Page 4 of Marked by my Protector (Inked and Possessive. Rugged Mountain Ink #3)

Tank

It’s half past seven when I finally get back to the house, and I’m still not done with chores.

I have half a barn’s worth of stalls to muck, and I didn’t get to the busted fence line out on the south pasture.

It’s a necessity before bed or the horses will be eating pies out of the neighbor’s window come morning.

Normally, I’d skip dinner and keep working, but she’s here. She’s here, and she’s all I’ve been thinking about.

I need to get a grip.

I kick off my boots at the door, soles caked in mud and hay.

The scent hits me first. Seared steak, garlic butter, and something sweet like cinnamon.

She didn’t throw something together. She cooked, and for the first time in years, the house feels like a home, which somehow sends both danger and pleasure signals to my brain all at once.

She can’t be beautiful and cook a good meal.

That’s a devil’s worth of temptation I’m not prepared to fight.

I sit down at the heavy oak table that’s been passed through three generations, the chair creaking beneath my weight. She’s plated everything. Steak, potatoes, and a warm biscuit she must have made from scratch. “Smells really good.”

She smiles softly, grabbing two beers from the fridge. “Would you believe I’ve never cooked a meal before? I found a cookbook next to the fridge. I hope it’s okay I leafed through it. The handwritten recipes are like something out of a movie. Was it your mom’s?”

I glance back toward the little recipe book on the counter.

“My granny’s. Mama used to cook from it too, but,” I laugh thinking about her attempts at Granny’s biscuits, “Mama didn’t have the cooking gene that Granny did.

” I chuckle. “Bugged her until the day she died. Seems you got a bit of it, though. This is delicious.”

Her eyes narrow as she takes a bite of the flaky, golden biscuit. “Okay, yeah.” She grins widely. “This is really good, but I think it’s more your granny’s recipe than it is my cooking.”

“No way,” I cut into the perfectly medium-rare steak, “this is skill. Remember, I just told you, Mama struggled her whole life with these recipes.” I slide the first bite of steak into my mouth, savoring the garlic butter seasoning I haven’t tasted in years.

“Damn,” I mutter, mouth full, “you nailed it.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“No.” I laugh under my breath as I bite into the crispy seasoned potatoes. “This is really good. It’s been a while. I usually just throw them on the grill with some seasoning mix from the grocery store and call it a day.”

“Well,” her cheeks pink as she takes a bite and adjusts the wrinkle in my shirt, “I saw you outside working hard, so I figured you needed something hearty to come back to.”

“Yeah, it’s a never-ending job out there. Still gotta fix the fence before bed.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not lately, no.” I take another bite of steak and lean back in my chair, glancing toward the doe-eyed girl that I can’t quite figure out. “I took the ranch over when my parents died, and it’s proving to be a pain in the ass.”

“The horses seem to like you, though.”

“Well, we get each other. Neither of us like being told what to do.”

That gets a laugh. “It’s more than that. They trust you.”

“It’s earned.” I take a swig of cold beer, letting the liquid cool my throat and my sick fucking mind as it slides down.

“They spook easy if you come at them too fast. You’ve gotta give ‘em space and time. I guess it’s taught me patience.

What about you? What do you do when you’re not running from weddings? ”

I shouldn’t ask because knowing is risky, but the words slip out before I think them through.

She twists her long blonde hair to her shoulder. “My life isn’t nearly as cool as yours. My dad owns a business, and he’s been grooming me to take his place when he retires since I was like ten years old.”

“Ten?”

“Ten. The first sleepaway camp I ever went to was for future business owners. I had a pretend corporation, and I had to run it like my own.”

“Shit. Sounds like every little girl’s dream.”

She smiles again, and a warmth fills the house that pairs far too nicely with dinner. “You have no idea. I couldn’t wait to go back the following summer to plan my expansion,” she says with a sarcastic laugh.

“So that’s it? No camping or fishing trips?”

Her brows wrinkle inward. “God no. My parents aren’t those people.”

“So you never did anything fun? What about now? What do you do for entertainment?”

She stares at me like I’ve asked her the most difficult question on a math quiz.

“I don’t know. That’s the thing. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to please everyone else that I don’t know what I like.

Some days, it feels like I’ve never even done anything, ya know?

Like, watching you work outside with the animals, it was … real . I don’t know how to explain it.”

I set my fork down on my plate and lean in. “Real is relative. No one wants this life. I spend every second of free time working on something. Fences, stalls, training. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Doesn’t leave much time for anything else.”

“Is that why you’re alone?”

“Damn,” my brows lift, “straight to it.”

“No,” she looks away, hiding her face as though she’s said something wrong, “that’s not what I mean.

I just… when I was watching you, I couldn’t help but wonder why you didn’t have a family.

This whole place is ideal for that, but ya know what, that was rude of me to ask. Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

I scrub my hand over my beard and stare toward her. “It’s okay. I get it. It does seem ideal, but it’s someone else’s story. For a while, I thought about selling it, but you start feeding things while tending to the land, and it grabs ahold of you.”

“That’s the feeling I need.” Her voice is barely louder than the hum of the oven. “I need something to grab me and hold me like that. I mean, you must’ve had some passion for it if you stayed.”

“I like the quiet. The way the fog rolls off the fields. How it smells after the rain. The breeze through the pines. The honest day’s work. It’s all mine. So, despite the rest of the shit, I guess there’s a silver lining.”

She sits for a long moment, still and silent as though she’s trying to calculate something I don’t understand. Then she stands and takes the pie off the oven, settling it between us with two small plates and a serving spatula Granny used to use on Sunday dinners.

“Take me out with you. Show me the land. The pines, the fields, and the horses. I want to feel what you’re describing.” Her tone is raw, trembling with a need that’s deep with curiosity and hunger.

I stare at her for a long moment, something warm curling into my chest as the pie between us sits untouched.

It’s a spark. A flash of something that burned out in me a long time ago.

She wants to feel the soul of this place.

No one’s asked for that before. “You sure? It’s muddy and gross out there.

That dress you’ve got on is pretty nice.

If you want to feel something, I could take you into town for Fall-Fest. They’ve got these apple cider donuts that people around here live for, though they never tried Granny’s. ”

She shakes her head, and cuts a slice of warm apple pie, landing it on the plate before handing it toward me.

“I want to do it all. I want to see your land. I want to go to Fall-Fest. I want to feel alive.” Her eyes widen like she’s afraid I’ll say no.

Like she needs to move right now or her heart will implode.

I take the plate from her, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into my palms. The pie’s golden crust flakes at the edges, steam rising in soft curls that carry cinnamon and nutmeg into the air.

It smells like memories. Like Sunday afternoons, and the low hum of Granny’s voice as she sang to herself while slicing apples.

I lift the fork, break through the crust, and take a bite. It’s good. It’s too good. It’s the kind of good that makes you close your eyes for a second longer than you mean to. The kind that makes you forget the walls you’ve built.

She watches me, her fingers curled around her own untouched plate. There’s something in her eyes. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s desperation. I’ve never been good at this shit, but there’s a part of me that wants to be better for her.

That should be my first clue to lock myself in the bedroom for the night.

Instead, I chew slowly, letting the sweetness settle, trying to buy time.

I want to say yes. I want to take her out past the fence line, show her the old barn with its leaning frame, the creek that cuts through the back pasture, the way the light hits the pines just before dusk.

I want to see her boots muddy, and her hair tangled by the wind.

I want to see her laugh at the goats, take her into town for the festival, eat too many donuts, and answer questions no one’s asked me in years.

Unfortunately, she’s a spark and I’ve lived too long in dry grass, so I have to be careful about all of this. I have to go slow, be methodical, keep hormones from getting in the way of rational thinking.

I set the fork down gently, the clink against the plate louder than I expect. “Alright,” I say, my voice low, “I’ll show you around.”

Her face lights up, and I feel that heat again. The heat that feels like danger.

She leaps up from the table, her soft, round breasts bouncing as she heads toward the door with the sweetest enthusiasm. “Yay! I’m so excited!”

I try to keep my tone even as I finish off the last bit of flaky crust. “There’s an extra pair of stompers on the rack there. They’ll be big, but you should wear ‘em.”

“Stompers?” She glances back toward me with downturned brows as though she’s genuinely confused.

“Boots.” I take another bite of pie and nod toward them on the rack. She’s so damn innocent. I’m going to crack. I shouldn’t go outside with her, shouldn’t show her around, shouldn’t do anything with her. I know damn well it’s a mistake.

But before I’ve verbally expressed my change in mind, she’s pulled the oversized stompers off the rack and slid into the worn, sun faded leather, one tiny foot at a time.

She wiggles her toes, then stands, wobbling slightly before catching herself on the knob of the door with a smile that hits me square in the chest.

Why does this feel so intimate? She’s not telling me her inner most thoughts. She’s wearing my boots.

I rise slowly, brushing the crumbs from my jeans as she bounces on the balls of her feet like she’s testing the ground.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Her voice is soft and way too fucking sweet.

I glance down at her feet, then back up at her. She’s confident, playful, and completely unaware of the effect she’s having. “You look like trouble.”

She grins and something hits me in the gut again. Something that feels like the beginning of a feeling I won’t be able to undo.