Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson Page 0,157

wouldn’t call eight years a one-night stand.”

“Eight years?” she repeated. “Eight years? When were we together in the past eight years? And where were you? Who were you with?”

Some of the anger disappeared from his eyes. “There weren’t many, Cass,” he admitted with a sigh. “And none of them held a candle to you.”

Her throat burned, and she wanted to believe him. Oh, God, how she wanted to believe him.

The fingers forcing her down became gentler. “What about you?” he asked quietly.

“You want to know about my lovers? All of them?” she asked, and was surprised at the pain in his eyes.

“No—that’s your business, I suppose.”

“Well, there were none. Not in college and not here,” she admitted, suddenly wanting him to know, to understand just how important he’d been.

“None?” he hurled back at her, disbelieving.

“Nada.”

“Oh, Cass,” he whispered, releasing her. “No wonder your father hates me.”

“He doesn’t—”

“Of course he does.” Standing, he dusted off his hands, then offered one to her.

She took his hand, and he pulled her up but didn’t let go of her fingers. “You know,” he admitted. “I’ve always cared about you. Always.”

The lump in her throat swelled, and she could barely get out her reply. “S-so you said.”

He kissed her forehead so tenderly she nearly broke apart inside. “Please,” he whispered, “stay.”

“Not tonight.” Pulling her hand away, she shook her head. “Not yet. Before I sleep with you, Colton, I want to think things through.”

“That sounds a little cold and calculating.”

“No. It sounds smart.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, she lifted herself to her toes and kissed him on his forehead. “Last time I thought with my heart, this time I’ll use my head.”

Before she could draw away, his arms circled her waist. “Tell me,” he asked, “just how much does your father hate me and Denver?”

“Denver I’m not sure about, but he detests you.”

Colton was silent, his expression unreadable.

“That isn’t a surprise, is it?”

“No.” He lifted a shoulder as if he didn’t care, but Cassie felt there was something he was holding back—something he wasn’t telling her as he released her.

He walked her back to her pickup, but he didn’t say another word. And as she drove away, she saw him standing in the moonlight, his shoulders rigid, his back ramrod straight, his fists planted on his hips.

Chapter Ten

“Confounded things!” Ivan yanked on his boots, grimacing until his foot slid inside. Seated near the wood stove, he glared up at Cassie. “You got in late last night.”

Cassie nodded. “I was at the McLean place. Two of their horses have come down with strangles.”

“Strangles?” His booted foot clattered to the floor. “Around here?”

“Looks that way to me.”

“Which horses?”

“Black Magic and another stallion—a sorrel named Tempest.”

Glancing at his watch, Ivan straightened and massaged a kink from his back. He crossed the kitchen and filled a blue enamel cup with the coffee warming on the stove. Was it her imagination, or had he paled slightly? “The rest of the herd okay?” He offered her the mug.

“As far as I can tell. But I was going to stop by on my way into town.” She took a sip of the bitter coffee and made a face. “Why can’t you learn to make a decent cup of coffee?”

“It’s fine,” he grumbled, “you’re just picky. I sent you off to college, and what did you come home with?”

“A degree,” she teased.

“That and some ‘refined’ tastes,” he kidded back, but the familiar spark in his eyes didn’t appear. “You gonna be late again?”

“I don’t know,” she said, thinking of Colton and Denver McLean’s ailing horses.

Ivan dashed his coffee into the sink, then grabbed his jacket. “I’ll see you later,” he said. “I’ve got to feed the stock, then run into town to order some parts for the John Deere.” Whistling to Erasmus, he sauntered outside.

Through the window, Cassie watched him cross the yard. He stopped to pet a few of the mares’ muzzles and laughed out loud at a skittish colt’s antics before he disappeared into the barn. He’d been good to her, she thought as she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and pushed open the screen door. She was greeted by the dewy scent of morning and the obtrusive whine of a motorcycle engine shattering the crisp air.

Ryan Ferguson was on his way to work. His employment shouldn’t bother her, she told herself as she tossed her purse into the cab of her truck, but it did. She waited until he’d brought the cycle to a