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He stroked her, and she loved feeling him breathing beside her.

“Bodhi, why didn’t you want to go to the hospital?” she asked. “Do you not like them or do you…are you worried that you’re sick and you don’t want your family to know?” She turned around so that they were facing each other.

The light from the moon and an orange glow from the old-fashioned gaslights lining Main Street filtered in through the open curtains.

“Habit, I guess. I want to tough it out.”

Her heart still pounded, and she tried to breathe in deeply to calm herself without gasping for air.

“Too independent. Want to heal on my own without interference. Proud. Stubborn. In denial. Take your pick.”

“I can help you, Bodhi,” she said, not sure she could because she didn’t know the problem, but she wanted him to know that she would fight with him. Be on his side. Stick with him.

“I’m not sick,” he said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

She pulled him to her tightly. “Not ever,” she vowed as if she had that power.

“My father killed himself.” He’d told her that. “I never knew why, but this past year when I turned thirty, I got a letter he’d written to me to explain. He had a genetic condition. No cure. Other family members had had it and suffered and died slowly. He wanted to warn me.”

“Can you get tested for it?”

He rolled away from her. Aggravating, and Nico was having none of it. She rolled over his body so that they were face-to-face again, staying careful of his wrist.

“Did you get tested for it?” she demanded, cradling his face in her palms.

“No.”

“You need to.” To hell with diplomacy. There was a time and a place, and this was not it. She was not a quitter, and neither was he. He had his family behind him. And her by his side if he’d let her stay. “You need to be prepared. I have money,” she said rashly.

“No.” His eyes searched hers in the shadowy light of the room, only an orangish night-light in the bathroom offering illumination. “I can handle my own crap.”

“Don’t man-card me. No one should have to go it alone. Definitely not you. I can help. I want to help, Bodhi. Let me help.”

For the longest time she didn’t think he’d answer, but he didn’t have the mulish expression he’d had at the rodeo this afternoon when his cousins had been worried about him.

She played with his hair. Willed him to answer and tried not to push too hard or freak out. What the hell disease did he have? Bodhi was so vibrant, sexy, confident, and physical that she couldn’t imagine him sick or declining.

“Tell me,” she wanted to yell. Hypocritical because she was holding back so much still.

“I wanted to have this last year on the rodeo. Go out on top. Not worry about the future.”

“Bodhi.” She pressed against him, feeling his heart beat steadily against hers as if they matched. The desire to help him, to save him, to be there with him no matter what was so fierce she was choking on it.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Nico Steel, this week with you has shot so far beyond anything resembling okay that it is in another solar system.”

His breath was warm against her face, and she could feel him hard against her thighs.

She hesitated. She wanted him to tell her the disease so she could research it, but she also wanted him relaxed, rested for tomorrow’s finals. She could press him for specifics after the Bash—even if he showed her the door out of his life. “Do you want to detail how beyond okay you’re feeling right now?” she invited.

“Definitely.” He rolled on top of her and braced himself on his elbows, looking down at her. “I have so many plans—practically a PowerPoint.” He smiled and then settled his warm and persuasive lips over hers.

Chapter Twelve

In the cabinon Plum Hill, Nico organized the desserts along the long farmhouse table she and Bodhi had brought out of storage and she and Lang had cleaned up, including sanding and restaining. She touched the wood reverently, thinking of all the generations of ranch hands and perhaps Ballantynes who had sat here and shared stories about the day. A Ballantyne long ago had made this table and the one opposite it. Bodhi had told her that Beck had a real talent and love of woodworking, while Bowen was musical and had written and sold a few songs to a country song publishing house based in Austin, Texas, although he didn’t perform often.

Her family could trace its lineage for generations, but her father’s and mother’s interest had always been about finances. Power. Influence. The Ballantynes’ focus was smaller but home-focused—the land, the cattle, the house, the community. The cabin on Plum Hill held so many stories, and when the Ballantynes refurbished something or rebuilt, they tried to maintain that sense of history.