Page 21 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

“Here.” He tossed her someone’s phone.

She glanced at the screen. “By the screen saver with Rafael’s face on it, I’m guessing Bella left this behind.”

Chance rolled his eyes. “Maybe he has a picture of himself on that phone.”

“Please.”

He chuckled. “Don’t ‘please’ me.”

She chided him with a look that would have made Patsy proud. So much so that he snapped his gaze away under the heat of it. The rain had not let up. He cleared his throat. “We need to go.”

She nodded, and followed him outside, keeping her head bowed. As wind whistled through gaps in the walls, they pushed the barn door closed, with Chance adding a brace for good measure.

He turned to Willow. Saturated, loam-colored strands of hair framed her face. Smudges of mascara rested beneath her eyes. He leaned toward her. “Ready?”

She shrugged, her smile back now. “As I’ll ever be!”

They spilled into the main house, wet clothes plastered to their skin, and smelling of wood smoke and fresh air, earth and pine. If guests minded—or noticed—they didn’t let on.

Rafael was ladling reheated chili into bowls, while Eli handed out mugs of hot coffee. About a dozen guests had gathered around the television in the den off the primary living room, getting up-to-the-minute reports of the storm’s damage.

Willow peeled off her apron and hung it on a hook in the mudroom. Chance hovered a moment, as if about to say something, but Willow nodded toward the kitchen.

“Your cousin stepped up,” she said.

He nodded, closed-mouthed. Then, “That he did.”

Willow’s voice was a whisper now, her gaze imploring. “I understand the desire for a second chance.”

Under different circumstances, he might have dug deeper into Willow’s statement. What second chance was she seeking? Or had she sought? Yet, she’d been talking about Rafael, as if to say, he’s not the enemy. Felt like it sometimes, but then again, when he really thought about it, Rafael had lost a lot in his lifetime.

That was something Chance could relate to.

He turned back to respond, and Willow had disappeared. He made his way into the kitchen and clapped Rafael on the shoulder. “Any of that left for me?”

Rafael raised his brows, but handed him a bowl, the steam still coming off of it. “You bet.”

Chance took his meal into the living room, where he found Ace in his leather recliner, wrapped in a wool blanket and observing the guests milling about. A group of women had gathered around the fireplace where flames licked the air.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Chance asked him.

Ace did not respond at first, but his eyes never left his son.

Willow appeared, offering Ace a bowl of chili, but he waved her off. She cast a wordless gaze at Chance before delivering the bowl to a guest sitting by the fire.

“Warm enough?” Chance nodded at the blanket on Ace’s lap.

His father pursed his lips, nodding.

Chance took a bite of chili, savoring the blend of chili powder and steak. He stabbed his fork into the bowl, letting it stand there. “Well, Ace, you sure know how to throw a party.”

“If this is your way of proving you’re planning to stick around, leave the monsoon out next time,” Ace said straight-faced.

“What can I say? I’m a powerful guy.”

Willow swept back in again, this time with a mug of coffee for Chance. She handed it to him. “Hey there, Mr. Powerful. This should help warm you up.”

He raised a brow at her.

---