Page 33

33

Piper

The second Jake’s voice slices through the air— “MOVE!” —I jolt into action.

Or at least, I try to.

I twist on instinct, heart pounding, but the moment I plant my foot, a white-hot jolt shoots up my ankle.

“Oh, crap,” I hiss, stumbling sideways.

My balance goes rogue, and the next thing I know, I’m hitting the dirt with a graceless thud. Dust puffs up around me, my palms scraping against dry grass as my ankle howls in protest.

Definitely twisted. Possibly destroyed. I can’t tell.

The heifer’s still coming, massive and wild-eyed, hooves thundering like a one-cow stampede. I scramble backward on my elbows, heart leaping into my throat. I can’t get up fast enough. There’s no cover. No fence. Nothing.

This is how I die, I think wildly. Trampled by a cow, in dusty jeans and yesterday’s mascara.

Then everything blurs.

A sharp whistle cuts the air, loud and commanding. A flash of motion behind me, then— Jake. Jake on horseback, thundering in like a damn Western hero with a square jaw and righteous fury. He yanks the reins, pivoting the horse with impossible grace, cutting off the heifer’s path like he’s done this in his sleep.

The cow veers at the last second with a loud, angry snort, hooves skidding as it swerves and bolts toward the open field instead.

And Jake—Jake doesn’t even wait. He swings down from the saddle and drops beside me in one fluid move, grabbing me under the arms like I’m featherlight.

“Got you,” he growls, already lifting me up.

I blink up at him, dazed, my arms going around his neck automatically. “You just cowboy’d the hell out of that cow.”

His eyes scan me. “You hurt?”

“Twisted my ankle,” I breathe, still processing the near-death experience. “Also possibly my pride.”

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest—and okay, maybe I’m slightly concussed from adrenaline, but that chuckle is hot.

Jake adjusts his grip, cradling me bridal-style like it’s no big deal, like I weigh nothing. His arms are solid, steady, and the heat radiating off him might as well be a furnace. My heart’s still racing, but it’s starting to race for, um, entirely different reasons.

Because there’s something about this—me in his arms, the sun dusting his hair gold, his jaw clenched in protective fury—that’s short-circuiting every logical part of my brain. My ankle is throbbing, yes. But everything else? Flaming.

“Is it weird that I’m, like… really turned on right now?” I ask.

His gaze flicks to mine, mouth curving into that wicked, knowing smirk. “You nearly got flattened by a cow, and that’s your takeaway?”

“Have you seen yourself lately?” I whisper back. “You’re in full cowboy savior mode. It’s confusing for my hormones.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he carries me toward the truck. “You’re insane.”

“And yet,” I sigh dramatically, snuggling closer, “you’re still carrying me.”

He smirks. “Damn right I am.”

***

I’m still shaking by the time Jake gets me into his truck, the adrenaline rush making my heart pound like a jackhammer. My ankle throbs—a dull, insistent ache—and my brain’s stuck replaying the split second when that cow charged.

If Jake hadn’t saved me… yeah, better not to think about that.

He slides me into the passenger seat with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten. “You okay?” he asks, brushing the hair from my eyes.

“Define ‘okay,’” I manage, pulse still skidding. “I’m alive, so that’s good. Ankle’s on fire, though.”

“Let’s get you home.”

Jake starts the engine and eases us away from the ranch, the setting sun gilding everything in a hazy orange glow. Normally, he drives like a wildman—fast, assertive, borderline reckless.

But now, he’s calmer, glancing over every few seconds to check on my leg propped up on the seat, his hand steadying my calf so it doesn’t jostle. The concern in his eyes leaves me feeling all warm and wobbly inside.

I stare out the window, barely registering the passing scenery. My thoughts keep whirling: the cow, Davidson’s sabotage, the guilt I can’t shake from all my blog nonsense.

But a new worry intrudes—I’m leaning on Jake again. Hard. And despite everything, he’s still here, being my knight in battered cowboy boots. How many more times can I rely on him before I break what little trust we’ve built?

He breaks the silence with a half-smile. “So, how exactly does a city girl explain a cattle stampede-related injury to her friends back home?”

I snort. “Oh, I’ll probably blame you. ‘That cocky rancher with a hero complex let me get stomped by a cow.’”

His grin turns sheepish. “But I saved you, remember?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll include that.” I force a light tone. “Heroic Jake Ice, always swooping in to rescue the damsel from… farm animals.”

He shakes his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

But there’s a quiet note of relief in his voice, like he’s glad I can still snark through the pain. The hum of the engine fills the gaps in our conversation, and I sink deeper into the seat. My ankle throbs, but at least my heart rate is easing back from meltdown levels.

We reach my place just as the sky shifts to twilight. Jake kills the engine, then comes around to my side, opening the door. “Ready?”

I nod. “I can limp, you know.”

“Humor me,” he grunts. Before I can protest, he scoops me into his arms again, ignoring my squeak of alarm. “Ankle’s twisted. Doc Jake says no hobbling allowed.”

“Doc Jake, huh?” I drape my arms around his neck, half-embarrassed, half-stupidly touched. “You got your medical degree from Barnyard U?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

He carries me inside, navigating the small foyer without banging my head on a doorframe—already a success. My ankle throbs with every jostle, but the warmth of him pressed against me is… comforting. And more than a little distracting.

He settles me on the couch, propping my foot on a pillow. “Let me grab an ice pack.”

“Yes, do that. The irony of an Ice bringing me ice won’t be lost on me,” I tease, though my voice trembles a bit. Adrenaline comedowns suck.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that joke,” he calls back to me.

Jake returns with a plastic bag of ice and a dish towel, carefully wrapping the cold press around my ankle.

I can’t help but watch him, the way his hands move with surety, his eyes tense with focus. “Thanks,” I say softly. “I mean it.”

He glances up, eyes shadowed in the low light. “Don’t mention it.” Then he seems to remember something. “Wanna change? That jeans-leg is kinda tight around your ankle.”

I glance at my dusty pants. “Yeah, might be a good idea. But…” I bite my lip. “Not sure I can manage it gracefully right now.”

Jake’s face colors a bit. “I’ll help. Promise I won’t peek—much,” he adds, voice dipping toward a playful note.

Despite the pain, I laugh. “You’ve seen me in less.”

He hesitates, then nods once, carefully helping me slide out of the dusty denim. I can tell he’s trying to be polite, but all the same he can’t help but let his gaze linger on my bare legs for a few moments.

And that’s just fine with me.

He fetches some baggy lounge pants from my room—my “hobo pajamas,” as I call them. When he returns, I half expect a wisecrack, but he’s quiet, easing them over my feet like it’s a sacred duty.

The gentleness nearly undoes me. “Jake… thanks,” I whisper again.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, adjusting the waistband. Our eyes meet, and a rush of emotion hits me—gratitude, longing, guilt. All tangled.

He finishes fussing with my pillows, making sure my ankle’s elevated. I can’t help but press my palm against his shoulder, a silent thank-you. He turns his head, and for a moment, it feels like we might kiss—but I stop, swallowing hard. The tension is thick, but I’m not ready to talk about anything serious yet. My mind’s spinning, my heart battered.

“Want some water or meds?” he offers, clearing his throat.

“Water would be great. There should be some in the fridge.”

He nods and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a glass. After I take a few sips, he settles onto the edge of the couch. “You sure you’re okay?”

I let out a shaky exhale, leaning my head back. “I’m… not sure. I’m still rattled. And—honestly? Kind of jealous.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Jealous? Of what?”

"That whole scene at the ranch," I admit, voice wavering. "Your family, how everyone just dropped everything to show up. The way they moved together, no drama, no hesitation. Like some secret language only you guys understand." I pause, biting my lip. "That wasn't my childhood."

Jake doesn't interrupt. He just watches me, quiet, open.

"My dad was a pro hockey player," I say, my voice low. "Not, like, superstar famous, but good enough to get on a few covers. Minor leagues mostly. Good enough to get an ego, too."

Jake's brows lift slightly. "You never mentioned that."

"Because I hate talking about it." I stare at the ceiling, the familiar bitterness rising in my throat. "He left when I was a kid. Just... gone one day. No goodbye, no explanation. Mom got served divorce papers a week later."

"Jesus, Piper."

Jake's thumb traces circles on my palm, a quiet comfort that makes something in my chest unravel. The painkillers must be kicking in, because suddenly I want to tell him everything.

"Yeah. Most people assume I picked hockey because I'm obsessed with sweaty men and team drama." I try to joke, but it comes out hollow. "The truth? I picked it because it was the only thing I got from him that didn't leave."

Jake leans in slightly. "How old were you?"

"Eight," I say. "But he was already halfway gone before that. Always traveling. Always chasing the next trade. My mom begged him to stay. I still remember the fights. My mom yelling through the walls, him walking out mid-argument like she wasn’t even worth finishing the sentence for." My voice catches. "I remember covering my ears with a pillow so I wouldn't hear how desperate she sounded. He still left."

My throat tightens. “She tried. I’ll give her that. But she was angry, tired, heartbroken. And I was just… there. Listening. Absorbing it all like a sponge.”

I swallow hard. "When I say 'family,' I mean the scattered remnants of one. My mom's cousins, my stepdad for those three years he was around, my mom's best friend who I called 'aunt' until she moved to Phoenix. They'd ignore a group text, or spend five hours arguing about who was paying for gas."

"That's rough," Jake says softly.

"Mom never recovered. Not really. She held it together, worked two jobs, paid bills, showed up—but she was… tired. Sad. Like the color got drained out of her." I laugh, bitter and small.

Jake’s eyes darken, his jaw tight. “That’s not something a kid should have to grow up with.”

“Nope. But I did.” I force a shrug. “And I hated the quiet. Hated being the only one around to deal with the moods and the bills and the silence. You know what's really pathetic? I used to make up imaginary siblings. Had full conversations with them. Invented elaborate backstories." I pause, biting my lip. “It’s stupid.”

Jake’s expression softens. “It’s not stupid.”

“It is,” I insist, tears suddenly pricking my eyes. “I shouldn’t be envious that you have a supportive family. But I am."

Jake's eyes soften with understanding.

"I invented sisters who'd braid my hair and a big brother who'd scare away boys. Just so I didn't feel like I was surviving everything by myself." I glance away, embarrassed. "My mom found me setting the table for four once—me, her, and my two fake brothers. She cried for an hour."

Jake's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my palm. "I'm sorry, Piper."

"You know what's really messed up?" I continue, the words tumbling out now. "I used to watch every game I could find. Studied stats, memorized plays. I thought if I knew enough about hockey, if I could talk to him about something he loved..." My voice cracks. "Like maybe then he'd want to stick around."

Jake's hand tightens around mine, but he stays quiet, letting me get it all out.

"He remarried six months later. Had two more kids. Perfect little hockey family with a woman who looked like a Hallmark movie star." I swallow hard. "I saw them once at a game. They didn't see me. He was... different with them. Present. Laughing. Everything he never was with me."

"That's why you have such strong opinions about hockey players," Jake says softly, the realization dawning in his eyes.

I nod, unable to look at him. "Pretty cliché, right? Daddy issues fuel girl's career criticizing men who remind her of her father."

"It's not cliché. It's human."

"So… yeah, seeing your whole clan rally— it hurt in ways I didn’t know were possible.”

He gently takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t be. I’m just… dealing. But that’s not the only thing bugging me." I fight the urge to spill all about the Penelope blog and Davidson, then chicken out. “I guess I’m just tired of always feeling like the outsider.”

Jake squeezes my fingers like he’s anchoring me. “You’re not an outsider with me. Or with us, if you let it happen.”

My throat tightens, but I keep it light. “That’s what freaks me out, honestly. What if I can’t handle how good it could be? What if I fall too hard and—splat.”

He cups my cheek, thumb stroking softly like he’s trying to memorize my freckles. “You can handle more than you think, Piper.”

Cue chest ache. “Jake…”

He sighs and leans back just a little, like he knows I’m dangerously close to short-circuiting. “It’s been a hell of a day. You’re probably wiped. Drink some water, rest that ankle.”