Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
I play the message once, my jaw clenching the longer it goes on. When I’m done, I pull the phone away from my ear and play it again on speakerphone so Brody can hear it.
His eyes go wide, and he swears. “What are you going to do?”
I take a deep breath to steady the rage burning within me. I was trying to give her time and space. But it looks like our time together is up. She has to level with me so I can help her. After that, there will only be one more thing to do: claim my curvy woman.
7
SIERRA
I glance around Colt’s office one more time to make sure he’s nowhere nearby. It’s silly since I know he’s outside doing whatever it is that cowboys do on their farms after dark.
When I’m certain he’s not in the house, I take a seat in his leather chair. It’s so big that it practically swallows me and my feet dangle, unable to reach the floor. It’s official. Colt Winters is built like a giant.
I use the mouse to shake the computer out of sleep mode. Opening the browser into a private window, I type in the name Ivy Winters and hold my breath while I wait for the results.
It only takes a second before it loads the smiling picture of Ivy on a memorial page. I dry heave over the empty office trashcan. He lost them. He didn’t abandon his family. His wife and son died a few months after my father did.
When my stomach settles, I read the memorial page, blinking back tears. There are a few pictures of Ivy by herself and dozens of images with Dustin. It’s obvious from one look at the photos that she adored her little boy. Colt is in a few of them, but he’s there sporadically. He must have been away on missions for large portions of his son’s short life.
Once I’ve clicked through the memorial page, I comb the results again. This time I find an archived news story about a house fire that took the life of a local soldier’s wife and son. The burns on his arm, shoulder, and back fall into place. He survived when his family didn’t.
“No wonder you always look so sad,” I murmur. There are no photos of Colt after the fire from eight years ago. I do the math realizing that his son would be ten. His wife would be well into her thirties. They would have been married for sixteen years. How do you cope with that kind of loss? How do you manage to function again?
“You don’t. You enter a living hell where you’re half alive,” Colt grounds out from the office doorway. He’s watching me with a stormy expression that I can’t decipher.
Too late, I realize I didn’t hear him come into the house. I must have been asking the questions out loud. Tears stream down my face. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to. He lost his best friend then his family a few months later. It’s a miracle the man has managed to survive at all. Yet I’m so grateful that he did.
He crosses the room in two quick strides and comes to stand in front of me. With the back of his hand, he brushes my face. His rough, bleeding knuckles caress the soft skin of my cheek as he dries the tears. “Don’t cry for me, angel.”
“It’s not fair,” I whisper. “You served your country and protected everyone else and then that happened to you.”
“You know my secrets. Now tell me yours.” His harsh command is a direct contrast to the way he continues to stroke my cheek so softly. It strikes me that having my face touched feels almost as intimate as kissing him.
I sniff and hope I don’t have snot dripping down my face. “I don’t have secrets.”
He stops touching my face and puts one hand on the back of the big leather chair I’m sitting in and the other on the arm rest. He’s caging me in, like a predator with prey. His breath is warm against my skin when he says, “Try again.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I answer. I can trust him. I know that now. But after seeing the news story about his family, I don’t want to drag Colt into my problems. It’s not right. He’s already seen enough bad things.
He moves one hand and produces a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He swipes it twice then slams it down on the desk.
I frown and open my mouth, but he puts a finger to my lips. “Just listen.”
Seconds later, the sound of my stepfather’s voice fills the room. He sounds far too casual as he says, “Hey, Colt. This is Albert. We haven’t talked in a while and I hate to give you news like this over the phone, but Sierra has run away. We’re real concerned. I’ve been putting up posters and the police are looking for her. If by chance you see her, give me a call.”