Page 15 of Just Say When

Me. So I can leave.

“I’m just saying, a heads up would be nice. So we can have Pirate ready for you. Otherwise…” I gestured to the colt, who appeared to have lost all interest in us and was moseying through the pasture, nibbling grass. He’d be easy to get now.

Brax squinted. “Hm. I might be able to do something about that.”

With the rope in hand, he walked toward Pirate, coming at him from an angle to avoid arousing the horse’s suspicions. As he got closer, he twirled the rope above his head, faster and faster, opening the large loop at the end. I held my breath as I watched. Brax was ridiculously good with a lasso—maybe even better than Zack, and Zack was a professional.

At the exact moment Pirate gave into his curiosity and lifted his head, Brax sent the loop sailing. It fell neatly over Pirate’s head. With a quick tug, the lasso tightened around his neck. Pirate was caught.

Brax clucked his tongue and Pirate ambled forward without a fuss. He seemed to have forgotten all about his earlier game.

I bit back an annoyed groan. Once again, Brax had swept in to save my ass. Fucking cowboy. There would be no living with him after this.

But holy hell, was it hot.

7

Brax

“B

raxton! How are you, honey?”

It was a familiar voice, one I didn’t get to hear as often as I would’ve liked, that had the simultaneous effect of my lips tilting up in a grin and my balls ascending for cover. I turned and found Essie’s mom with a pie balanced on each strong, slender forearm. Essie was next to her carrying the same.

As friendly as Cat Price had been to me over the years—even after her daughter wanted nothing to do with me—there was still a part of me that was terrified of the woman. Cat might look like Essie’s older sister, but she was a mama bear through and through. Fiercely protective of her daughter against threats both real and imagined—including myself. Once upon a time, Cat had sat me down at the kitchen table, a pile of unshelledwalnuts and a hammer laid out in front of her, and gave me her version of the sex talk.

You’re a good kid, Braxton, but teenage emotions are powerful stuff. I know you’re just friends now, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed by hormones and think with what’s in your pants instead of what’s in your skull. You understand what I’m saying?she’d asked while looking me dead in the eyeballs.

A cold bead of sweat had rolled down my spine. It was like she had seen into my brain and discovered the image of her daughter in a bikini branded there.Yes, ma’am.

Good. Because when boys think with what’s in their pants, it’s the girls who suffer for it. Girls are the ones who bear the consequences. But I’ll tell you this. My girl won’t bear them alone.

And then she’d brought the hammer down onto a walnut, cracking it clean in half.

My balls shrank at the memory.

At fifteen, I had thought that whatever threat I posed Essie was one hundred percent a figment of her mother’s overactive imagination. We were friends, that was all. Until the day she almost died. Then I realized how much of a threat I truly was.

“Ms. Price, I’m glad you could make it,” I said as I relieved her of the pies. “I’m doing well. How about yourself? These peach?” I asked with an appreciative sniff.

“You know to call me Cat,” she scolded. She took one of the pies Essie carried, easing her daughter’s burden. “Ms. Price makes me sound like an unmarried librarian with a million cats.”

She happened to say this right as a vaguely familiar looking woman approached bearing a large bowl of potato salad. The woman wrinkled her nose like she was trying to shift her glasses with the movement and shot Essie an amused look.

“Mom!” Essie groaned.

Cat blinked her big blue eyes. “What?”

“I’m Hannah Bell,” the woman said. “Unmarried librarian who happens to share her home with a delightful glaring of five cats.” Her lips tilted wryly. “That’s well under a million, so I’m not offended in the least.”

I turned just in time to catch Essie shape the word silently with her lips, like she was learning the feel of it.Glaring. Her eyes lit up. And I knew exactly what was happening in that brain of hers. She knew the word, but not in this context. It was unexpected. She was considering how well one context translated to another, the spirit of the verb and the spirit of cats. Watching her find a new word was like watching the sunrise crest a mountain. She fucking glowed from it.

“Where should I put this?” Hannah asked, raising the bowl higher.

It was Lodestar Ranch’s second annual summerbarbecue. The tradition had kicked off last year as a way to eat all the watermelon Ben had grown in Mom’s old garden, which had gone to weeds a couple years ago when she died of cancer. This year was even bigger, as Ben had expanded his farming skills to cucumbers, tomatoes, and various peppers and beans.

My answer to Hannah’s question got stuck on the sudden lump in my throat.

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