Page 11 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

My heart thuds against my chest. At what point does someone call the police?

I grab my purse off the floor and practically crawl to the door, ducking behind people being knocked all over the place.

I push to my feet, trying to stay close enough for him to hear me. “Dallas,” I call.

He merely glances at me before his focus lands over my shoulder. Dallas dodges a punch and reaches for me.

I gasp when I’m lifted off my feet by his big hands on my waist.

For a second, I think he’s hauling us both out of the bar, but instead, he practically slams me into another body before returning to the fight.

I stiffen for a moment before a familiar cedary scent wraps around me. My back is pressed against a broad chest. Hot, muscular arms secure me in place as I’m rushed outside. The beat of his heart is so fast, I’m dizzy with it.

Wilder sets me on my feet and spins me to face him.

I don’t know how to help Dallas in a bar fight. I don’t know how to get a mean-looking stranger to leave me alone.

But I thought I knew how to take on a grumpy cowboy about to do some yelling.

Unfortunately, when he looks like Wilder does right now, muscles flexed, jaw tight, sharp, stormy eyes .?.?. I’ve got nothing.

I’m not cold anymore but I feel naked right now, as he roams over the tears in my dress, the scrape on my shoulder.

“Dallas,” I breathe, twisting my scarred arm out of the light.

“He’ll be fine. It’s his third one in the last two weeks.” There’s a fire simmering beneath his words, even as he’s trying to comfort me that his brother will be all right.

My mouth drops open at the new information, but I manage to swallow.

“I didn’t call you here for me.” I leave him to head back to the bar.

He doesn’t follow. Before I can pull the door open, Dallas steps out.

His left cheekbone is red and he has dried blood on the corner of his mouth.

But it’s his arm that catches my attention.

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”

He holds a hand up. “I’m fine.” Then he pins me with those eyes that are more a sad blue than penetrating—unlike his brother’s. “You all right?”

I nod, but I’m not sure I am.

Dallas looks behind me. “I had it under control, you didn’t have to come.”

“Look better than you did last week,” Wilder comments.

Ricky and Dusty step out. Dusty still looks like she walked out of a comic book for adults. And Ricky .?.?. looks like he should be seen by a doctor.

How the hell did Dallas manage that in his condition?

Ricky looks over at Wilder with one good eye, the other too swollen.

“Well, if it isn’t the other Thorne in my side.

You boys do yourself a favor and bring your lovely new employee by Callahan Ranch for a real experience.

She seemed very interested.” He winks at me, and I have the strangest desire to spit on him.

Yeah, you better walk away , I think to myself when Dusty tugs her brother in the other direction. She flicks her gaze back to Dallas—more to his bleeding arm. “Might want to make sure there’s no—”

“We got it, Dusty,” Wilder assures her. After they walk away, he glares at his brother. “Give me your keys.”

Dallas sighs and reaches in his pocket.

Wilder takes the keys and turns on his heel. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, I consider folding my arms and stubbornly insisting I’m staying. After all, I barely finished my drink.

But that would be immature, and Wilder is too .?.?. scary to provoke right now.

Plus, I really want to make sure Dallas is all right. I feel so guilty about the fight. Even if it was inevitable—tonight, I was the cause of it.

Dropping my head, I follow quietly, deciding I’ll try that drink another night.

So what if the first man I meet is the man to stay away from. Now I remember why the last name Callahan sounded familiar. And not in a good way. Wesley’s mentioned them once or twice as the Thorne family’s rivals for more than a decade.

A gust of wind blows pieces of my dress around my legs, and I pull my strap up. Suddenly conscious of my exposed forearm, I rub it and keep my hand over it as if I’m cold.

Wilder opens the back seat of his truck and reaches in, snatching a dark grey blanket. It almost looks like one of those heavy blankets they wrap around people they pull out from a burning building. He cocks his head once, and Dallas slips into the back—where I was sure I’d be going.

Closing the door, Wilder turns and scans me once, as the wind continues to blow through the new slit in my dress.

The thick blanket is wrapped around me tightly—and he’s anything but gentle about it. He grips both ends of the blanket in front of my chest, meeting my eyes, and for a moment I think he might say something. Maybe even ask if I’m all right?

But he lets it go and yanks open the passenger door. “Get in.”

I swallow. “Only if you take me back to your place.”

“Excuse me?”

“So I can take care of Dallas’s arm.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands. Get in the car.”

I’m about to argue, storm off or, hell, do something. But the only thing that slips out is a small, “Please?”

He blinks away with a resigned breath. “Fine. Get in.”

I settle into the passenger seat, glancing back at Dallas. He’s spread across the back seat, eyes open, staring up into space.

I gasp when Wilder’s arm reaches across me from where he stands by my passenger door. He lifts my purse, reaches inside, and pulls out the keys for the golf cart.

Even through the thick blanket covering me, I’m sizzling from the proximity. Already wondering if my body’s reaction to him will ever stop.

After shutting my door, he darts across the street to the “borrowed” vehicle and tosses the keys inside, and that’s when I notice its condition.

“ Holy shit .”

It’s not like I picked up the golf cart shiny and new, but how did I not see what I did to it? The wheels are caked in dirt and mud. There are dark scratches along the roof and sides. Pieces of shrubs and branches are scattered inside.

God, I hope there’s no other damage. Like to the engine or anything. Brett warned me about them not being built for certain roads.

Dallas glances back through the window, following my gaze. “Oof.” He winces, then chuckles. “You’re in trouble.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Not any more than you,” I point out.

He smirks, then plays dead when his brother jumps in the driver seat. Wilder glances in the rear-view mirror with a furrowed brow, then takes off.

On the short drive back, he dials someone. “Hey, Jeff, sorry to bother you. You out?”

I don’t hear the response.

“Figured as much. Would you do me a favor? I left one of the golf carts parked outside of Bones. Keys are by the pedals. Mind towing it back to the ranch for me?” There’s a pause before he offers his thanks and hangs up.

An hour later, I step out of Wilder’s house, releasing a deliberate breath.

As suspected, the sharp cut on Dallas’s arm turned out to be the result of a broken beer bottle. I inspected it for any glass shards that might have pierced through the skin, pressing my thumb lightly near the wound.

Either there were no embedded pieces, or Dallas is extremely tolerant to pain.

Or just too numb.

I cleaned the area with a first-aid kit Wilder handed me, then dressed it, all the while conscious of his curious gaze on me. Before I left, I thanked Dallas for coming to my rescue tonight. Even if I was sure I could handle myself, I didn’t want Dallas’s efforts wasted.

I kept the blanket over my shoulders, covering the better part of my right arm while in their bright kitchen.

Now outside, in the dark, I hand it back to the owner. “Thank you for coming.”

Maybe another night I’ll ask about the rivalry with the Callahans. In New York, we don’t have “rivals.” We have enemies or annoying neighbors, or the occasional personal vendetta against the coffee vendor who charged three dollars for my coffee and then another ten for a tip.

Still disputing that charge.

Wilder doesn’t respond to my gratitude. I consider turning back to him as we walk to his car, then remember my tendency to run into him.

When I’m a safe distance away from possible impact, I turn. “Is it OK if I stop by to check on him tomorrow?”

“House calls are a thing of the past, Doc.” He meets my eyes and there’s a question in his that makes me shift uncomfortably.

He takes a few steps until his intimidating frame towers over me, the intensity in his eyes making me feel both trapped and electrified at once.

“I don’t think so,” he replies gruffly. “You’re going to be very busy tomorrow. And very tired.”

A shiver runs through my veins. And my heart flutters. Why does my heart flutter? Whatever he’s implying can’t be good for me.

I roll my lips, having no response to his unspoken threat. Despite the tension, there’s something magnetic about him—an edge that hints at control just barely restrained. He’s angry, yes, but it’s not hasty. It’s measured, careful, and damn near intoxicating.

His eyes drop to the scrape on my shoulder. It nearly knocks me off my feet when he brushes his fingers lightly over the wound. I suck in a sharp breath, and he draws his hand back.

“I don’t suppose this would be a good time to tell you the bush got it worse?” I smirk with a hint of laughter.

“Come on,” he tears his eyes off me, “it’s been a long night.”

But I’m not ready. I’m picking up on something and .?.?. in Wilder’s words from the other day, I’m going to need some confirmation.

“Will you just tell me what’s got you so angry? If Dallas is going to be fine, then what is it? I snuck out with stolen property, big deal. When the shit hit the fan, I called, didn’t I?”

He snaps his head back. “I don’t know if Dallas is going to be fine. I didn’t know if you were fine.” He huffs out a laugh like I have no clue. “Do you know what it’s like to have your staff call you in a damn panic because they thought someone broke in?”

My eyes widen, lips parting as the weight of my actions tonight starts to settle in.

“Found the path you managed to push through. We thought we were dealing with rustlers. I had my men combing the grounds, armed, on edge. All so you could take a little joyride through town.” His voice is gravelly, cutting through the air like a whip.

His eyes are dark as he scans me again, the way he did earlier, as if checking for more scrapes and bruises. “And then you called for help,” he exhales, finally pulling his gaze off me.

I suck in a breath, ready to unleash, about to make it painfully clear to this man that I wasn’t the one who needed saving, it was for Dallas.

But my breath catches in my throat.

He’s so rugged and feral right now, in a dangerous, intoxicating kind of way. In a way that makes me feel hot .?.?. and safe.

Because there’s something else laced in his words, his eyes, that’s unmistakable. His whole body trembled with it when he carried me out of that bar.

Fear.

Lifting my eyes, I watch him struggle with himself.

Then, I give my most heartfelt apology of the evening.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”