Page 102 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Don't I?" Trent's looking at me with something that might be disgust. "Because looking back at the past weeks, I'm having a hard time telling where the bet ended and the real feelings began. Are you sure you love her, Gavin? Or do you just love the idea of her? Love the challenge she represented?"
The question hits me like a sledgehammer, because for a moment—just a moment—I wonder if he's right. If my feelings for Kenzie are real, or if they're just an extension of the same competitive instinct that made me suggest the bet in the first place.
But then I remember this morning. Remember the way she looked at me when she said the feeling might be mutual. Remember the way my chest felt like itmight explode with happiness at the thought that she might love me too.
"I know what I feel," I say quietly.
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're more upset about losing a game than you are about losing her."
"That's total bullshit. If I could take it all back this minute, I would?—"
"Oh yeah?" Trent steps closer, and there's something dangerous in his eyes. "Because if you were really a stand-up guy, you never would have made that bet in the first place. You never would have treated her like a joke. You never would have put her in a position where she had to find out from Clara Mae that we were all betting against her."
"We all made mistakes?—"
"No, Gavin. You made a mistake. We just went along with it because we're idiots who thought you knew what you were doing."
The accusation hangs in the air between us, and I realize that whatever brotherhood we've built over the years, whatever bond we've forged through work and friendship and shared experiences—it's cracking under the weight of this.
"So that's it?" I ask. "You're going to blame me for everything and wash your hands of it?"
"I'm going to blame you for the things that are your fault," Trent says. "And the bet was your idea. Runningyour mouth about it was your choice. And losing her because of it is your responsibility."
"Fine." I push past him toward the door. "It's my fault. I fucked up. But that doesn't change the fact that we all fell for her, and now we've lost her."
"Speak for yourself," Asher calls after me. "Some of us still have a chance to fix this if we can distance ourselves from the asshole who started it."
I stop in the doorway, his words hitting me like a physical blow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, maybe if Trent and I explain that the bet was your idea, maybe if we tell her we tried to talk you out of it?—"
"You're going to throw me under the bus?"
"You threw yourself under the bus the moment you opened your mouth to Clara Mae."
"I never told Clara Mae about the bet directly!"
"But you told someone. And now we're all paying for it." Asher's face is hard, unforgiving. "So yeah, if salvaging something with Kenzie means making it clear that you were the ringleader in this disaster, then that's what I'm going to do."
I look between them—Trent with his cold disappointment, Asher with his barely contained fury—and realize that I haven't just lost Kenzie today. I've lost everything. The brotherhood we've built, the friendship we've shared, the family we've created here at the ranch.
All because I was too proud and too stupid.
"Fine," I say quietly. "Blame me. Throw me under the bus. Do whatever you have to do to try to win her back. But don't pretend this was all my fault. We all made that bet. We all treated her like a joke."
I walk out before either of them can respond, leaving them to their recriminations and their plans to salvage something from the wreckage we all had a hand in creating.
The sun is settingby the time I work up the courage to go looking for Kenzie again. I've spent the last two hours in the barn, grooming horses and fixing tack and doing anything to keep my hands busy while my mind runs in circles, trying to figure out how to fix this mess.
But as I walk toward the house, I see something that makes my blood turn to ice.
Kenzie's walking down the drive toward the road, her phone pressed to her ear and her purse slung over her shoulder. She's not carrying any luggage, but there's something about her posture, about the determined set of her shoulders, that tells me everything I need to know.
She's leaving.
"...need a cab to pick me up at the Dusty Spur Ranch," she's saying into the phone, her voice carrying in the still evening air. "Yes, I know it's outside town. I'll pay extra for the drive."
I start running.
