Feral (Wolf Ranch #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,27

plans were. I’d spoken with her before I arrived, knew she was getting a Master’s degree in music theory—where I couldn’t even hold a tune in the shower—and probably settling here in Montana because she was barely getting by as a musician in the big city. While she may have thought a mortgage-free ranch would be cheap, the bad roof was an example of the way this place might bleed her dry.

“Yeah, I don’t know yet. I’m kind of figuring things out as I go.”

Not a lie.

“Are you going to look for a job? Or… try to ranch?” he asked doubtfully.

I pushed up on an elbow, puffing my chest up. “What, you don’t think I could ranch?”

He dropped to his back, hands up like he was surrendering. “I didn’t say that. I’m quite sure you could do quite a few things on your own that most single women couldn’t. Handle a weapon, for one. You gonna tell me what that’s about?” He glanced over my shoulder at the nightstand where my gun had been the day before.

“It’s downstairs on the kitchen table.”

He frowned.

“I was on the roof, remember?”

I noted the look of concern on his face again. Like he thought I was on the run or someone was after me. Why I needed to move a gun around the house with me. I should be thankful for him not being the kind of guy who worried a little-ole-thing-like-me might shoot herself. He wasn’t questioning my abilities, just the need for it.

It was damn sweet of him, his protectiveness, even though he was way off the mark.

“No one’s after me,” I said.

Huh. I also noted his eyes were darker than I thought. I could’ve sworn they were golden before. And I’m pretty good at remembering faces. It was part of the training.

“What color would you say your eyes are?” I asked, not only curious but eager to change the subject.

He stared back at me, his expression suddenly blank. After a beat too long, he said, “Well, that was an obvious redirect.” Yeah, he’d caught on. “You think I’m dumb enough to fall for that?”

Why did I feel like his words were also a redirect of his own? I narrowed my eyes at him.

He arched a brow at me.

“I like to be prepared.” I swallowed. What could I say that wasn’t a lie? That would show him the real me? I wanted to offer that right now. I had the urge to give him something I never gave out—not even when I wasn’t undercover. “I grew up in foster care,” I admitted.

He went still, even his breathing slowed.

“I was sort of… scared a lot growing up.”

A rumble came from his chest.

“Nothing terrible,” I added quickly when his face suddenly turned stormy. “Just not safe.”

This man had the protector vibe in spades.

I sighed, rolled onto my back and stared up at the way the sunlight cut a triangular shape across the ceiling. “I had a rotating stream of foster siblings from terrible backgrounds and… other stuff. The family I was with last, they earned money from the state off of us kids. Anyway, one of the first things I learned to do when I left was shoot a gun. I needed to know I could look after myself.” I turned my head, looked at him. “You know?”

“What about your great uncle? Shefield wouldn’t take you in?”

I froze. Oh God! What had I said? I wasn’t Willow Johnson, the orphan. I was supposed to be Natalie Shefield. I had to think fast. “It was just a few years,” I said quickly. “While my mom was going through some stuff. She didn’t want the rest of the family to know I’d been taken away from her.”

Oh. My. God. I really fucked up.

I guess it showed how much this man had gotten under my skin. How much I wanted to show him the real me.

Rob seemed to absorb the information without any doubt, which made me feel even worse about deceiving him.

He blinked at me. “Have you had to use the gun?”

“No.” I let out a forced laugh. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. “But I keep it close. You know, for when strangers barge in on me masturbating.”

That distraction worked. His eyes crinkled and lips curved up. He studied my face like he wanted to memorize it. “I’m sorry about your childhood.”

I was unprepared for the sharp blast of emotion that followed his words.

I never allowed myself pity, but it seemed some of