Page 21 of Untaming the Cowboy
“That’s . . . not bad,” he admitted.
“Not bad?” she teased. “You’re welcome, Chin.”
More laughter rolled through the kitchen, light and unforced. Dahlia didn’t join in right away. She was watching him—how his eyes softened for once, how the edge around him dulled just a little. Whatever it was that kept him wound tight since the storm seemed to give way, just enough to breathe.
When the plates emptied and talk began to fade, the crew finally rose saying their goodnights, thanking her as they went. Mara patted her shoulder on the way out, and Beau stayed behind to help stack the dishes.
Luc stood and brought over his plate, the ghost of that earlier smile still tugging at his mouth. “You run my kitchen now?” he asked.
“Somebody’s gotta keep you fed,” she said, drying her hands. “And maybe keep you from turning into a statue.”
His gaze lingered for a breath before he nodded, handing her the empty dish. “Good luck with that,” he murmured, then left the mug on the counter and walked out toward the hall.
When his footsteps faded, Dahlia leaned back against the counter, satisfaction slipping through her chest.
Beau was still by the sink, hat tipped back, grin wide. “You done gave the man a cartoon name and made him laugh,” he said. “That’s a first.”
Dahlia smirked, untying her apron and hanging it on the hook. “Guess that makes me special then.”
Beau chuckled, pushing away from the counter. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head,” he said, heading out of the kitchen.
“Ha! It already has,” she said trailing after him, and flipping off the last light. “See you tomorrow, Beau.”
“Night, DeeDee.”
As they parted, her gaze drifted toward the dark stretch of hallway where Luc’s room was. The corners of her mouth lifted into a smirk as she whispered to herself, “Hmph. That mean ol’ junkyard dog’s bite ain’t near as bad as the bark.”
9
LUCAS
“Luc . . .”
The voice drifted through smoke and sand, soft and out of place on a battlefield. He stirred, waiting for the usual sounds: the screams, the gunfire, and the echoes of men calling for help. None came. Only her voice again, close this time.
“Wake up, cowboy.”
His body jerked. The dream fractured, colors bleeding into light.
Luc sat up slow, dragging a palm over his face. For a long second, he didn’t breathe, expecting the sting of ash or orders shouted through the dust. But all that waited was silence.
He reached for his watch on the nightstand. 09:14 a.m. glared back at him.
Damn. He’d overslept.
It had been a dream, not a nightmare. The sand still hissed, the air still burned metallic, but somewhere in the middle of it, her laughter rolled across the battlefield, and the ghosts stepped back. When he finally opened his eyes, morning climbed past his curtains. For the first time in years, he’d slept straight throughthe night and into the day. His body wasn’t tight, ready for a fight. It was loose. Rested.
Luc pushed back dry sheets and swung his legs to the floor. Wynn should’ve been there, nudging at his shins as he did every dawn since he’d brought him home. Instead, the dog was nowhere in sight.
Then came the sound that explained everything: laughter.
Luc’s ears caught the noises drifting down the hall. He rose, grabbed clean clothes and moved toward the washroom. As he brushed his teeth, the noise of voices layered grew clearer: Beau’s deep rumble, Mara’s jovial sound, and in the middle of it, Dahlia’s laugh. Wynn’s bark answered her, the cheerful traitor.
Luc rinsed his face, ran a towel along his jaw, and pulled on a clean shirt. Habit tugged harder than muscle memory: count the windows, mark the exits, note anything out of place. He forced himself to stop. This was home, not a forward operating base.
Luc moved stealthily down the hall and paused just shy of the kitchen, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. He could’ve pretended he was only a man admiring his own house, but he couldn’t help being a Marine who calculated distance and risk.
Dahlia stood by the stove, hair piled in a messy bun, wearing another one of his shirts knotted at the waist. Wynn sat at her feet, tail wagging as she slipped him a strip of bacon. Around her, his men sat at the table, empty plates, coffee cups in hand, grinning like they’d forgotten about the day of work ahead.
