slow look in my direction. “You’re overreacting.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not?” With full arms, I give an impatient nod toward the back yard. The root cellar has been there since before my family lived here, and with all this wide-open land around us, it was always the safest place to hide from storms.

  Hail pounds against the windows so hard, I find myself waiting for the shatter of glass. Rain pellets the sidewalk, washing out the flower beds and creating dozens upon dozens of puddles across the drive.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Shoving his plate away, he rises, making no bones about the fact that he really doesn’t want to join me. Slipping his phone in his pocket, he peers out the window over the sink and squints.

  “What?” I ask. “What are you looking at?”

  “Just a funnel cloud.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s still a good ways away,” he says. “And it’s not anywhere close to the ground. But it’s a funnel all right.”

  “Get the door, River.” I force a sternness into my voice. I don’t have time to play his little games anymore. “We need to seek cover immediately.”

  He takes his sweet time, probably to spite me, before finally cocking the door open. The front porch shelters us for all of two seconds and then we sprint across the sopping, hail-covered yard to the wooden door in the ground.

  Unlatching the lock, he flings it open. The stone stairs leading down look steeper than I remember them, and the dark space looks a lot smaller than it did when I was little. I go first, naturally, and drop the water and blankets and flashlights on the dirt floor at the bottom. A few moments later, River joins me after latching the door tight.

  The wind howls above us, rattling the old wooden door, and I flick on the flashlight and take a look around. The space is maybe three feet by four at most, and it had to have been some sort of miracle that our family of five once fit down here.

  River’s body heat warms my skin, and his sweet hay and natural musk scent fills my lungs. Standing so close to him, I realize my head fits perfectly under his chin. He may not be touching me and he may not want to be down here with me, but somehow I feel safe with him … like he wouldn’t let anything happen to either one of us.

  Shining the light around the space, I inspect the old wooden shelves against the tiny walls and the jars upon jars of ancient canned tomatoes and green beans.

  “I’m pretty sure these are left over from when we lived here,” I say. “This looks like my mother’s handwriting.”

  It’s hard to remember a time when my mom was a vegetable-canning domestic goddess instead of the bottle-loving, barely functioning alcoholic she morphed into after Dad died, but these jars serve as a bittersweet reminder that once upon a time, we had something pretty great.

  “Probably,” River says. “I don
’t go down here much. Never had a reason.”

  “Where do you go when there’s a storm? You don’t take cover?”

  “Nope.” His arms fold across his chest, and he glances up at the rattling door and exhales.

  “You act like this is torture.”

  “It is.”

  “You don’t like being confined, or you don’t like being confined with me?” I ask, though I’m half-kidding.

  “Does it matter?”

  Our eyes meet in the dark, the flashlight reflecting against his dark irises, and he looks away.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say. “Storm should pass soon. It’s almost seven.”

  He checks his phone, the screen illuminating his face. Standing so close to him, I can see he’s pulling up some weather radar.

  “Where is it now?” I ask.

  “Just passed us,” he says. “We’ve survived the eye of it.”

  Pressing past me, his body grazes mine as he moves toward the stone steps.

  “Where are you going? It’s still raining,” I say over the sound of water droplets pelting the door.

  “We should be fine to head back.” He works the latch and flings the door open. Turning back to me, he says, “You can come with me or you can stay. Your choice.”

  Rain soaks through his clothes and saturates his coffee-colored hair. Our eyes lock and I hesitate before deciding to join him. Gathering the waters and blankets and flashlight, I climb the stairs and run for the house as he secures the door.

  The second I reach the wraparound porch and survey the property, I’m not prepared to see the old oak tree uprooted, the bunkhouse lying in ruins, or the barn my father built leaning at a forty-five degree angle.

  “Holy shit,” I say, watching River as he studies the damage.

  “Just a little wind damage,” he says. “Seventy miles-per-hour will do that.”

  Heading inside, he says nothing. I follow.

  “Don’t you think we should drive around? Check out the rest of the damage?” I ask.

  River slides his boots off his feet before striding to the bottom of the staircase. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”