Page 14 of Not Our First Rodeo
Her chin dips in a nod. “That’s good with me.”
“I’ll drive.”
She follows me to the door. “You’ll just have to drive me back out to the ranch to get my car. KC’s isn’t far from the house.”
I can’t help but let my hand settle against her lower back as she passes me, walking onto the porch, and I don’t miss the way her breath catches at the contact. “That’s fine,” I respond, because I want nothing more than for her to ride in my truck with me, just like all the times before. I don’t want to follow her off the ranch into town and watch her taillights disappear down the road, heading in the opposite direction as we leave the bar.
Her eyes lift to mine and hold for a moment before she replies, breath puffing out in the chilly air. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
A knot forms in my throat, and I work to swallow it down. It’s taking all of my self-control not to push her right now, to see if she would kiss me back if I pressed my lips to hers. To see if I could make her breath hitch again, if I could hear it against my ear as I lifted her and carried her into my bedroom and laid her on the bed I’ve hardly slept in the last three months. It always feels too lonely without her in it.
“I’m sure,” I say, my voice all gravel.
She nods, eyes drifting from mine. “Let’s go.”
KC’s is packed, but I’m not surprised. There are only a few bars in town, and there’s nothing to do but drink during a Montana winter, when the days are short and the air is cold enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
The night doesn’t feel that different from the one three weeks ago, when Cooper dragged me here because he said I was spending too much time in my cabin alone. He didn’t notice her when we walked in, but I did immediately, my gaze homing in on her like a flashing neon sign.
I’d kept my distance that night, just like all the nights, but something inside me started to fray, watching her sitting alone at the bar, drinking tequila and ignoring the looks the bartender was flashing her way. Four people came up to me to tell me she was here, like it was going to ruin my night, like a glimpse of my wife was going to make me snap.
It wasn’t until I saw that tourist slide up next to her, put his hands on her, that I finally did. I’d give her all the time she asked for, but I wasn’t going to give up that easily.
Tonight, though, I’m the one here with her. The one with my hand on her back, my chest pressed to her back as she tries to get close enough to speak to me over the loud country music playing on the jukebox.
“There’s an empty table over there,” she yells, breath fanning my ear, and points to a table in the back corner.
It’s as secluded as we could get in a packed bar, and I’m thankful for it. I’m not in the mood to share tonight, and I’mcertainly not in the mood to fend off well-meaning townspeople who think it’s their duty to protect me from my wife.
“Good with me.”
I follow her through the bar, shifting to avoid bumping into people. We make it through the crowd and settle into the rickety, mismatched wooden chairs. The entire bar looks like something out of the Old West, or it probably did when it first opened, but it hasn’t been kept up well enough to look like it has any particular decor style. There’s a lot of wood, vintage beer posters, red neon signs, a faded pool table and darts in one corner, and a thick layer of dust on everything.
There’s also no set menu. Years ago, Elsie and I made nacho fries with extra jalapenos our go-to order, along with whatever beers the bartender wanted to give us.
“The usual?” I ask as we sit. When I look up at Elsie, she’s gone white, her normally rosy cheeks bleached of color. Concern lances through me, and I don’t stop myself from reaching for her, my hand circling her forearm. Her skin is overly warm beneath my palm. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and forces a smile onto her face. “Nothing, that sounds good.”
My brow crinkles as I stare at her, trying to figure out what she’s not telling me. Briefly, irritation flashes through me, because she’s once again hiding something, hiding what she’s feeling, unwilling to tell me. But I push it down, try to grab hold of the patience I’ve been so desperately clinging to like a frayed rope hanging over the edge of a dangerous cliff, and ask, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course,” she says, nodding. For a moment, I think about pressing, about asking her point blank what she’s keeping hidden behind that brick wall exterior, but I don’t.
I need space to calm the roaring in my chest, so I gesture to the bar and say, “I’ll go order. Be right back.”
My body feels unsteady as I make my way to the bar, and I try desperately to push down the anger that bubbles in my chest. I did so well giving her space, respecting her wishes, until three weeks ago. But that night, something inside me cracked, and I haven’t been able to grasp that patience I was holding on to before.
Ihatethat going on a date with my wife feels awkward. Ihatethat there’s something going on with her that I don’t know about. Ihatehow lost and helpless I feel. Ihatethat I can’t fix it and that she won’t even let me close enough to try.
I allow myself a look back at her after sidling up to the bar, and something heavy settles in my stomach at how unsure she looks, with her head ducked as she scrolls on her phone, avoiding the gazes anyone from town shoots her way. I want to wipe that look off her face, to make her feel whole again, but I can’t, and that feeling threatens to strangle me. I don’t know how to love someone who won’t let me love them back, and I hate that most of all.
“Hey, Beau,” Grant, one of the bartenders, says, wrenching my attention from Elsie. “What can I get you?”
“Two beers and nacho fries with extra jalapenos,” I answer.
His brows lift before his eyes dart around the room. He’s looking for something, and I know exactly what it is as soon as his gaze settles on the table I just left. On the woman sitting alone beside it.
“You’re here with Elsie?” he asks, and I don’t miss the tone of concerned reproach in his voice.
