Page 4 of Westin

“Where are you gonna go?” he says under his breath.

“Maybe if you quit dry humping her while she’s trying to serve dinner, she wouldn’t be trying to run off.”

We both spin as the room goes quiet. The words came from the chestnut-haired cowboy with the black hat. Up close, our eyes meet, and I feel something I’ve never felt before: a little zing, like I brushed up against a blanket onthe line, loaded with static electricity.

My fingers clench around the plate I’m holding. Avery straightens and takes a step back, his stare glacial.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Sovereign Mountain trash.”

My heart skips a beat as the pieces fall into place. Clint Garrison died while making a business deal at Sovereign Mountain Ranch. He was run over by a herd of cattle, spooked by something in the hills. David said he got trapped in the mountain pass and his horse threw him, leaving him dead in the dust.

Sovereign Mountain is the black sheep of cattle ranches here in Montana; Clint’s death didn’t improve their reputation, but they’re also the biggest, wealthiest operation in Montana. David sells them grain, as he does everyone, but he never goes out of his way to do business with them.

My eyes flick up and rest on the black hat, and I realize what the insignia on the band is. SMR—Sovereign Mountain Ranch.

I swallow hard.

“Go on,” says the man, stepping between us. “Get.”

Avery’s livid, but the room is watching us. David clears his throat and pulls out his chair at the head of the table. Taking advantage of the distraction, I duck away and circle the table to make sure everyone has what they need. Then, I disappear into the kitchen with my heart pounding.

I’m not eating with them tonight. I’ll eat whatever is left later—a small price to pay for getting out of that suffocating dining room. In the kitchen, I pour a shot of whiskey into the bottom of an old jam jar and go sit out on the back porch.

I’ll probably need another glass by the time the night’s over.

The men eat, and I hear them in the kitchen as they start drinking. I wish David would let me hide in my room, but he says I have to stick around because I’m the woman of the house. It would be rude to disappear.

He pretends he doesn’t know I’ve spent the last few years dodging hands.

It’s not like he’d say anything anyway. The worst perpetrators are the Garrisons and, other than Sovereign Mountain, they’re the biggest operation out here. David does a lot of business with Garrison Ranch; he’d gladly trade letting me get felt up in the barn for pick of their cattle before auction.

I hear the front door slam, one after the other, as they leave. Quietly, I move back into the house and enter the dining room. The table is a wreck. I go get the cart and start piling dirty dishes on it.

Slam. Crash.

A little part of me wants someone to hear my displeasure.

There’s nothing left of the meal. My eyes burn as I push the cart back into the kitchen. There’s bread and butter; I can eat that. After I rinse the dishes and load them to be washed, I pull out a stool and reach for the bread box.

“There’s a plate in the microwave.”

I turn. The cowboy in the black hat stands in the doorway, half shadowed.

“What?”

He takes a step. “I put a plate for you in the microwave.”

I stare. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t come to the table,” he says, crossing the room and leaning on the counter.

Why is my heart pattering so hard against my ribs? He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his short hair, slicking it back. Hiseyes are hazel, a mix of green, gray, and brown. They’re bright and piercing under lowered brows. I take a second to look him over. He’s handsome, and for some reason, I’m not afraid of him.

I don’t know why.

He’s big, with broad shoulders. He’s rough—I see the calluses on his hands—but he doesn’t feel like he would hurt me. He rests on his elbows and fills the space over the counter, fixing those brilliant eyes on me.

“Why didn’t you come to the table?” he asks.

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