Page 158 of Westin

Her mouth quivers, and I have to keep myself from bending to kiss it. I take her other hand, and we face forward. If I’m honest with myself, I stumble on my vows. They’re short, from the black book the preacher carries, but I’m so undone, I can barely get to the end.

All I can think about is what happens when I’m alone with her—when we’re married, when my job is done, and it’s just me and my wife.

I just have a few things to do first.

CHAPTER FIFTY

DIANE

It’s getting late. Slowly, the sun etches arcs overhead and sinks until the edges of the sky bleed dark blue. I’m shocked by just how many people Westin ended up inviting to the wedding. The tent is bustling. It’s hard to get from one end to the other or carry on a conversation without shouting.

I end up spending most of my time in my chair. Westin stays at my side as much as he can, but he keeps getting pulled away. Everyone wants to talk and congratulate him.

I’m dizzy from everything. In my heart, I just want to go back to the gatehouse.

Keira comes to sit with me after a group of wranglers from the ranch abscond with Westin again. She brings me a glass of champagne but doesn’t drink any herself. I don’t want to be presumptuous and ask, so I stay quiet. It’s obvious something is going on, whether she knows for certain or not. Her skin is glowing, her red hair somehow more vibrant, and she can’t catch her breath.

I focus on her, listening as she talks, because now that things are settling down, I’m painfully aware that David is among the guests.

I don’t regret having him here, but now that he can see he didn’t crush me after all, I wish he was gone.

“Darling.”

We both look up. Westin stands on the other side of the table. He’s so handsome, his shirt rolled to his elbows and collar open, that I blush. Keira excuses herself, giving me a little squeeze on the elbow.

“It’s time to dance,” he says.

My stomach flutters. He takes my hand and pulls me around the table. Everyone steps back, and I hear the band switch to a quieter melody on a single violin.

I look up at my husband, surrounded by the glittering lights and the crowd, bright like the sun.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Quinn?” he says, so low that only we can hear.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. He takes my hand and pulls me into his chest, his other palm on my lower back. The world melts away, and all I can see are his fingers woven into mine. All I can smell is Westin. All I can feel is his warm, hard body holding me up.

I’m safe.

I never have to fear again.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I listen to his slow heartbeat and let it regulate mine. Thump, thump, thump. Moving in time with our bodies.

When I manage to peel back my lids, my gaze falls to the other side of the tent. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, is David, watching me, his face half shadowed.

My throat closes. In a second, everything floods back—the bitterness, the years of cruel words, the many times he put his hands on me out of anger. I regret so much, and it was never mine to regret. A long time ago, he let himself slip into hopelessness.

He never looked out of his window, waiting for the meadowlarks to rise the way I did every night.

He chose his path.

I chose mine.

I meet his gaze head on. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. His dark eyes are dead, no sign of life left.

No regret.

Maybe just a little disgust.

Even now, looking at me in my happiest moment, he can’t find it in him to regret.

---