Page 6 of Leather & Lies (Ruthless Cowboys of Salvation #1)

5

Shiloh

Sunlight creeps across Jackson’s bed, warming sheets that he’d left cold when he slipped out this morning, kissing me on the forehead when he thought I was still asleep.

I stretch, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday’s training session, and catch myself burrowing deeper into his pillow, hunting for the ghost of cedar and leather he’d left behind.

Damn him to hell. Three nights in his bed, nearly a week under his roof, and still he hasn’t claimed what we both know he will. The anticipation has become its own torture—every touch a dark promise, every possessive kiss a warning that someday, very soon, that iron control will finally splinter beneath the weight of his obsession.

And my ambivalence about it terrifies me.

I slip from silk sheets onto hardwood floors. Everything in this room screams wealth, from the hand-knotted rug to the hardwood floors to the sterling silver mirror that reflects my tangled hair and flushed cheeks.

A garment bag hangs on the closet door, along with a note in Jackson’s precise handwriting: Wear this. We have errands in town.

Not a request. An order.

My fingers tremble slightly as I unzip the bag, revealing a butter-soft chambray shirt. The tailored jeans probably cost more than I make in a week of training. A matching lingerie set in black lace completes the outfit—his current obsession with making sure I wear his kind of luxury even under my working clothes.

I trace the delicate lace, remembering how willingly I’d surrendered last night—kneeling naked beside him, accepting each morsel from his fingers like communion. The bliss of that submission haunts me still. Heat floods my core at the memory of his fingertips brushing my lips, and I curse myself for craving his control even as I rebel against it.

My worn boots sit by the door, the only piece of my old life he hasn’t replaced yet. Their familiar leather carries memories of early mornings in the training ring, of Daddy teaching me to gentle rather than break, of a life where I answered to no one but myself.

My phone lights up with a text.

Jackson

Car leaves in twenty minutes. Don’t make me come get you.

Jackson waits by his truck, a statue carved from impatience and barely leashed power. His worn black cowboy hat shades eyes that track my approach with predatory focus, cataloging every detail of the outfit he’d chosen. His expression shifts from annoyance to satisfaction as he notes how the tailored clothes emphasize curves I usually try to hide.

He opens the passenger door but catches my arm before I can climb in. “The rules for today.”

Of course there are rules, goddamn him.

“You stay within arm’s reach.” His thumb traces my pulse, measuring the rebellion in each beat. “You let me handle the talking. And you remember exactly who you belong to.” His grip tightens fractionally. “Understood?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve lived in this town my entire life.” I lift my chin, meeting that ice-blue stare, my jaw as tight as his. “I’ll talk to my friends if I like.”

Jackson stares down at me for a long moment, so long I worry I’ve pushed him too far. Then he nods. “Stay close, and don’t fucking forget who you belong to.”

“Anything else?” I smart-ass before I can stop myself.

“Don’t test me, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, carrying that edge of command that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Not when the entire town is watching to see exactly how I’ve tamed you.”

The hour-long drive into town gives me too much time to think. Jackson keeps one hand on my thigh when he isn’t shifting. Every touch is possessive, reminding me of my place. But there’s something else in his grip, too—something almost protective when he squeezes my knee as we pass the turnoff to my ranch. We share a fence line, but with thousands of acres between us, it still takes time to drive between the two properties.

“First stop is Garrett’s.” Jackson says finally, breaking the charged silence as we enter town. “Those soles won’t make it through another winter.”

I glance down at my worn boots. They need resoling, sure, but they’re broken in perfectly for working horses. “I was planning to get them fixed next month.”

“No.” His hand tightens on my thigh. “You need proper boots.”

Garrett’s Western Wear occupies the same brick storefront it has since before I was born. The brass bell above the door chimes as Jackson guides me inside, his hand possessive at the small of my back. The familiar scent of leather and saddle soap wraps around me, but something feels different. The way old Mr. Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. How his son Tommy straightens behind the counter. The way the air itself seems to still when Jackson Hawkins walks in.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Tommy moves from behind the counter with the careful attention of someone approaching a predator. “What can we do for you today?”

Jackson’s hand is warm through my shirt as he pulls me subtly closer. “Miss Foster needs new boots. An off-the-shelf set of work boots for today, and custom traditionals and stockmans.”

The words are simple, but they carry weight. Everyone in three counties has to know I’m living at his ranch now. They know what that means for our relationship. Cowboys gossip worse than anyone else. Tommy’s eyes flick between us, understanding dawning in his expression.

I start to protest the expense, but Jackson’s hand settles on my shoulder, silencing me.

Tommy gestures toward the fitting area. “If you’ll have a seat, Miss Foster, I’ll get the measuring tools.”

Through the front window, I catch a glimpse of Morgan Drake coming out of the coffee shop across the street. She pauses, her expression unreadable as she takes in the scene through the glass. Our eyes meet for a moment before Jackson’s fingers tighten at my waist. I shake my head once—the last thing I need is for my best friend to get mixed up in this mess. She’s got enough on her plate.

“Sit,” Jackson said, interrupting my silent communication with Morgan. Once again, an order, not a request.

I sit.

Tommy kneels before me with the measuring tools, but his usual easy manner has vanished. Carefully, he takes measurements, his dry, trembling fingers spanning my feet and ankle. Every movement is careful, deliberate, as if he can feel Jackson’s gaze burning into him.

Finally, he leans back on his heels and breathes a sigh of relief, as if he’s grateful for the distance between us. Jackson’s shoulders fall, as if he, too, can relax now that another man’s hands aren’t on me.

“The arch support in these is completely worn.” Tommy keeps his voice professional as he examines my old boots. “But the break-in pattern shows good pressure distribution. We’ll want something similar for?—”

“The Anderson line.” Jackson interrupts, nodding toward a row of boots I’d always admired but could never justify. “They’re still using that double-stitched sole?”

Tommy brightens, professional expertise overriding his nervousness. “Yes, sir. Best breaking boots on the market. The reinforced ankle support alone?—”

“They’re too fancy for—” I protest, once again.

“Try them.” Jackson’s thumb strokes the nape of my neck, the gesture both soothing and possessive.

The bell chimes as Morgan enters, bringing with her the scent of coffee and something sharper—tension. She moves toward the register with practiced casualness, but I catch how her eyes track Jackson’s hand on my neck.

“These fit perfectly,” Tommy says as he kneels to check the toe box. “But for working horses, you might want something more?—”

“We’ll take them.” Jackson’s voice carries an edge of command that makes everyone in the store still slightly. “And a pair of Ariats.” His fingers tighten fractionally on my shoulder.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Morgan’s voice is dry as she approaches. “Quite the shopping spree.”

Jackson’s hand stays possessive on my shoulder, but I feel him shift slightly. Repositioning. Like a predator scenting competition.

“Miss Drake.” His tone is perfectly pleasant. “How’s that mare of yours settling in?”

“Actually, I was hoping to discuss that with Shiloh.” She meets his gaze without flinching. “If you can spare her for a moment.”

The silence stretches just long enough to remind everyone exactly who makes these decisions. Then Jackson’s hand lifts from my shoulder. “Of course.” He turns to Tommy. “Show me what else you have in stock.”

They move toward the back of the store, leaving me alone with Morgan. But I feel Jackson’s attention like a physical touch, monitoring every movement.

“Are you okay?” Morgan keeps her voice low, her eyes on the boots Tommy left beside me. “Mom says you’ve been working with Shadow at Jackson’s ranch.”

My throat tightens at her concern. Morgan was my best friend. We grew up together, learning to ride at each other’s ranches. “I’m fine. Just busy with the new arrangement.”

She scoffs and raises her fingers to make air quotes and mouths arrangement , even though I haven’t shared anything except that Jackson had hired me.

“Shiloh, are you really okay?” She glances toward where Jackson stands examining boots with Tommy. “Remember Victoria Reeves? How she threatened his control of the south valley properties?” Her lips barely move. “Ruled a suicide, despite the impossible angle of the bullet hole in her skull. That’s how Jackson operates—everyone knows the truth, but no one can prove it. And no one wants to try.”

The implication hangs heavy between us. Everyone knows Victoria’s fate after challenging Jackson. Just like everyone knows what happens to ranchers who stand against his empire. They don’t disappear—they simply become cautionary tales whispered over whiskey when cowboys think he’s not listening.

“I’m worried about you,” Morgan says softly.

I take her hand in mine. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“Come have lunch with me and the girls on Sunday,” she says, squeezing my fingers. “Please.”

“Ready?” Jackson materializes beside us, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. The interruption is deliberate, but I don’t say anything.

Morgan straightens. “Think about what I said.”

She leaves before Jackson can respond, the bell’s cheerful chime at odds with the weight of her warning. Jackson’s hand tightens on my back, and I know the questions will come later. In private.

“Sir?” Tommy’s voice carries a nervous edge as he emerges from the stockroom. “I have those other boots ready.”

Each pair Tommy brings out is perfect—he and Jackson discuss leather quality and stitching patterns with the focus of men who understand that good boots can mean the difference between a successful breaking session and a trip to the emergency room.

I recognize most of the brands—the kind of boots that lasted decades with proper care. The kind I’d always promised myself I’d invest in “someday.”

Jackson’s thumb traces small circles at the small of my back as Tommy rings up the sale—two off-the-shelf pairs instead of one. I catch the total and start to protest, but the warmth in Jackson’s expression stops me. Instead, I lean back into him, pulling his hand to my hip, and raise my face to his.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

He doesn’t respond, just tightens his grip on my hip and hands over his black card.

When we leave, I catch our reflection in the store window—Jackson’s hand on my back, my new boots in multiple bags, his expression both satisfied and watchful. Like a man who’d just marked his territory.

Emma’s Diner stands frozen in time—same cracked vinyl booths cradling generations of gossip, same coffee-stained menus, same constellation of townspeople who’ve watched me grow from pigtails to spurs. But walking in with Jackson’s hand at my lower back transforms the familiar landscape. Conversations fracture mid-sentence. Gazes dart away like startled prey recognizing an apex predator in their midst.

No one wants to catch the attention of the monster who’s accompanying me.

“Corner booth.” Jackson guides me with that subtle pressure I am learning to read. Not quite pushing but brooking no argument. The same way he controls his horses, his empire, his world.

Me.

The vinyl protests as he slides beside me rather than across—a deliberate choice that keeps our bodies connected from shoulder to ankle. His thigh presses against mine, his arm drapes across the booth behind me in a gesture calculated to appear casual but lands like a branded claim. A visible warning to everyone watching—approach at your own peril.

Emma herself brings coffee without being asked. Her hands shake slightly as she pours, but her smile for me is genuine. She’d slip me free pie every time Daddy was too drunk to cook dinner.

“The usual, honey?” she asks me, carefully not looking at Jackson.

His hand settles on my thigh under the table. Not squeezing. Just reminding me of his earlier instructions about who does the talking. I opened my mouth to order, when he spoke.

“She’ll have the country fried steak.” His voice carries that quiet authority that parts crowds and topples empires. “Extra gravy on the side. Mashed potatoes. And a Coke.” His fingers reward my silence with a gentle squeeze. “I’ll have the same. We share more than you might think.”

My favorite dish. The same way I’ve been ordering it my whole adult life because it reminds me of meals around the heavy wooden table in the ranch kitchen with Mrs. Harrison and my mother.

How does he know? How does he know everything? He knows what I eat, what size my clothes are, how I take my coffee. And he makes sure I have it. Suddenly, I can’t breathe, suffocating with the weight of his control.

“Let me out,” I gasp, needing space.

Jackson’s hand tightens fractionally on my thigh before he stands, allowing me to slide out of the booth.

“Restroom,” I say without even looking at him, fighting to keep my breath steady. I just need some fucking air!

The corners of Jackson’s eyes soften. No, he can’t be worried about me. This monstrous man who takes and takes and takes doesn’t have the emotional depth for worry. His eyes track my movement across the diner, a predatory focus that makes my skin prickle, that makes me desperate to escape his grasp for even a moment.

I shove into the restroom, my chest heaving like I’ve run a fucking marathon.

Yet the stranger in the restroom mirror looks radiant. Confident. Glowing with a vitality I barely recognize. I splash cool water on feverish skin, transfixed by how the broke girl who once shared secret pie with Emma has transformed into a woman capable of capturing not just Jackson Hawkins’ attention—but his obsession.

He’s made no secret of his madness, that he wants to own every single part of me. And I hate that every single day I’m under his control, it bothers me a little bit less. I guess the most dangerous thing about gilded cages is how quickly you can forget they’re still prisons.

When I open the door, ready to face the world again, one of my dad’s old poker buddies stands waiting—Matthew Walsh.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Foster.” His smile hasn’t changed—sharp and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with cards. “All grown up and playing with the big boys now.”

“Excuse me.” I keep my voice steady, channeling the calm I use with nervous horses.

“You know, I was just thinking about your daddy the other day.” He doesn’t move. “About old promises. Old debts.” His smile widens slightly. “Collecting on those debts.”

Goddamn, a woman couldn’t catch a break. I didn’t stop to analyze why I was willing to let Jackson collect on the debt but not Walsh. “You’ll have to take that up with Daddy,” I murmured.

Walsh snapped out a hand and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh so hard, I knew I’d bruise.

“Daddy’s dead, but you’re not.”

The temperature in the hallway drops ten degrees. I don’t have to turn to know Jackson stands in the doorway leading back to the diner, his presence a tangible force.

Walsh’s smile never wavers, but he removes his hand from my arm, deliberately, as if to show he’s not afraid.

“Hawkins,” Walsh says, tipping his head. “Just saying hello to Rick’s girl.” He steps aside warily. “No harm intended.”

“No,” Jackson’s voice drops to a register where promises become treats. “But harm could certainly be arranged.”

The words carry weight far beyond their simple meaning. Walsh clenches his fists at his side, but he’s not dumb enough to pick a fight with Jackson Hawkins. He presses his lips together then spins on his heel, storming out of the diner.

Jackson doesn’t remove his hand from my back until we’re seated in our corner booth again. I’m tempted to pull out my phone and fidget, until Jackson slides his hand up to the nape of my neck and gently massages the skin there. He doesn’t ask me any questions about Walsh, doesn’t say anything, in fact, just quietly works the muscles in my neck until I relax against him.

He grunts, then gently scratches my scalp before removing his hand just in time for Emma to bring our plates.

We eat in silence, but Jackson’s thigh presses into mine—it should feel controlling, suffocating, like it had when we walked in. Instead, it’s comforting, as if he’s put his body between me and everything that might harm me.

The drive home is just as silent, charged with everything we aren’t saying. Jackson keeps one hand on my thigh, just above my knee. Each brush of his thumb against my denim-clad skin makes my breath catch. I stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice how his fingers creep higher with every mile.

By the time we pass the Miller place, his hand has inched halfway up my thigh. The expensive denim suddenly feels too tight, too warm. His thumb traces lazy circles that send sparks of electricity straight to my core. I shift in my seat, trying to ease the ache building between my legs.

“Sit still.” His voice is gravel and sin, but his hand slides higher. Just shy of where I need him. When I bite my lip to keep from whimpering, his fingers tighten. “Or don’t. Keep squirming for me, hellcat.”

The last five miles are torture. He never quite touches me where I want, just keeps up that maddening pattern with his thumb while his fingers tease the inseam of my jeans. By the time he pulls up to the house, I’m ready to combust.

He kills the engine, then hops out of the truck.

I open my door with trembling fingers, but before I can step away from the truck, he’s there. He spins me to face him, caging me against the frame with his body. One hand fists in my hair as he claims my mouth, the kiss brutal and possessive. His thigh shoves between my legs, the hard muscle pressing exactly where I need it.

“This is mine.” He forces my hips to rock against his thigh, orchestrating my pleasure like he does everything else in his kingdom. “No matter what Walsh—or anyone else—thinks.” His teeth brand my throat, claiming territory already conquered. “Say it, hellcat. Tell me who owns this body.”

“Fuck you,” I gasp, the words torn between defiance and desperate plea, independence warring with need that burns me alive.

He pulls away from me suddenly, then rips open my shirt, sending the buttons flying. I squeak with surprise, and my hands fly up to cover my chest, but he’s already shoving the fabric down my arm, revealing the marks on my bicep that are turning yellow and green.

Gently, more gently than I’d ever imagined possible from this cruel monster of a man, he runs his fingers over them. “I don’t tolerate threats,” he snarls. “Not to you, not to fucking anyone that’s mine to protect.”

My eyes shoot to his, cold as winter in the mountains, and I remember the rumors about him and Victoria Reeves.

“He’s not a threat. Just an old man who’s desperate and broke,” I say, pulling up the remnants of my shirt to cover myself, shivering against the cool fall breeze.

Jackson’s eyes return to my face, not straying once to my breasts as I pull the fabric tight over them. He searches my eyes, then visibly relaxes, leaning back over me with one hand on the frame of the truck, the other gently playing with the collar of my now ruined shirt.

“When you were desperate and broke,” he asks, voice frighteningly gentle, “did you put your hands on someone half your size who couldn’t fight back?”

“I’m still desperate and broke.” I’m mesmerized by the darkness swirling in his eyes.

“And yet you don’t prey on the vulnerable.” His thumb traces my lower lip like he’s memorizing its shape. “Some men deserve to be broken, hellcat. And I’m just the monster to do the job.”

He cups my cheek, the calluses rough against my skin, and I wonder if there’s more to this than his need to protect his possessions, jealousy that someone else dared play with his toy. Slowly, as we stand there, staring at each other, the mood softens, like the brightness of the sun coming out after a sudden storm.

Finally, he backs away, giving me space to breathe, and I could swear his suntanned cheeks tinge with pink when he attempts to straighten my shirt, as if he could undo the damage caused by his fury a few moments before.

“Go change,” he says softly. “Before the sight of those bruises drives me to violence I’ll regret.”

“Jackson—”

“Fucking go,” he snaps.

I go.