Chapter 36

For a few days, Kate is a little less bubbly than usual. It’s not often I’m reminded by how brutal ranch life can be, but to see her pain for a calf that survived only a short while is awakening. I’ve dealt with calves who got sick, who were stillborn, who just couldn’t cut it breathing oxygen. Two-headed calves are rare, and this is only the second one I’ve seen in all my years, but I’ve become so hardened to the loss of life that I wouldn’t have let it bother me.

Until I saw her pain.

I’d watched Kate help that calf and cow out of the barn and settle them beneath the stars and my heart broke. She’d fought so hard for the calf to have a fighting chance, and when it came down to it, she’d spent that calf’s last moments showing it love and care. She supported the mama and offered her warmth. I’d almost been as struck as she was when we realized the calf had passed in the night. I’d wanted it to live.

For her.

I’d wanted that calf to prove me wrong, to live and galivant through the sunshine with my sunflower. Instead, I’d been right, and the heartbreak that comes with that knowledge is surprising. But I’d seen a side of Kate I hadn’t seen before. I watched her lay out there and offer comfort. I watched her look to the stars with a new light. And now she aches with pain for a calf she hardly knew.

I stride out of the barn and find Kate sitting on the front porch already, waiting for whoever she’s going to be working with to come get her. I’d planned on telling her to come help me with the cows currently tending their calves, but that feels like it’ll still be too raw to tackle. I’ll just take care of it later by myself. I’d rather do that than cause her anymore unnecessary pain.

“Anyone show you how to throw a punch yet?” I ask as I step up on the porch.

She’s sitting in a rocking chair, her hand down on Ole Red as she pets him. He lazily twists until she’s scratching his belly, panting with happiness. He’s a good dog. Once a proud coon dog that happily protected this ranch, he’s earned his retirement now. Dakota will be a mess when something happens to him. I suspect we all will be. He’s not getting any younger. I think the old man is coming up on twelve now.

“Dakota taught me how to shoot a gun,” she offers, her voice strained as if she hasn’t been sleeping well.

That won’t do. She needs to sleep. Sleep is vital.

“Well, come on,” I tell her, gesturing for her to follow me off the porch. “There’s no way to make you a fighter quickly, but I can at least teach you how to throw a proper punch.”

She stands and stretches before following after me. Ole Red and the other cattle dogs lying on the porch immediately rise and follow behind her, their tails wagging. She’s befriended every damn animal in this place, apparently. All but Dozer. Not for lack of trying. I found the damn goat the bull doesn’t mind walking around his pasture with half eaten apples speared on her horns the other day. Clearly, it was Kate’s doing, a peace offering. Ninny, the goat, is the only thing allowed in that pasture and the only thing that won’t end up dead. The bull has a soft spot for her. God knows why.

“I can probably throw a punch,” she says as she pets all the dogs who press against her legs. “It’s not that hard.”

“You ever thrown one before?” I ask with a raised brow.

She hesitates. “Not really.”

I nod. “There’s a right and a wrong way to do it. The wrong way will break your hand and won’t hurt your enemy. The right way will knock them out and give you time to run.”

She tilts her head. “Am I gonna need time to run?”

“Yes,” I reply honestly. “Unless you’ve got a gun, you get out of harm’s way. Let one of us take care of it.”

A cute little huff escapes her lips that makes me want to kiss her. “I don’t particularly like being a damsel.”

“I doubt we have enough time to make you a warrior,” I point out. “But we’ll do the best we can. Show me how you hold a fist.”

She curls her fingers over and tucks her thumb inside her palm. At least she doesn’t have fancy nails anymore. When she’d first come here, she’d been all manicured up. Now, her nails are short but well-kept. Doesn’t matter. She’s beautiful no matter what, but the longer nails would have made a proper fist impossible.

“Nope, untuck your thumb,” I instruct, coming over to unfold her fist and refold it the proper way. “Just like this. You’ll have more power, and you won’t break your thumb.”

She nods. “Okay. And then I just hit you?”

“You use your body weight. You’re not strong enough to cause damage otherwise. As it is, you don’t even have much height to your advantage. When you bring your arm back, you throw your entire body into the hit. All five feet nothing of it.”

Her lips twist into a scowl. “This five feet nothing will kick your ass,” she warns.

“Good,” I nod. “I expect you to.” I close my fist around hers and pull her closer. “Weak points. Everyone has them. You punch somebody in these, it’ll cause the most damage.” I press her fist against my jaw. “Use your height to your advantage and punch up with everything you have. Everyone is taller than you. You hit just right, and you’ll knock them out cold.”

“Good to know,” she muses, her eyes on where my hand holds hers.

“If you can reach their nose, that’s a good place to hit,” I advise. “But if they’re taller than five feet five, you’re not gonna have enough power for that.”

“Great. My shortness working against me,” she sighs.

I can’t help but smile. “But it gives you other advantages.” I pull her fist down and press it against my crotch. Her eyes widen as I press her hand there. “If it’s a man, you kick him as hard as you can here. He’ll double over and then you can reach his nose. Then get away.”

“Nuts and nose and jaw,” she repeats. “Easy enough. You gonna let me hit you now?”

“Not in the nuts,” I warn, releasing her fist. “But feel free to try and hit me in the face.”

“Really?” she asks, her brow shooting up. “What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t even hit me,” I chuckle. “But hit my hand first to make sure you know how to throw a punch.”

We spend about an hour practicing, until my hand stings with her hit. When I feel like she’s figured it out enough, then I straighten and watch her. She’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Her cow print hat has long since been set off to the side and her boots kicked off to give her better momentum. Plus, I don’t know a single man who wants to get accidently kicked with boots on. It’s bad enough when you catch your shins on something.

“Okay, now hit me,” I tell her.

I’m much taller than her, so she isn’t gonna hit my nose with enough force to hurt me. If she gets my jaw just right, she may, but I’m more focused on her punching at my torso and getting fast enough to actually hit me. I may walk with a limp, but I can still move pretty well.

She swings and I take a step back, so she misses. When she swings again, I barely have to move to avoid it.

“Remember, if you’re close enough to punch someone, you’re already in danger. Your goal is to get away,” I instruct, dancing out of the way of another hit.

“You know, for someone who once broke his back, you move really fast,” she grunts, trying to hit me again and missing.

“It took years of physical therapy,” I admit, and she pauses to look up at me. “They didn’t think I was going to walk again. In fact, they told me I wouldn’t.”

“And you were too stubborn to believe them,” she says with a smile, and for the first time since the calf died, I see a spark enter her eyes. “What did they say when you started walking?”

“Oh, they took credit for it,” I say with a shrug.

“Of course, they did,” she sighs. “What was it like?”

I watch her carefully “Which part? The not walking or the almost dying?”

“Both.”

I straighten and study her, the way she holds herself, the curiosity in her eyes. Everything about her is perfect, despite the fact she doesn’t fit in here. I don’t think Kate fits in anywhere though. She’s too unique, too kind, too vulnerable. Emotions like hers are a weakness, or at least that’s the way I view them. Emotions have no place in my life. When they come out, shit like the Boot Scoot happen. People get hurt. I hate it. When you have demons, you can’t let them out to play. You have to keep them caged.

But here’s fucking Kate, a walking, talking key. And she keeps springing my goddamn lock open.

The thought makes me want to storm away, to remove myself from the situation. Instead, I take a deep breath and answer her question. I may be an asshole, but fuck if I don’t want to be her asshole. It’s dangerous, especially with so much heat on her, but I’m nothing if not foolish. I used to ride bulls for a living after all. My pa was right. I’m always chasing a high.

And right now, that high is Kate.

“Almost dying was humbling,” I admit, looking anywhere but her face. “There wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t see Heaven. I just saw my pa.”

“Were you close?” she asks.

“No. Not in any way,” I admit. “He was a drunk bastard. Beat the fuck out of me a lot. Did. . .other things. That kind of man. He was long dead by the time of my accident, but there I saw him, berating me, telling me I was good for nothing, yelling about how I was always such a disappointment.” My words grow rough, and I have to clear my throat. “That’s the reason I woke up, to spite him.”

She moves closer and touches my forearm. “Sometimes, spite is the best tool. It’s okay that’s the reason you pulled through.”

My instinct is to pull away. Instead, I lean into her touch, relish it, want more of it. I’ve hungered for her since I’d had a taste out in the fields.

“And not walking was hell on earth. But I wouldn’t have made it through that without. . . well, Dakota and Wiley got me through that.”

I’m covered in scars now. Dozer added his in there, his horn spearing me through my gut, but there’s more from the surgeries I had to fix my back. I’ll never be the same, never be able to move like I once did, and my arthritis is a bitch when the weather gets cold, but I’m alive. And now I get to stand here before my sunflower.

I clear my throat. “I know I’m a grumpy bastard?—”

“Don’t,” she says, cutting me off.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that.” She cups my jaw and I lean down so she doesn’t have to stand on her tiptoes. “Don’t talk down on yourself like that. You have your reasons.”

“If I don’t do it, who’ll keep me in line?” I mumble, looking into her eyes. A woman has no business being as beautiful as she is. Everything inside me wants to run from her, scared she’ll look too deeply and see just what kind of monster I am. I haven’t even told her the worst parts of me. I haven’t shown her the blackest parts of my soul. Still, she looks up at me like I’m the sun.

My little sunflower.

I can’t restrain myself. I wrap her in my arms and tug her close, hugging her. She stiffens in surprise, but relaxes into the hug quickly and wraps her arms around my back. Her fingers trace over the ridges of my scars, but she doesn’t comment on them. As big as I am, she disappears in my arms, her face shoved into my chest.

“We don’t deserve you,” I mumble. “I hope you know that.”

“Of course you do,” she says against my shirt, the sound muffled.

No, we don’t. She doesn’t understand, but I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to leave.

I won’t let her leave.

It’s too late now. She’s here to stay. She probably should have dug deeper and learned our secrets before she captured our hearts. These barbed wire hearts don’t let go.

They never fucking let go. . .