Page 31 of At the Rancher's Pleasure

Walking without direction, Brett found himself on the path that snaked past his lap pool and led to Sarabeth’s cottage. He needed her wide smile, to bury his face in her sweet-smelling neck...he needed to step out of the past and into the present and being with this beautiful, amazing woman was the best way to do that.

Brett approached the porch and hurried up the two steps to her bright red door and lifted his hand to knock. He cursed when his knuckles reminded him that they’d made a forceful connection with Rusty’s face. Brett hoped that Rusty’s jaw was throbbing like a bitch.

“Brett...”

He turned to see Sarabeth tucked up into the corner of the bench swing hanging from the rafters of the porch roof. Instead of the plain cream-colored covering, she’d placed a colorful throw over the bench and cushions in different colors and textures ran along the back of the wooden slats.

Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and her face was makeup free. A long cream jersey reached her midthigh, and her yoga pants were brightly patterned. Fluffy socks covered her feet. A tablet rested in her lap and cute, wire-framed glasses on her nose.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Sarabeth replied. “I thought you were at the TCC meeting tonight.”

“I was,” Brett said, walking over to her. He picked up her legs, sat down next to her and draped her calves over his thighs. Spreading his arms wide along the back of the bench, his fingers brushed her shoulder and he played with the ends of her soft, blond hair.

Sarabeth gasped and lifted his hand to inspect his bloody knuckles. “That needs to be cleaned up.”

“I know.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Want to play nurse?”

Sarabeth snorted. “You’re big enough and ugly enough to disinfect your own wounds, Harston.”

He loved the fact that she didn’t fuss. Brett smiled. Mommy issues, his ass.

“Who did you hit?” Sarabeth asked, placing her tablet and glasses on the small table next to her. She picked up her glass of red wine and offered it to him, before wincing and pulling it back. “Sorry. Because you keep ordering me wine or bringing me wine, I forget that you don’t drink.”

Brett, feeling out of sorts and a little irritated, took the wineglass from her hand and took a healthy sip. Her pretty eyebrows rose higher. “Was that a smart move?” she quietly asked.

“Jesus, I’m not an alcoholic!” Brett snapped. “My mother was but I’m not.”

Sarabeth folded her arms across her chest, thankfully ignoring his harsh retort. “So she’s the reason you don’t drink?”

Brett stared off into the distance, not wanting to relive the past and wondering how he could change the subject without hurting Sarabeth’s feelings. He never discussed his mother with anyone—there’d never been someone he trusted enough to explain that he both loved and hated her in equal measure. That he wished she’d been stronger, tougher and that she’d loved him more than she loved booze.

Sarabeth rested her head against his arm that lay behind her head, turning her face to kiss his wrist. “Okay, I can tell that’s a touchy subject so let’s go back to my original question... Who did you punch?”

“Rusty,” Brett reluctantly admitted.

She stared at him and he forced himself not to wriggle under the power of her hard stare. He knew she loathed Rusty, but women were strange creatures and she might not appreciate him punching her one-time husband, the father of her children.

“Sorry, I thought you said that you punched Rusty,” Sarabeth said, her tone extremely polite.

He had and she damn well knew it. “He was being an asshole.”

She kept her face blank for another twenty seconds until she dissolved, her eyes watering with mirth and a low, rumbling, sexy laugh making her shoulders shake.

Right, well, she wasn’t pissed. Good.

Tears rolled down her face and the last of Brett’s irritation disappeared. There was nothing better than making his woman laugh and if split knuckles were the price to pay for it, he’d gladly sacrifice his hands to the cause.

He folded his arms and watched her, trying not to smile. “Are you done?” he asked when Sarabeth started to hiccup.

“Nearly,” she replied, wiping her eyes with the bottom of her shirt, giving him a quick glimpse of her rich, creamy skin. She sniffed, placed her hands on her stomach as if to check her body’s response. “Yep, I think so.”

Brett waited for the barrage of questions that were about to fall from her lips. She didn’t disappoint. “What did he say? Why did you hit him? Did he hit you back? Did his eyes bug out? Did you draw blood? Oh, please, please tell me you broke his nose!”

Brett smiled. “Bloodthirsty creature, aren’t you?”

Sarabeth punched his arm and her fist held all the power of a crippled mosquito. “Tell me, dammit!”

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