“You think my uncle killed them?”
“No, I don’t,” I admitted. To him. To myself. “That doesn’t mean I can ignore the questions. What if? What if it was your sister who you’d found on Indigo Ridge? What if it was Lyla or Eloise or Talia? I cannot live with the what-ifs. Not when I might have the power to erase them.”
He expelled the air from his lungs in a whoosh. “I’m not faulting you for the questions. Just the manner.”
“I can’t be a police officer for everyone in Quincy but not for you. And if you actually took a step back, stopped acting like a stubborn mule and remembered that I’m more than just the woman sharing your bed, you’d realize that what you are asking of me is impossible. That’s not who I am, Griffin. That’s not who you’d want me to be.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” I sighed. “You are.”
He froze. Heartbeats passed.
Any minute, he’d walk out the door and out of my life. It hurt already, to lose him. God, it hurt.
Except he didn’t leave me. His frame sagged and he tore off his baseball cap, sending it sailing across the room. Then he dragged a hand through his dark hair. “You’re right.”
The relief was so profound I laughed. “I know.”
He planted his fists on his hips. “I’m pissed.”
“Deal with it.”
“I will.” Griff’s arm wrapped around my shoulders and he hauled me into his chest. “Sorry.”
Maybe I should have fought for more than a one-word apology, but two seconds against his warm, strong body and I let it go. After Pops and his heart attack, two sleepless nights and the discussion with Briggs, I didn’t have the strength to argue with Griffin. So I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist and pressed my cheek against his heart and just . . . breathed.
“You have me twisted up, woman. So fucking twisted up.”
“Want to unwind? Call it quits?”
He leaned away and his hands moved to my face, his fingers threading through the hair at my temples. “I don’t think I could quit you if I tried.”
“Even if we fight?”
“Especially when we fight.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love. It wasn’t a lifelong commitment. But that statement moved me so much that tears flooded my eyes.
My parents used to fight. Mom had called it normal fighting.
In high school, when all of my friends’ parents were getting divorced, I’d fret and convince myself that my parents would too. One night, I’d overheard them arguing about something. The details had faded with time, but when my mom had found me in my room later that night, crying, she’d sat down on my bed and promised that the argument was normal fighting.
She’d told me that one day, she hoped I’d find a man who’d fight with me. Who’d love me even when he wanted to strangle me. Who’d never quit fighting because what we had was worth a few angry words.
“I don’t want to quit either,” I whispered.
“Hey.” His thumbs caught the two tears that escaped. “You can’t cry, Winn. It destroys me. Don’t cry, baby.”
I sniffled away the sting in my nose. “It’s just been a long few days.”
“Lean on me.” He kissed my forehead, then hugged me again, squeezing so tight that if my knees buckled, I wouldn’t drop an inch.
I leaned on him.
And for the first time in a long time, I knew the man holding me tight wouldn’t let me fall.
Chapter Nineteen
Griffin
“What’s funny?” I asked.
Winn had been holding back giggles since we’d left the grocery store. “Nothing.”
The twitch at the corner of her mouth said otherwise. “Baby. Spill it.”
“I’ve just never ridden in your truck.”
“Okay,” I drawled, pulling to a stop in front of my house. “Why’s that funny?”
“Because it’s filthy.” Her pretty laugh broke free. “You are the neatest, tidiest man I’ve ever met. If I leave a crumb on the counter, you sweep it up. I’ve never seen your hampers overflowing with dirty clothes. When you shave, there’s not a whisker you don’t rinse down the drain. But this truck . . .”
I shrugged. “It’s a ranch truck.”
Keeping it clean was practically impossible. Working in the dirt all day meant I’d inevitably bring it in on my boots. The same was true with straw and hay. And most of the time, I preferred rolling the windows down to using the air conditioner, so dust was a given.
“I like that it’s messy.” She unbuckled her seat belt and leaned across the console, kissing the underside of my jaw. “It makes you real.”
“I’m as real as it gets for you, Winslow.” I tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Her dark blue eyes softened and she leaned her cheek into my palm.
Neither of us moved. We just sat there, touching, our eyes locked as we soaked in the quiet moment.
Still moments had been scarce these past two weeks.
The topic of Briggs had mostly been avoided in that time. It was a raw subject, for us both.
Winn had done what she’d needed to do. She’d been right to put me in my place. Mom and Dad had both taken her side too. Yes, they’d called a lawyer, but neither had faulted her for asking Briggs some questions.
Since then, she’d spent some time hiking around Indigo Ridge and the trails that led from the cliff to Briggs’s cabin. She’d asked me first, giving me the same respect she would have any other land owner. Otherwise, she’d gone about doing what she needed to do while I’d focused on the ranch.
We were in the thick of summer haying. The swathers and balers were running from sunup to sundown. The end of July was always a hectic time. We were constantly moving cattle herds from one pasture to the next to ensure the grass wasn’t overgrazed during these hot summer days. Weeds had to be sprayed. Equipment fixed. One of our tractors had broken down earlier this week, so I’d spent the better part of two days with our mechanic, both of us covered in grease, working to get it fixed.
By the time I made it home each night, I was dead on my feet.
Winn had been busy at the station and spending time with Covie. She’d leave each morning, and the daily worry about her would settle in as an underlying current to the day. The distraction of work helped, but I wouldn’t really breathe until she was here. Under my roof. In my bed.
I liked that my house was becoming her place. A few nights this week, she’d beat me home. I’d find her inside, shoes discarded by the door and wearing one of my T-shirts, her own uniform top usually on the floor beside the hamper instead of inside it. One night she’d been on the porch, drinking a glass of wine.
Sooner rather than later, I wanted this to be her only sanctuary. Considering that the rest of her furniture had arrived at her house in town but she hadn’t unboxed it yet, I was taking it as a good sign.
“We’d better get these groceries inside,” she said.
“Yeah.”
She leaned in for one more kiss, then climbed out.
I met her at the tailgate, popping it open. As she looped plastic bags over her forearms, I did the same before following her inside. Then we came out for the second load since my fridge and pantry had been nearly bare.