Page 127 of Love Me Brazen
He reaches for my hand and tugs me close. I rock to my tiptoes to meet his kiss. His soft lips embrace mine, lingering for an instant before he steps back with a groan. “I’m going to need more of that later.”
“That can be arranged,” I whisper, grinning.
He combs through my hair—a wavy shoulder-length until I grow it out again—his eyes softening. When he came to the hospital, after crawling into the bed with me, I finally let myself cry. “My brave girl,” he said, stroking my hair. “Give me those tears, sweetheart. I’m here.”
He hasn’t left my side since. Even though I’m all healed up and he’ll return to work soon, until then, we’re enjoying every minute we have together.
Linden turns away from the stairs and takes my hand, leading me toward the door. As I scoop up my purse and the gift bag fromthe edge of the couch, Kody lifts his head from his favorite patch of sun, yawns, and curls back up.
Outside, the warm afternoon sun carries the scent of pine and honeysuckle. It’s almost enough to mask the occasional whiff of charred wood from the shell of my house next door. It’s still hard to look at. Hard to believe.
It took Everett and a team of law enforcement agencies working in tandem a little more than a day to apprehend Stacy Morrow. Thanks to Russel’s cooperation, the case against her is unfolding quickly, with the evidence mounting every day.
Stacy was using the Pinedale Motel and her connections to a biker gang to deal the coke Russel smuggled onboard his charter flights from San Diego. Trina was blackmailing Russel in an effort to boost her legal defense fund in her crusade against Sons of Eden. But Stacy found out, and knew she had to shut it down or risk getting exposed.
After Russel confronted Trina at that abandoned house, Stacy hatched a plan to take care of Trina once and for all. She attacked her, then set the house on fire. Because Russel was the last person to see Trina alive, he’d shoulder the blame for her murder.
And it would have worked if Russel hadn’t decided to come clean. If he’d fled to Canada like he’d planned. He’d be a fugitive, but he would have escaped the ambush Stacy planned at my house. After firefighters rescued him, he spent two days in ICU with several severe burns, a concussion, and a broken collarbone. He’s lucky to be alive.
Because as soon as he warned Stacy of his plans, she knew she had to eliminate him and anyone who knew the truth—like me—or lose everything.
Linden brings my hand to his lips, drawing me back to the here and now. He presses a kiss to my knuckles, then one on my wrist, beneath my bracelet. I haven’t taken it off since heplaced it there. Even though he reminded me that a piece of jewelry didn’t make me brave that night.
That bravery lives inside you, shortcake. It’s been there all along.
He opens the passenger door just as Greta bounds out of the house, dressed in jean shorts and a sleeveless sun-yellow button-down shirt, the tails tied at her waist, her pink highlights flashing in the sunlight.
I flip down the seat so she can have the front, but she stops me. “I’ll ride in back.”
“But it’s your birthday!” I say, cocking my head.
She gives her dad a shy smile, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “You guys together might be my favorite present.”
Linden swallows hard and rubs the back of his neck while I hug Greta, emotion pricking my chest. “I’m a lucky lady to have you both in my life,” I tell her.
She gives me a quick squeeze, being careful of the now-healed but still tender burn wound on my neck, then she jumps into the backseat.
On the way to Ruby Gulch, Linden plays Greta’s favorite tunes and she shares anecdotes about the horses she can’t wait to introduce me to, her enthusiasm keeping my nerves at meeting Linden’s entire family at a simmer.
Linden drives past town and across the river, then turns on Saddle Mountain Road, which rises above the lake, the valley view opening a little more with every mile. When we turn again, this time down a gravel lane bordered on both sides by split rail fencing, Greta stars bouncing in her seat. Red and turquoise balloons are tied to the gate, and once it swings open, the truck is surrounded by several dogs, all barking and wagging their tails.
We kick up a cloud of dust pulling up to a big farmhouse with a river rock chimney flanked by a detached garage with what looks like an apartment above it. Both are shaded by a mix of leafyaspens and tall pines. Past them, along a narrow double track, is a horse pasture and giant barn. The rest is prairie, dotted by black shapes that must be his family’s herd.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, soaking it all in. Picturing Linden growing up here fills my heart with the sweetest warmth and makes me want to explore every corner of the property.
Linden jumps down and squats to greet the hounds, then threads between the truck I recognize as Everett’s, and opens our passenger side. He helps me down, then flips the seat for Greta.
“That’s Chip,” Greta says as the white dog with black polka dots sniffs my hand, wagging his tail a mile a minute. “This is Libby,” she adds while a mostly white setter is busy licking her knees. “The black Lab is Bertie.”
Bertie is trying to get close but Libby’s tail keeps thwapping her in the nose.
“Hi, Bertie,” I say, giving her a pet. Her sleek fur is hot to the touch, like she’s been napping in a sunbeam.
Linden grabs my purse and the gift bag from the truck and we start toward the porch. The farmhouse door opens and another dog comes racing down to greet us.
“Poppy!” Greta cries as a chocolate-brown zephyr practically bowls her over.
Linden gives a hearty, full-belly laugh that echoes inside me like a song I never want to end.
