Page 52 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Heat rises up my neck. “We’re doing a food drive, Mother. For the shelter.”
Rhett snorts. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘changed man’ like handing out soup for a day.” His eyes flick to Beck, and I catch the cruel curl of his grin. “Almost convincing.”
Beck doesn’t move. Not a twitch. He’s standing by the pantry door, sleeves shoved up his forearms, still holding a crate he hasn’t set down. His gaze flicks once to me, unreadable, then back to my family.
Father’s voice is measured, the kind of even tone he uses at council meetings when he’s about to dismantle someone. “You should reconsider tying yourself to them, Quinn. The Morgans thrive in scandal, and the town has suffered for it. This—“ He gestures around. ”—is theater. It won’t erase the truth.”
The words land heavy, and all I can do is press my palms against the table in front of me to keep them from trembling. I glance at Beck, praying he won’t take the bait, that he won’t lash out and undo all the work we’ve done.
But his jaw is locked tight, and that dangerous stillness clings to him like a storm cloud waiting to break.
Rhett leans back against the counter, folding his arms authoritatively. His voice drips with the kind of smugness only he’s perfected. “Should we really pretend we don’t remember? Everyone’s acting like Beckett Morgan is some misunderstood farm boy. But the truth…” His gaze slides to me, then lands square on Beck. “…is that he burned this town to the ground once already.”
“Shut up, Rhett,” I grit out, shame filling me for being related to them.
“Why? Does it hurt to hear the truth? That your beloved fiancé was behind the town hall fire ten years ago. You wouldn’t be here if it didn’t happen, because everyone remembers.”
Mother adds her poison, her voice low but carrying: “Generations built that place. Weddings, funerals, festivals—memories you can’t rebuild with money. And you”—her eyes flick to Beck—“took it all away because you were high and careless.”
A murmur ripples through the volunteers. The old ladies who came to help fold their hands tighter around each other’s arms. My chest caves as the weight of their words settles over the room.
I look at Beck. He hasn’t flinched. His knuckles are white around the crate in his hands, but his face is stone cold. Only his eyes give him away—shadows flickering there, guilt and fury fighting for dominance.
Zane is the first Morgan to break the silence. He sets his ladle down with a hard clatter. “Don’t you dare stand in here and spit on my brother when he’s doing his damn best to make up for what he did.”
Jace steps forward next, his voice low and dangerous. “That fire was an accident. He paid. We all paid. You think dragging it up now makes you righteous? All it makes you is cruel.”
Hank finally looks up from his station. His voice cuts deep. “Beck is my son. You want to blame him? You blame me too. But don’t you forget—we rebuilt that hall. We carried the lumber, wepoured the concrete, we paid our debt. You don’t get to act like Beck went unpunished.”
For a moment, the room feels split clean in two—the Atwoods radiating disdain on one side, the Morgans standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the other. And in the middle of it all is Beck, silent, his chest rising and falling. He’s holding something dangerous inside.
I move toward him before I even realize what I’m doing. My hand brushes his arm, grounding him. His eyes finally flick to mine, and what I see there makes my throat tighten, because beneath the fury, beneath the stone mask, there’s a flicker of shame so raw it makes me ache for him.
Before I can speak, another voice cuts through the tension.
“Enough!”
Landon. He steps forward from where he’s been lingering near the doorway, his eyes locked on Beck. For a second, I can’t tell which way he’s leaning, until his next words knock the air out of the room.
“I was there that night.” His tone is steady, deliberate. “Beck messed up, yeah. But he’s owned up to it every day since. You don’t get to keep crucifying him for something he’s already paid for.” He looks at my father and Rhett in turn, defiance plain on his face. “Enough is enough.”
The room shifts as whispers stir at the edges.
Rhett scoffs. “You’re defending him? After what he did to this town?”
Before he can wind up, Louis speaks. My quieter brother, the one who usually avoids choosing sides, finally finds his voice. His gaze flicks to me, then to Beck, and there’s no hesitation. “We’ve all done things we regret. The difference is, Beck isn’t pretending it didn’t happen. He’s out here working, giving back. That’s more than I can say for some people.”
Inwardly, I’m beaming with pride, watching my brothers stand on Beck’s side. Against our father, Rhett, and the narrative that’s been hammered into this town for a decade.
And in the middle of it, Beck finally shifts. The mask slips, his eyes find mine, and this time I see something new—a spark of hope.
My heart swells, aching with how fiercely I want to protect that flicker from being smothered.
The weight in the room begins to settle, not gone but no longer suffocating. My brothers’ words hang in the air like a shield, keeping Beck from being swallowed whole by old grudges. Even the Morgans shift subtly closer to him—Zane clapping a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder, Ella shooting him a quiet smile, Daisy tugging at his sleeve as if to remind him she’s on his team too.
My family retreats with their pride intact but their footing shaken. My father throws me one last warning glare, Rhettmutters something under his breath, and then they’re gone, trailing the scent of disapproval with them.
The soup kitchen hums back to life—pots clanging, voices rising in easy chatter, volunteers sliding into a rhythm again.
