Page 50 of Wild Horses

I’ve always known how lucky I am to have my dad, but reading that note… Some people shouldn’t be parents.

Daddio

Game plan?

I glance at War, but his eyes are closed, so I text with one hand and stroke his head with the other.

Unsure. Some crap went down with War’s dad.

That man is a piece of shit. Makes me want to take Biscuit from him.

I don’t think he’s exactly hands on with his horse.

Anything I can do?

Nope. I’m gonna ask War to come to Pueblo and maybe on to Denver. I don’t know if he’s interested, and that’s a lot of time together with someone I just met.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and wonder what Dad will think of what I say next.

I’m falling hard, and I’m not ready to let him go.

Then you know what you should do. Be smart, be safe, Mimi. But also be brave.

Smiling at Dad’s last bit of advice, I scoot closer to War and tuck his face into my neck. He’s been quiet since he hung up with Tuesday, only apologizing to me for losing his cool and making a mess—as if the random springs and gears were my concern.

I dig my fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp and nape. I put light pressure on the shoulder he was rehabbing, and he lets out a muffled moan.

Keeping his face buried, he says, “You deserve better than me.”

Strike two-hundred and forty-seven Warren Phillips Sr.

I slip my thumb under War’s chin and guide his face to mine. My lips skate over his mouth, cheeks, and eyes until I rest my forehead against his. “How about you let me decide what I deserve?”

This earns me a smirk and a kiss before those burdens he’s carried for so long weigh his mouth down to a flat line. The scent of honeyed bourbon lingers on his breath, and anger, resentment, and sadness ooze from him. He pulls away, slouching into the couch cushions.

I don’t push, just go back to carding my fingers through hishair and waiting. I take advantage of his eyes being shut to study him. Each day we’ve been here, he’s trimmed his beard a little more. Now, it’s neat and short, highlighting his handsome features. I’m torn on which version of War is the most handsome. Business War with short hair and a clean-shaven face? Rugged War with long hair and an overgrown beard? Or this new version of War, Laramie’s War, who’s a mixture of both. Yes, this one is my favorite.

An annoyed huff rumbles through me. He thinks I deserve better than him? This man who saw that what he was doing was wrong and worked to make it right with his sister. Turned down money and what most would call an ideal life because once those blinders were off, he could never go back. Walked away from his toxic parents, job, and hometown to start fresh.

Say what you will, but change like that takes real determination and grit.

Did he make mistakes? Yes. If I were Tuesday, would I want to stuff a sea salt croissant up his nose? Also yes. But I have no doubts about who this man is and will be.

And I want him for more than these four days.

A rush of nerves floods my system, sending too much adrenaline to my heart. It’s pounding so loud he has to hear it. Asking him to go with me is a huge risk. What would he do while I compete? A man like War needs purpose. What if I can’t ride with him there? My track record knowing he’s in the audience is oh-for-one. And he definitely didn’t seem impressed by the nomadic lifestyle I lead. How would he survive when I hitch my house to my truck and haul it to the next town?

I roll my lips to stop the giggle trying to escape when I think of how he’d react to some of the rest stops I visit on the road.

But these past four days have been game-changers. I worried being in such close proximity would overwhelm me.That we’d bicker or annoy each other to the point that when Pueblo came around, he’d be pushing me out the door. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a guy dropped me as soon as he got to know me, but if anything, all this time has done is confirm how right War is for me.

Any time I offered to give him space, he held me closer. He likes my bossy side and is the only man I’ve ever felt safe enough with to surrender.

I trust him.

Swallowing my pride, my fear, my doubts, I say, “War, this probably isn’t the right time?—”

The door slams open, and Tuesday and Bond rush in, silencing the question on the tip of my tongue. Tuesday throws her arms around War and catches sight of his bandaged bare feet.

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