“That was West Coast Swing. My sister and I took dance lessons with my dad when we were in high school.” A look comes over her face. “At the time I hated it. Now I see that he was just trying to hold on to us a little bit longer.” She smiles, but it’s not happy. More melancholy. She grabs a sandwich and takes a bite.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t beat yourself up.” I grab the second sandwich.
“You’re one to talk.”
Well, shit. She’s got me there. We finish our food in silence.
The music changes, the notes lengthening and the tempo slowing. “Dakota Wright, may I have this dance?” Slow dancing, I can do.
She doesn’t answer, just leans in and kisses me. I pull her up with me, leading her by the hand to the dance floor. When she folds into my chest, it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken since I pulled away from her in my truck.
We sway, and she lays her head on my chest. Her body molds to mine, and it strikes me that it is possible for one person to be made for another. Dakota is a wave, and I’m drowning in her, and I’ve never been so thrilled at the prospect of dying.
The song ends and I cup my hand around the back of her head. She looks up at me, her eyes dark and wanting. “Let’s get out of here.”
Wordlessly, I take her hand, leading her back the way we came.
We’re almost out of the place when I hear it. Through the music and voices, Wyatt is yelling.
32
Dakota
Wes stops short, and I run into his broad, muscled back.
“What the—” My question is silenced by the look on his face. Eyes alert, jaw tense, his mouth a straight line. He sidesteps me, moving across the bar in long, lithe strides. I hurry after him, peering around his tall, large form to see what’s going on.
Wyatt?
He’s standing at the bar with his two friends. He’s looking hard at someone, but I can’t see who. A half-circle has formed around him and I can’t see through. Wes seems to know exactly what’s happening, and he pushes apart two people, advancing right into the action. Somewhere in my brain, in some place that hasn’t yet registered my surprise and fear, I think of how damn attractive Wes is right now. So strong, so confident, charging into the situation like he is the solver of whatever the problem is. I love that about him. With Wes, I am never less than safe.
I make it to the commotion three seconds after him and elbow my way in.
Oh fuck.
Dixon.
He’s sneering at Wes, who has stepped in front of Wyatt and looms over Dixon like a jungle cat over a weasel. Wyatt steps up beside Wes. From this angle, with both their chins upturned and their chests puffed up, they look exactly alike.
“Aren’t you lucky that big brother was here to save you?” Dixon asks Wyatt.
“Get out of here, Dixon.” Wes’s command sounds more like a bark.
“Your brother has something of mine, and he needs to give it back.”
“Get. Out.” Wes’s voice is smooth, but the undercurrent is violent. “Or I’ll help you out.”
Dixon laughs. “The hometown hero is going to clean up the town’s trash. Typical of you Haydens. You think you’re God’s gift to Sierra Grande. You sit up on that ranch, looking down over the town like kings. You don’t give two shits about anybody but yourselves. But do you want to know what kings do, Hayden? They fall. And you will too. Maybe even soon.”
He sidesteps Wes and Wyatt and turns like he’s going to leave, glaring at the small crowd that has gathered. He walks past me on his way, and though I think he hasn’t noticed me there, I quickly realize he has. Because when he passes me, in a move so subtle and covert I hardly register it until it’s over, he squeezes my left breast.
My stomach tightens, shock fills me, and I look to Wes. He, nor anybody else it seems, saw Dixon’s fleeting grope. Wes stares after Dixon’s retreating form, watching him all the way until he exits. When he’s gone, Wes looks at Wyatt.
“What the fuck was that about?”
Wyatt seems astonished. “You don’t know?”
“No.” Wes sounds impatient.
Wyatt stares at him. “You jumped in here not knowing what was going on?”
“Yes.” The word slips through clenched teeth. Wes’s patience for his little brother’s non-answers appears to be hanging on by a thin thread.
I see where Wyatt is going with his questions, but Wes doesn’t. His eyes widen in Wyatt’s direction, urging him to just tell him already. “What the fuck does he think you have of his?”
Wyatt shakes his head. “Nothing, man.” The crowd dissipates and Wyatt visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping and an oddly serene look dawning on his face.
“Wyatt.” Wes’s tone is threatening, and that’s all it takes for Wyatt to start talking.
“I might have lifted something from his hoodie pocket when I overheard him ask the guys next to me at the bar if they were looking to score tonight. I told him to get the fuck out of this bar, and things escalated.” He sounds proud of himself.
“We had your back, man,” one of Wyatt’s friends speaks up from behind him. I’d forgotten they were even there. Wes too, apparently, because his gaze flickers over to them and away again, and I know in that one small motion that Wes sees them as no more important than a fly on shit. They were never going to help Wyatt, and their belated declaration solidifies that.
Wes extends his arms to me and I go to him, tucking myself into his side. “You okay?” His gentle voice soothes some of the horror I still feel over being touched by Dixon.
I nod. If I tell him what Dixon did, he will go after him right now, and it won’t end well.
“He’s trouble, Wes,” Wyatt says. “He hates us. Our whole family.”
Wes stares at the door, as if Dixon’s presence lingers. “Let that fucker try, Wyatt. He’ll get a lesson in alternative justice. We aren’t afraid to protect ourselves, and if he wants to learn that lesson the hard way, he can go right ahead.”
Wyatt almost grins. “You sound like a cowboy in an old western.”
Wes shrugs. “I’ve been a lot of places, Wyatt, and I’ve learned there are different definitions for justice. If Dixon wants to operate outside the law, he’ll find there are others willing to do the same.”
The subtle violence of Wes’s words frighten me, but there’s something about them that makes my thighs clench, my heart beat erratically.
Wes’s hand squeezes mine. “You ready to get out of here?”
I nod my agreement and say goodbye to Wyatt. As we step away, Wyatt calls Wes’s name.
“Thanks for jumping in when you didn’t even know what you were jumping into.”
I watch the understanding light up Wes’s eyes. He’s silent, looking at his little brother for a few beats, then he nods his head at him. “Get rid of what you have in your pocket,” he tells Wyatt.
Wyatt walks to the bathroom and we head for the exit.
When we get to Wes’s truck, he opens my door and helps me in even though I don’t need it. Like a bookend to the night, he leans into the open passenger doorframe. His eyes implore me, asking me to love him, needing somewhere to put all the emotion he was feeling when he rushed in to protect his brother.