Page 37 of Dust Storm

Christian tilted his head and looked at me. “I didn’t say asleep. I said settled.”

“And you don’t think I’m settled?” I asked before shoveling in a bite. I didn’t realize how hungry I had gotten.

“Are you?”

If this was the “gentle pressure” he talked about using on cattle and children, I could admit that it was effective.

“I finally talked to Tripp,” I admitted.

A dissatisfied growl simmered in his chest. “And how is the world’s most pretentious asshole?”

I gritted my teeth. “Living it up in Spain with my cli—myformerclient.”

He lifted a finger off the arm of the chair and pointed at my ring. “When’s the big day?”

Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so hungry. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said as I set the bowl on my lap.

“You done?” he asked, picking up the ice cream and reaching for the chili.

“Yeah.”

Christian took both bowls inside and came back with a pair of socks and cowboy boots. “What size do you wear?”

“Sevens.”

“These are sixes. Put ’em on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put the boots on. We’re going on a ride.”

I studied them, taking in the scuffed-up leather. “Please tell me you are not asking me to put on your dead wife’s shoes. That’s just weird.”

I half-expected him to get offended, but Christian cracked a smile. “They belonged to Becks. She got ’em, but they were too small so she gave them to Bree to grow into.”

Oddly curious, I took the socks and toed off my high heels. Blisters had broken my skin in angry red circles.

“Cass…” Christian said in a scolding voice as he knelt in front of me. “You told me you could handle yourself in those shoes.” He pointed to the heels.

“I can.”

Calloused fingers gingerly cradled the sole of my foot as he took another look. “Your feet say otherwise.”

“I’m fine. Walking in pastures, dirt, and gravel is a little different than sidewalks and offices. I’ll deal with it.”

“I’ll take you into town tomorrow. You can get a pair of boots while I pick up supplies.”

I wasn’t arguing with that. I wanted to get back to civilization—even if it meant settling for small-town USA.

The cotton sock abraded my blisters. I hissed as I slid it on.

Christian looked up with concern in his eyes. “You okay?”

The bite of discomfort was welcomed. It kept me from crying about the million other things weighing on me.

I could be angry about a few blisters, especially if it distracted me from Tripp.

Christian waited patiently as I squeezed my feet into the boots. My trousers and blazer didn’t exactly scream “cowgirl chic,” but it was dark, and the ranch was asleep.

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