Page 32 of Rush Turner
My throat tightened. “I hate this. I hate that you have to—”
He cut me off the only way Rush Turner knew how: with his mouth, hot and certain, swallowing my fear until all that was left was him.
I shoved my hands into his hair, kissed him back like he was air and I’d been drowning all over again.
He lifted me right off my feet — no warning, no asking — and I didn’t care. My back hit the fridge door, a magnet popped off and clattered on the floor. Somewhere outside the house, Tornado bleated in protest.
Rush didn’t stop.
“Say it,” he growled against my throat.
My head fell back, breathless. “Say what?”
“That you’re mine. No matter what comes. Say it, Jess.”
I dug my nails into his shoulders, my laugh low and shaking. “I’m yours, Rush Turner. Always.”
He kissed me again — hard enough to erase every lock, every broken window, every ghost that thought they could crawl back to my door.
Outside the dark pressed close. Inside, I didn’t care.
Because this man? He was my line in the sand. And tonight, nothing crossed it and lived.
26
Rush
By the time the sun dragged its lazy self up over the trees, the house was still. The kids were dead to the world, Tornado was tied up by the barn with half a bale of hay to keep him busy, and Aunt Marie hadn’t started banging pots yet.
Jessa lay half on my chest, breathing soft and steady, her fingers curled in the chain around my neck.
I could’ve stayed like that forever.
But forever didn’t build fences or keep trouble at bay. So I slipped out from under her, careful as a bomb tech, and found my jeans on the floor.
I made coffee — strong enough to wake the dead — and leaned against the counter, watching the dawn creep through her kitchen window.
She found me there ten minutes later, barefoot as usual, wrapped in one of my old flannels she must’ve grabbed off the hook by the door.
She poured herself a mug beside me. Didn’t say good morning. Didn’t need to.
For a minute we stood there, sipping in silence. The kind of silence you only get when you know exactly where you belong.
Finally, she nudged me with her hip. “You gonna tell me what’s next, Turner?”
I glanced at her over my cup. “Next?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. You patching locks and scaring drunks away from my barn can’t be the long-term plan.”
I snorted. “Sure it can. I’m very consistent.”
She swatted my arm. “Rush—”
I set the mug down, turned to cage her against the counter, one hand flat on either side of her. She sucked in a breath but didn’t back down.
“What’s next,” I said, low and steady, “is we finish fixing this place up right. We fence every damn inch those goats haven’t claimed yet. We get the children a dog to keep Tornado in line. And we make damn sure nobody can come sniffing around this house again without wishing they were never born.”
She tried to scowl but failed. “And me?” she challenged, voice soft but stubborn.
