Page 6 of My Cowboy Salvation
I raise my mug and take a drink. “There’s another possibility. You could stay here. If he comes looking for you, you’ll have someone in your corner who has the strength of the entire Castle Falls police department to back him.” She meets my gaze, her mouth dropping open. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Dylan.”
The tears that come to her eyes hit me hard as I see the gratitude there—gratitude I don’t want or need. I only want this woman to be safe.
“I can’t let you put yourself out for me.” Hope glimmers in her eyes. She wants to stay. I can see it.
“Castle Falls is as peaceful and beautiful of a town as any other place you’ll find on a map, Dylan. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself. Stay for a month. If it doesn’t agree with you, then you’ll at least have had some rest and time to come up with a plan.”
“A month.” She pauses as she considers this. She reaches for her hair again, stopping at the shortened ends before tucking a strand behind an ear. “I guess a month wouldn’t hurt. But I don’t want to be an imposition. I don’t have much money, but I’ll find a job and pay you back as soon as I can. And I can help around here, too. Cooking, housecleaning—”
“Dylan. Save your money. You’re free to stay here, no strings attached. The guest rooms have just been collecting dust. But if you need a job, I’ll bet that with a word from the chief of police, we can find you one.”
Her mouth curves up into a slight smile that brightens her face and has my heart slamming against my chest. “Thank you, um… Mr. McCall? Or is it Chief McCall?” she asks, suddenly flushing.
“Logan. Call me Logan.”
She nods, her smile back in place, her face still flushed. “Thank you… Logan.”
I won’t deny that hearing my name on her lips brings me a certain pleasure, but it’s pleasure I’ve got to rein in.
Dylan is here because I can keep her safe. Nothing more.
All the same, maybe I should keep a wide berth from the woman, just until I can get a handle on this surge of protectiveness and primal instinct.
Chapter 4
Dylan
I’m restless.
No, restless doesn’t even cover the crazy way my mind and body are revolting in day three of my current self-incarceration in Logan’s house.
If I had my cello here to help pass the time and calm my mind of its relentless thoughts, I would be in seventh heaven, not having anything or anyone to cut into my practice. But when the only person sharing this big, beautiful house has been absent, and I’m too terrified to step outside the front door in case Simon or his men find me, time moves at a glacier-like pace.
It’s probably a good thing that, after Logan and I chatted that first morning, the exhaustion I’d held at bay for the past two months took over, and I immediately sank into my comfortable bed and slept the rest of the day and night, only leaving it to either use the bathroom or grab something to eat.
As a result, I woke up yesterday feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world. But since it was Monday and Logan was at work, I settled for cleaning Logan’s house. Not that it needed it. Logan McCall definitely keeps an orderly house—a testament to his military training. It didn’t stop me from sweeping and spot cleaning every inch of the hardwood floor, vacuuming every plush rug, or dusting and polishing every other surface before scouring the bathrooms and kitchen.
That lasted me an entire day.
Which left me to sit on the couch today to binge watch some of Netflix’s latest offerings. Nothing kept my interest for very long, and now, once again, as it’s nearing five in the evening, I’m about to go out of my mind with boredom.
Will Logan be working late again tonight, like he did last night? I didn’t get the chance to ask him this morning because he was up and gone before I could make my way downstairs. Who knew the life of a chief of police in a tiny town like Castle Falls would be so demanding? Unless there’s something else…
When he looked at me the other night with such fierce protectiveness, offering me his home and his personal bodyguard services, I felt a familiar fire in my lady parts—a fire I haven’t felt in a long time and feared Simon had permanently doused.
But lo-and-behold, one heated stare from Logan McCall, and that fire rages once again. Enough so that when I wasn’t pushing away images of Simon from my mind, many of my thoughts have been about Logan. Wondering what it would feel like to run my hands along his naked chest as his muscles tense under my touch, or feel his mouth on my lips, along the side of my neck, and most definitely on my breasts.
The prospect of that mouth dropping even lower to the apex between my legs right now is enough to have me flushing warm with heat, and wondering if touching myself until I came while under the threat of a psychopath hunting me down made me certifiably insane.
I sigh, wondering how I’m going to fill up the rest of my time before Logan gets home. Maybe I’ll grab a book off Logan’s shelf and see if it might hold my attention.
Getting up from the couch, I stand in front of the built-in bookshelves spanning each side of the wide-screened television. There are a few photos sitting on the shelves I already noticed when I dusted yesterday. They’re mostly of Parker when he was young, and a couple with Parker and Logan. This time I take more care as I study the book titles for something of interest. I see action and adventure books, military thrillers, and historical fiction and non-fiction books. No sign of a juicy romance novel, though, not that I expected there would be.
Running my hand along the spines, I turn around and stare out the window. At least the view is pretty decent, and if I were any kind of artist, I might have tried my hand at painting the scene. But my gifts are purely musical, and instead, I hum a little Bach as I admire the deep autumn colors that brighten the landscape.
There is actually another space with an equally impressive view—one that might be even better since it’s one story up. The prospect of returning to it has me walking up the stairs faster than necessary, and a minute later, I’m pushing the door open and flipping on the light as I stare at the sacred space that is Chief Logan McCall’s bedroom.
Immediately, a faint but definitely masculine scent of pine and cedar hit my senses. After yesterday’s bout of cleaning, I’m well aware of how every item of his clothing is either sitting in a hamper waiting to be washed, hung in his closet in neat color-coordinated rows, or folded precisely in his dresser drawers.
