Page 140 of Burn the Wild

“Good girl,” Ford groans, thrusting slowly. Heat, fire spirals between us. That hook in my stomach jerks, cementing me to him. “Good fucking girl.”

I grip the back of the headrest, roll my hips and ride his cock. Through it all, Ford keeps me in his gaze. We fuck hard and fast until we detonate. Until I collapse on top of him, both of us gasping for air. Ford gathers me close against his iron chest, kisses my temple. We stay wrapped up in each other, sweaty and disheveled, like teenage kids parked at lover’s lane. And for a second, this is all that matters.

Dusk falls, and I stare out over the Montana wild. The sky is dark. Big, ominous clouds loom on the horizon. My mind goes back to our conversation this morning in the garage.

I run my hand over his scruffy cheek. “Will you tell me why you saw a therapist?”

Ford, strokes a hand through his hair, and says in a pained tone, “It’s not pretty.”

“I’m not pretty.”

“Birdie, you’re beautiful.”

His baseball cap casts a shadow over his eyes. Wanting to see him better, I take it off and run my fingers through his hair. “Talk to me, Country Boy. It can’t be worse than what I told you.”

He nods slowly. “After Savannah, I wasn’t the best kind of person. Put shit up my nose, in my veins. I was off the fucking deep end.” His lips quirk. “Pretty much an idiot twenty-four-seven.”

He takes a shaky breath, his body lifting mine with his. “It was night two of the World Series. We were playing against the Dodgers. I was pitching, and I shouldn’t have been.” A raggedsound tears up his throat. “I was fucked up on God knows what so my aim was off. I couldn’t stay on the plate, and I threw a pitch and—” His throat works. “I hit a kid. A little boy.”

I let out a gasp.

He gives a bitter laugh. “Everyone said it was an accident, that shit happens, but it wasn’t.” He closes his eyes, agony on his expression. A war he’s been fighting for so many years. “I fucking hurt that kid because I was an idiot asshole.”

His guilt, his pain is palpable. A crack rips through my chest. “I’m so sorry, Ford.”

“I don’t know who he was or what happened to him. The owner refused to let me reach out to him—said it would be bad PR to admit fault.” His face screws up with disgust. “He didn’t die. That’s all I know.”

My heart aches for him.

Ford’s eyes briefly flutter shut, like he can’t bear the memory. “I got off easy. My coach pulled my ass and told me to go see someone. Which I did. I got on meds and talked until I couldn’t talk anymore.” His eyes flick to mine. “That’s the real reason I left baseball and went to the ranch. Because I’m a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a fuck-up.” I stare at him, hating that he feels that way about himself. When I look at him, I see a man worth everything. A man who’s made mistakes and owns it. A man who’s done more for me than anyone.

A tear drips down his cheek. He presses those long fingers to his eyes. “Christ. I hit that kid, Reese. Ihurthim.”

I sweep my nails through his hair, kiss his crown. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. “You’re worth it, too,” I whisper against his neck. “You’re a good man, Ford. A good person.” A hot tear slides down my face. “I would never think less of you for your past. You are a man worth everything. Forgive yourself. I do.”

He crushes me to him. “Birdie Girl.” An exhale rattles out of his lungs, like he’s letting it all out. Like he believes my words. Like he’s finally okay. “My Bluebird.”

Abright yellow sticky note peeks out from the window on my Chevy. I pull it off and read:

You’re as handsome as the sunset, Country Boy.

Grinning, I tuck it under the brim of my cowboy hat with the rest of the notes I’ve collected.

Love notes. Love songs. All from Reese.

Ever since her session with the therapist last week, she’s been writing lyrics on sticky notes and scattering them across the ranch. Wyatt found one on his boot. Dakota on her front door.

It’s like she’s come alive in front of my eyes.

And I feel the same damn way.

You’re a good man, Ford.

Reese’s words echo in my head. It feels like the gears have shifted. It feels like I’m forgiving myself—something I haven’t done since I left baseball.

How long have I been living in slow motion, never caring for anything but my brothers or myself?

---