*
The next afternoon, Beau arrived at the house earlier than usual. He’d run into town to check on an order of lumber for a new barn under construction at the Kincaid ranch and had decided to make a detour to check on Morgan. Since the funeral, the kid had seemed even more withdrawn and quiet, as if the ritual of burying her mother had made her situation more final, as if deep-down she’d been harboring some hope that the doctors had made a mistake.
Or maybe he was reading too much into the situation.
He pulled up and cut the truck’s engine. Things would have to change. Currently, the three of them—Shiloh, Morgan, and he—were living in limbo, existing together in a surreal state, one that couldn’t continue.
When Shiloh’d first landed in Prairie Creek, she’d told him he shouldn’t stay here, that he had a home and should go there. Now that the funeral was over, her words rang even truer. He’d been camping out over the garage for Morgan, or so he’d told himself, but Shiloh being here had played into things, messed with his head.
He’d stood at his window and watched her sleep, not twenty yards away. As the bullfrogs croaked and crickets chirped he’d witnessed the rise and fall of her breasts and the way her hair, caught in the moonlight, fell over her cheek. He’d felt like a voyeur and had snapped the dusty blinds shut in disgust . . . then had splayed out on his back on the old cot and fantasized about her.
Telling himself that he was losing it, that he’d been too long without a woman, that Shiloh Silva was not the right woman to let into his brain or his dreams hadn’t helped. Every morning since she’d arrived, he’d woken up with an aching hard-on that wouldn’t quit. He knew the source: erotic dreams where the both of them were stripped naked, their skin covered in perspiration, their bodies clinging together. While in slumber, he’d run his tongue over the shell of her ear, heard her moan with desire, and felt her guide his fingers inside her as he nipped at her breasts. Each night, if only in his mind, she’d rocked his world. Only a shower as cold as an arctic storm had been able to cool his blood and ensure that his cock would relax.
Something had to break.
With Rambo trotting behind, he walked through the front door, left open, the screen in place. It squeaked as he opened it, and he called for Morgan as he walked through the house. “Hey! Morgs?” he yelled down the hallway, though he sensed no one was inside. A quick scan of the bedrooms confirmed his suspicions.
The shepherd was already heading to the back door, which, like the front, was only secured by a screen. Rambo didn’t wait but nudged the screen door open and took off across the dry patch of lawn and through the nonexistent gate, and loped down the worn dirt path to the pasture nearest the barn. In the enclosure, Shiloh was brushing a sorrel mare, while Morgan, balanced on the top rail of the fence, looked on.
As the dog gave out an excited bark, Morgan looked up, shielded her eyes, and spying Beau, hopped to the ground. His heart did a stupid little flip when he saw the hint of a smile on her freckled face.
“Hey, Morgs,” he said as he reached her and she flung herself into his arms. “Learning something?”
“What?”
“From Shiloh?”
The girl glanced over her shoulder. “Nah. I’m just bored.”
“What can we do about that?”
“Ayla called and asked me to come over, maybe stay the night.”
“And?”
“She said ‘no.’” Morgan hitched a defiant chin in Shiloh’s direction. “She said she didn’t know Ayla or her parents, and so unless you said it was okay, I couldn’t go there, but Ayla could come here.”
“Sounds fair enough to me.”
Morgan’s smile faltered, and he saw hurt in her eyes. He reminded himself that she was still raw inside.
“Hey, I didn’t say I’d say ‘no,’ did I?”
“But you didn’t say ‘yes’ either,” she countered. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shiloh approach. She’d released the mare, who was tossing her head and galloping to join the rest of the small herd, her coat glistening a fiery red in the late-afternoon sunlight.
“She’s been workin’ me,” he said, motioning to Morgan with one hand.
For that he received a glare silently calling him a traitor.
“I said she could go if you okayed it,” Shiloh said.
“You’re not my mother!” Morgan spat.
“Whoa, whoa.” Beau held up his hands as in surrender.
“No one said I was,” Shiloh retorted.
“And I’m not your dad,” Beau put in quickly, “but right now, this is what we’ve got. The three of us have to figure this whole family thing out.”
Morgan’s face crumpled into a scowl, and she crossed her arms belligerently over her chest.
“The way I see it, you can go to Ayla’s. You’re talking about Ayla Dunbar, right?”
Morgan muttered, “The only Ayla I know.”
He ignored her jab and said to Shiloh, whose face was set in stone, “The Dunbars are good people. Frank, Ayla’s father, is an insurance salesman and does horseshoeing on the side. I’ve known him for years. His wife, Betty Ann, owns the bakery in town.”
Morgan rolled her eyes.
Shiloh nodded. “Then let’s set it up. I’ll call Ayla’s mom and introduce myself.”
“How embarrassing!” Morgan cried. “It’s like you don’t trust me.”
“I just don’t know the Dunbars,” Shiloh said, echoing Beau’s words of a week before. “I’ll talk to Betty Ann, and if it’s on, we’ll make it happen.” Shiloh paused.
“Just let me shower first.” She brushed her hands together and whipped her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. Morgan seemed to want to fight, but she reluctantly checked her own phone and gave Shiloh the number to call Betty Ann. The whole exchange took less than five minutes. “Okay, we’re good to go,” Shiloh said and hurried up the back steps.
“Can’t you take me?” Morgan asked Beau once the screen door banged shut.
“What’s the problem?” In his opinion, Shiloh was handling the situation perfectly, and that surprised him.
“I don’t know,” Morgan mumbled.
“Give ’er a chance, Morgs.”
“Easy for you to say.” With that she stomped off.
Beau watched her leave, but his mind was still on Shiloh. He’d thought a lot about her over the years, but never had he thought she had any bit of maternal instinct.
Beau Tate didn’t like to be wrong.
Worse yet, he didn’t like admitting it.
This time it looked like he’d have to.
Chapter 8