I stop in the doorway, pausing to look over at my mom. Her head is tilted against the chair and her hands are folded over her stomach. She looks like she’s settling in to wait for my dad, probably for as long as it takes.
The house is silent, and my boots are heavy on the stairs. I stop outside the guest bedroom, toeing them off and leaving them on the floor. I step in and close the door behind me. A sliver of light from the bathroom door gives me just enough to see in the dark room. I make my way over, softly rapping on the door with a knuckle.
“It’s me,” I call.
“Come in,” Dakota answers in a tired voice.
I step into the humid air. Dakota stands wet and naked beside the bathtub, towel-drying her hair. The dirt and makeup are gone from her face, revealing an abrasion across her left cheek. Our eyes meet and I walk closer. I take the fluffy white towel from her and start at her shoulders. I don’t think she needs the help, but I need to feel useful, to do something for her. She steadies herself on my shoulders, her eyes closed and head tipped slightly back. I run the towel over her body, drying her but also taking inventory.
Large red marks dot her thighs and arms, and time will turn them into bruises. Angry abrasions cover her knees, a testament to her willingness to fight.
All the rage I felt earlier is snuffed out in an instant and I drop the towel and reach for her. She winces when I touch the back of her head, but when I take my hand away from her she stops me, pressing my open hand to her uninjured cheek. She sighs heavily into my palm, then kisses it.
“Thank you for tonight,” she whispers.
“No.” I shake my head, my voice strained. “You shouldn’t be thanking me. It’s my fault it happened in the first place.”
“This was nobody’s fault but Dixon’s.” She begins to dress from a small pile of folded clothes on the bathroom counter. “Your mom left me a pair of Jessie’s pajamas,” she explains, pulling the top over her head, yawning. She looks as if she is ready to fall asleep standing.
“Come on,” I murmur, gently pulling her to the bed. I turn back the covers and she climbs in.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Her voice is small, and her eyes are closed.
“Yes.” I remove my shirt and jeans, then slip into bed beside her.
“I want to hold you, but I’m not sure how I can touch you,” I murmur. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Dakota backs up inch by inch, slowly melting into me, until I can’t tell where she stops and I start. I press a kiss to the space behind her ear. Her skin is hot from her bath.
“If anything had happened to you,” I whisper, letting the second half of my sentence remain unspoken.
“Shhh,” she croons. “We’re both okay.”
I take a deep breath, inhaling her sweet scent. My lips part, an I love you poised at the edge, but Dakota’s deep, even breathing grows deeper and more even.
I press a gentle kiss to her hair and send up a prayer thanking God for her safety.
For a long time I’ve known what it feels like to love. My family, my land, my country. But this soul-crushing, all-consuming, sharp and powerful feeling in my heart is new. The love I feel for Dakota is different than everything before it.
37
Dakota
Wes.
Dixon.
No.
My eyes blink open. Morning sun filters around the closed blinds, sending just enough light into the room to reveal the outlines of furniture.
I’m safe. I’m in the guest room at the homestead. Beside me, Wes snores gently. He is safe, too. I’m sore, so sore, but I turn my head anyway, just so I can look at him.
He’s beautiful. Outside, yes, but inside, too. He doesn’t give himself nearly enough credit. People like him are a dying breed. Strong and sensitive, smart and resourceful, with a basic and inherent grasp on right versus wrong, good versus evil. He loves his country, but I don’t know if he fully grasps how much he also loves the people in it. The collective many, the people who live every iteration of the American dream. That’s who he fought for. That’s what he fought to protect.
A surge of pride fills me. I’ve always understood why Wes would marry me to get the ranch, but I’ve never fully felt a love so encapsulating that I would go to the ends of the earth to keep it, and by any means necessary. But now, I do.
It’s the same love I feel for Wes.
I should let him sleep, but I can’t. I need to feel his rough stubble under my fingertips.
My muscles protest when I lift my arm, but I ignore them and allow my fingers to continue on to their target.
Wes’s eyes stay closed, but a deep, contented sigh slides up his throat. “How do you feel?” His scratchy, morning voice sends a tremble down my body.
“Good,” I answer, and in this exact moment, it’s true. The sudden need I feel for Wes has an anesthetic effect on my pain. My hand leaves his stubble and slips down under the covers, wrapping around him. His eyes jerk open.
“Dakota… are you sure? Aren’t you sore?”
I’ve never needed him more than I do right now. After the horror of last night, his weight, his hands, his whispered words are all I want. “Please,” I beg, my voice a quiet cry.
He understands. He moves, hooking a leg over me and sitting back on his knees. Gently, he removes my pajama bottoms, then his own, and kneels between my legs. He lines himself up with my entrance, and he pushes inside. His eyes never leave mine. He reaches for me, cupping my cheek, stroking with his thumb.
“I want your weight,” I gasp.
He shakes his head. “Not until you’re healed.”
I pout, and he grins, but he never breaks his rhythm. He pulls down my pajama top, cupping my breast and flicking his finger over my nipple. His hand drifts down between my legs, working until I’ve forgotten every ounce of pain in my body.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs when my thigh muscles coil and my hips lift. With my hand cupped over my mouth and my eyes fixed on Wes, I let the sensation take over. My release prompts his own, and I watch his eyes squeeze tight and his muscles contract.
His eyes reopen and he looks down at me. “You were the first thing I thought about when I woke up.” He looks down at where we’re still connected. “And I think I know the first thing you thought about when you woke up.”
I don’t correct him. Besides, my carnal desire didn’t lag too far behind my initial thoughts.
“Guilty as charged,” I say, as Wes pulls back and lies down beside me.
“Now tell me the truth. How do you feel?” He props himself up on an arm and looks pointedly down at me.
I turn my attention inward. With the bliss fading away, the soreness is creeping back in.
“A little uncomfortable,” I admit, and it irritates me. The lingering pain reminds me of what happened, and it seems unfair that not only do I have it in my memory, but I have my body to remind me of it too.
Wes watches his fingers as they trace an invisible pattern across my stomach. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Seeing you… like that… it nearly ripped me in half, Dakota.” His gaze finds mine, and he looks uncertain. “My dad changed the trust. The inheritor of the HCC can be unmarried.”