Page 11 of Leather & Lies (Ruthless Cowboys of Salvation #1)

10

Jackson

Coals glow red beneath the grate as I arrange the steaks for a half a dozen live-in ranch hands, and the dozen who live in town. Each steak is from the ranch, cut and seasoned with the same exacting standards I demand of everything in my domain.

Beyond my property, the setting sun paints the mountains in deep golds and violets, a view I’ve paid for in blood and sweat. Worth it, especially on evenings like this when the air carries just enough chill to make the heat of the grill welcome against my skin.

A week since I’ve brought Shiloh to my bed. A week of having her sleep beside me while I maintain enough control to not take her again. The waiting has become its own form of exquisite torture—one I inflict on us both. I want her desperate, aching, ready to surrender. And I’ve felt her trembling beneath my hands each night, felt how close she is to begging me to end this torment.

Movement in the kitchen window catches my eye. Shiloh stands at the counter, her sun-lightened hair falling loose around her shoulders as she arranges vegetables on a cutting board. My chest tightens at the sight—her in my space, moving with that easy grace that first caught my attention years ago. But something about the scene feels wrong.

I leave Miguel to watch the grill and stride toward the house, my boots thudding softly on the flagstone path. Shiloh doesn’t look up as I enter through the rear mudroom, her focus entirely on the knife in her hands as she slices tomatoes.

“What are you doing?” I keep my voice neutral, though the sight of her preparing food for my men sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through my blood.

She glances up, wariness flickering in her eyes before she masks it. “Making a salad.” Her chin lifts slightly. “Even cowboys need greens once in a while.”

I move behind her, close enough to feel her heat without touching. Her body tenses, but she doesn’t step away. Progress. I reach around her to take the knife, my fingers brushing hers in the process. The contact sends heat surging through my veins.

“I didn’t bring you here to serve my men, hellcat.” I set the knife aside, turning her to face me, deliberately pressing her back against the counter. The length of my body cages her, close enough that she’ll feel the evidence of how much I want her. “That’s not your place.”

Her breath catches, pupils dilating as I lean closer. Confusion crosses her features, followed by that spark of defiance I’ve grown addicted to—and beneath it, an unmistakable hunger that matches my own. “Then what exactly is my place, Jackson? Since you’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not leaving.”

“Your place,” I say, voice dropping to the register that always makes her shiver, “is wherever I want you.” I trace my thumb along her lower lip, feeling her breath catch as I press just hard enough to feel the soft inner flesh. “In my bed. Under my hands. On your knees.” I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear. “And right now, I want you beside me where everyone can see exactly who you belong to. Keep me company while I feed these men.”

Her pulse jumps wildly at the base of her throat, and I have to physically restrain myself from marking her right there in the kitchen.

She follows me back outside without argument, her cheeks flushed with anger or desire—or both. I position her near the grill, then change my mind and tug her close enough that my hand can rest at the small of her back. As the men gather around the picnic tables Miguel set up earlier, the casual possessiveness of the gesture isn’t lost on any of them.

Good. Let them see. Let them understand who she belongs to.

This weekly cookout is one of the few traditions I’ve maintained since the early days. Miguel approaches, handing me a beer.

“Don’t think I ever told you, Shiloh,” Miguel says, nodding toward the grill, “but the boss here gave me one hell of a shock my first week working this land.”

Shiloh raises an eyebrow, her attention caught despite herself. “How’s that?”

Miguel chuckles, taking a pull from his bottle. “Shows up at the bunkhouse after that whole mess with old Patterson?—”

“After Patterson conveniently found himself unable to meet certain obligations,” I interject, my tone making it clear that topic isn’t up for discussion.

Miguel clears his throat. “Anyway, here’s this boy who’d clawed his way up from nothing, already had a reputation for flipping failed ranches, but still wearing those first-purchase boots he wouldn’t replace?—”

“They were broken in,” I say, turning a steak. “Worth more than sentimentality.”

“Worth shit for Montana winters,” Miguel counters. “Point is, he announces he’s cooking for the whole crew. We figured it was some power play, show the new boss throwing his weight around.”

“Wasn’t just a power play,” I admit, surprising myself. “Got the place for a steal, but it cleaned me out. Couldn’t afford a cook yet and wasn’t about to let anyone blame shoddy work on me not being able to provide.”

“But he could’ve ordered pizza,” Miguel tells Shiloh. “Instead, he’s out there with his second-hand grill he hauled from the last ranch he flipped, cooking steaks he’d personally butchered.”

“While living in the foreman’s cabin,” I add, remembering those lean first months. “The house was falling apart. Needed a complete renovation.”

“And the next morning you were still out there digging post holes with us,” Miguel adds. Affection grows in my chest for this man who’d served in place of an older brother. He might have his doubts about how I treat Shiloh, but he’s helping in his own way.

“Hard to respect a man who won’t get his hands dirty,” I say, arranging the steaks in the order they’ll need to come off. “They expected absentee ownership. Instead, they got weekly cookouts and the expectation that all hands break bread together at least once a week.”

Shiloh’s expression turns thoughtful as she studies me. I’d kill to know what she’s thinking, if Miguel’s stories are softening her. I don’t know why I want her willing, but the idea of her submitting to me because she wants to, rather than because she has to, appeals more to me every day.

“Thought you might want to know that new breeding stallion—the buckskin you bought from Johnson—he’s got that hitch in his step again,” Miguel says, changing the subject.

Shiloh straightens beside me, professional interest overtaking her wariness. “Still?”

Miguel’s lips twitch, his eyes flicking to me for permission before he answers. I nod once, a concession that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them. He’s known Shiloh for a long time, and I appreciate the effort he’s making to talk with her, to include her in the event.

“It’s worse when we try to work him after he’s been stalled overnight. Johnson swore he’d be perfect for our rodeo horse program, but that leg?—”

“He needs consistent movement.” Shiloh’s voice carries quiet confidence. “Prolonged standing creates stiffness in the damaged ligament. You should?—”

She catches herself, glancing at me like she expects a reprimand for offering her expertise without my approval. Something uncomfortable twists in my gut at her hesitation, especially since I’m the asshole that caused it.

“Go on.” I keep my hand at the small of her back, a reminder of my presence without silencing her. “Tell Miguel how to handle the damn horse.”

I turn back to the grill, letting my approval remain unspoken as they talk through the horse’s injury. The steaks need turning, and the foil-wrapped potatoes have reached the perfect temperature.

Without thinking, I prepare a plate the way I’ve seen Shiloh eat through my video cameras: medium-rare steak, extra potatoes, easy on the sauce. When I hand it to her, something flickers in her expression—surprise at this small evidence that I’ve been paying attention to her preferences. She doesn’t know how closely I’ve been surveilling her for years. And she never will.

“Remember that bull from the Prichett auction?” one of the younger hands calls out to the group. “The one they said couldn’t be ridden?”

My jaw tightens. I know exactly where this is going. “Ramirez, don’t you have fence to check?”

But one of the other hands, Terry, who’s been working this land since before I was born—even longer than Miguel—either ignored or didn’t receive the message. “Hell yes,” he says. “Mr. Big Shot here overpays for this beast nobody could handle. We all told him not to buy it—too wild to be handled,” he says, gesturing at me with his beer bottle. “Then the next morning, we find him in the ring when he thinks nobody’s watching, determined to prove this bull could be broken.”

Shiloh’s attention snaps to me, her gaze suddenly assessing once more. It isn’t a story I like to share—a moment of stubborn pride that drove me to prove myself until I’d cemented my reputation.

“Eight seconds?” she asks, her voice carrying a note I can’t quite place. Not mockery. Something closer to genuine curiosity.

“Barely,” I answer despite myself, the memory still vivid. “Then he put me into the fence. They were fucking right.”

The men laugh, and I catch the easy camaraderie beneath their amusement. Not mocking their boss, but including me in the circle of men who understand what it means to take risks.

“Boss limped for a week but wouldn’t see a doctor,” Terry adds, obviously enjoying himself. “Same day he gets thrown, he sells it for a song, and we find a bonus in our checks. Called it a ‘performance incentive,’ but we all knew it was because Prichett tried to screw him on that bull, and he needed to prove something.”

“Could’ve killed you,” Shiloh observes, studying my face.

I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “Could’ve. Would’ve killed someone else if I hadn’t gotten rid of it.”

I should shut down the storytelling to maintain the careful image I’ve crafted. Instead, I find myself wanting her to hear more. Wanting her to understand how I’ve built all this from nothing but grit and the determination to not be powerless again.

The evening mellows as the hands finish eating. Some drift away to their cabins, others gather around the fire pit Miguel built years ago. The tension in Shiloh’s shoulders has eased, whether from the food or the casual atmosphere, I can’t tell. But I find myself relaxing in response, my hand at her back less about control and more about simple contact. I like touching her. I like having her at my side. I like how she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention, as if I might not be the monster I’ve had to be to secure my legacy.

“Why do you still do this?” she asks quietly as I collect empty plates. “You could hire someone. Have it catered.”

“I’d spend years watching sitcom families do this—gather, eat together, build community.” My jaw tightens at the memory. “My old man only cooked when my mother was too bruised to stand. Food was just another weapon in our house.”

I hadn’t meant to reveal that much. Haven’t spoken of my father to anyone in years. But Shiloh just nods, her expression shifting into something too close to understanding for comfort.

“My dad was different,” she says after a moment. “Even when he was at his worst with the gambling, he always made sure I ate before he did. Not when he was drunk, but… I miss those moments.” She pauses, studying my face. “You’re building what you never had.”

The simple observation hits hard. This woman who’s fought me at every turn, who has every reason to hate me, sees right through my carefully constructed walls. Not with forgiveness—we are far from that—but recognition that cuts too close to the bone.

Fire crackles in the growing darkness as the remaining hands drift away, leaving us relatively alone by the flames. Shiloh’s profile in the firelight heats my blood—the proud angle of her jaw, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the subtle curves revealed by the flannel shirt she’s taken to wearing around the ranch. Mine. Every inch of her.

Except the part that still looks at me with a mixture of wariness and defiance. The part I haven’t yet managed to claim, no matter how thoroughly I’ve marked her body.

I move behind her, close enough that she’ll feel my arousal pressing against her. My hands settle on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“A goddamn week,” I murmur against her ear, letting her feel the edge of my teeth. “A goddamn week I’ve had you in my bed, and you still pretend you don’t want this.” My hand slides up to curl around her throat—not squeezing, just resting there as a reminder of my control. “You’re such a beautiful fucking liar. I’ve heard you touch yourself in the shower, relieving the ache when you thought I wasn’t around.” I’d watched her through my cameras, but she’d never know that.

Her breathing quickens, her pulse racing beneath my fingers. The scent of her arousal mingles with woodsmoke, driving me half mad with the need to bend her over right here.

Instead, I release her and step back. “You should get some rest,” I say, surprising myself with the suggestion. “It’s been a long day.”

The sudden withdrawal of contact makes her sway slightly. She studies me in the firelight, clearly searching for the trap in my words. When she finds none, something unsettlingly close to gratitude flickers in her eyes, warring with the frustrated desire I’ve deliberately stoked.

“Goodnight, Jackson.” Her voice is husky, betraying how affected she is.

I watch her walk toward the house, her steps unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. My cock throbs painfully, demanding I follow her, pin her to the nearest surface, and finally take what I’ve been denied these past days. The urge to assert complete control claws at my chest with physical pain.

But I remain by the fire, every muscle rigid with the effort of restraint. The waiting is part of my control—of her, of myself. I will have her begging before I finally claim her completely.

And yet something about tonight has shifted the ground beneath us. Letting her see those pieces of my past. Allowing my men to speak freely about our history. Giving her space now, when every instinct screams to take, to possess, to own. These aren’t the actions of a man maintaining absolute control. They are the actions of a man who?—

I cut the thought off before it can fully form. Whatever this is becoming between us, it isn’t softness. Can’t be. I’ve spent too many years building walls around everything I value to start creating doors now, just because one stubborn woman has gotten under my skin.

The memory of her expression when Miguel sought her professional opinion, the way she relaxed beside me as the evening wore on, the hunger in her eyes when I touched her throat—these images refuse to fade as I stare into the dying embers. I want her surrender, yes. But I find myself wanting her trust even more.

I look down at my hands, at the calluses built from years of ranch work despite my wealth. These same hands have gripped her throat, marked her skin, forced her submission. They’ve also prepared her food, steadied her when she stumbled, traced the curve of her cheek in unguarded moments. And soon, they’ll claim every inch of her body, take what I’ve been denying us both.

I adjust my aching cock as the fire died, leaving only embers in the dark.

Until then, we both suffer.