Look at me, Tate.
My refrain from last night hits my ears and has me gripping my beer bottle a little harder than I should be.
“Needed you?” I ask as politely as I can. “Because taking photos took too much time away from grooming horses and playing the part?”
Her fingers flexing is the only sign she gives me that what I said was accurate.
My own fists clench in response. My own temper fires at the thought.
“I had some galleries interested in my work. I had some companies who wanted to purchase some.” Her voice is barely a whisper but the shame in her tone rings through loud and clear.
“What happened?” I would put money on the fucker’s ego being more important than his wife’s dreams. It had to be about him. His successes were his. His failures were hers.
“It was bad timing. They called, but I had just lost the baby and—”
“Jesus Christ, Tate.” I scrub a hand through my hair and feel like the asshole I am for pressing. “I’m sorry.”
Her smile is tainted with melancholy when she offers it with a slight shrug. “It’s okay. It’s life. It happens.”
I reach out and grab her fingers atop the table. “Yeah, it happens but it’s still horrible. I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. I was six months along and . . . then I wasn’t.” Her voice is soft and loaded with a sadness I know I can’t chase away so I don’t even attempt to. “Besides, it was a long time ago.”
“Did you try again?”
She twists her lips and stares back out the window for a beat before speaking. “The timing was never right after that. A part of the reason I left home was because of the baby and when she was gone, life kind of became about making the ranch work. Another mouth to feed and hospital bills weren’t exactly what we needed.” Her smile is tight when she offers one, and it tells me that a baby might not have been what Fletcher thought was right but was what she still wanted.
“Even so . . . I’m sorry.”
“Anyway, where were we? Photos and the people who wanted to buy them?” she asks, obviously not wanting to stay on the subject, and I nod. “It was shortly after we lost her when they called, and instead of letting me drown myself in work and spend hours getting lost in light and depth and shadows and filters like I wanted to, Fletcher decided it was his chance to make me a part of his world.”
“But what about your world?”
She looks down at her fingers twisting on the stem of her glass, regret heavy in her slumped shoulders as her teeth worry over her bottom lip. “I had just walked away from everything I had ever known for him and for the baby we no longer had and for the dream he wanted to chase. There was no going back. Call it stubborn, call it stupid, but I wasn’t giving my parents the satisfaction of knowing they were right.”
Call it her wild.
I nod as I glance around, giving her a moment to gather her thoughts as I wonder what her life would have been like if she hadn’t met Fletcher.
“Look at the pair of us,” I say. “Two kids who ran away from their parents to rebel against their expectations but were both too stubborn to admit they were wrong.”
“Look at the pair of us.” Her smile is soft and genuine, and fuck if it doesn’t tug on parts of me that don’t need to be tugged on.
Our eyes hold despite the chaos ensuing around us, and it takes everything I have to look away.
To break whatever hold it is this pixie-sized woman with a heart ten times bigger seems to have on me.
“You should start taking pictures again. How you view the world through a lens is something you should share.”
“How would you know how I see the world?” she asks cautiously.
“I saw the article you wrote and the pictures that accompanied it. Your words were perfectly fine, but your photos . . . now those were phenomenal.”
I swear there are tears in her eyes, but she blinks them away before I can make sure. “Thank you, but . . .”
“And,” I say before bringing my beer to my lips, “you should do this more often.”
“What’s that? Bare my soul?” She laughs at her own joke but I know it’s just to deflect.
“Relax. Celebrate.” I shrug. “Smile.”
Her expression falls and eyes grow quiet. “I haven’t had a reason to.” The moment is suddenly heavier than either of us expected, and she scoots her chair back abruptly. “Bathroom. I need to go. I think I should. Yeah. I will.”
I nod because there’s that fluster again. There’s her wild that she doesn’t even understand she has.
And fuck if I know what to do with either of them.
The buzz of my phone has me pulling it from my pocket and sending the call to voice mail. I’ll call my sister later. When I look up, the two assholes from the other side of the bar are standing across the table from me.
They’re big boys—shoulders broad, arms crossed over their puffed up chests, and sneers on their faces. A couple of pissed off cowboys is not what I need right now.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” I ask, my tone one of indifference.
“You having fun?” The dark haired one asks, his goatee barely moving when he speaks, and his eyes are shadowed by his cowboy hat.
I purse my lips and look around as if I’m assessing the bar. “Yeah. The place could use some better music and a few more choices in beer, but for the most part, it’ll do.” I offer a smile that says fuck you.
“And how about Tatum. Will she do, too?” The bald one says, confirming that their glares from across the room had something to do with the two of us.
“No complaints here.” I angle my head to the side, trying to figure out if these guys are here defending poor Jed or from Hickman Ranch. After the blow I landed on them yesterday with Steely suspending his contract, I’m not quite sure which one it would be. “And you are?”
“Concerned citizens.”
“Ah.” I draw the sound out. The Destin twins, then. “Thank you for your concern, but it isn’t needed.”
“How about you keep your nose out of her business.” Baldy’s smile is anything but sincere.
I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, and scrunch my nose. “If it’s her business, shouldn’t you do the same?”
“We look after our own here.”
My laugh is loud and draws attention of those around us, which is what I intended. “Your own? Seems to me you left Tatum on her own to fend for herself after her husband died. If you were looking out for her, why didn’t you lend a helping hand at the ranch? Why didn’t you step in and teach her what she needed to be doing to make sure she had enough foals to sell off come spring? I mean, those are all things someone would do if they were looking out for someone, right?” I prop my boots on the chair across from me as if their threat doesn’t bug me one bit. “But you weren’t looking out for her, were you? You’re just like every other asshole around here and would rather her lose everything . . . now, why exactly is that?”
“If she thinks things have been rough for her, she hasn’t seen anything yet. You should probably talk her into selling,” the dark-haired guy says, crossing his arms over his chest to mimic my posture, and probably to make sure I see the size of his biceps.