Finally Home (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

C
olt watched Casie's eyes widen. With desire? With fear? Hell, he couldn't even guess. They'd known each other for a couple decades and she was still an enigma. But he knew this much . . . he wasn't leaving tonight.

“We had an agreement,” he reminded her.

She shook her head, but he continued as if he hadn't noticed. “If you insisted on stacking hay despite your injury . . .”

“I—”

He raised a hand to forestall any arguments. “Which you did,” he added. “Then I was to make certain you got safely into the bathtub.”

“I didn't agree to that.”

He exhaled as if wearied by the whole debate and forced his gaze away from her. It took some effort because, regardless of every irritating little detail about her, she was still hopelessly alluring, like the sun after a long winter or hope in the midst of despair. “I believe you said . . .” He narrowed his eyes, mimicking deep thought, but he wouldn't have had to waste a second on remembering their earlier discussion. She'd been fiery and firm, standing up for herself and her ranch. The way she should be, the way she used to be before her dumber-than-snot fiancé had drained her of confidence. “ ‘Try it.' ” He grinned despite himself. “Those were your exact words.”

For a moment he thought she would retaliate and waited, but she merely preened a smile at him. “I'll take a bath,” she said. “Without your help.”

“But how do I know you'll make it to the tub?” he asked. “I mean, it's been a long day. Maybe you'll just fall into bed without properly soaking your joints.”

Her smile was becoming a bit more brittle. “I promise to bathe.”

For a second his mind stepped back and felt the need to inform him that this might be the silliest conversation he'd ever had. But he was not adverse to silly. If anyone needed a little more silly in her life, it was Casie May Carmichael.

So he shook his head. “You came off Maddy pretty hard. Could be you injured yourself more seriously than you think.”

“You don't have to worry about that.”

“But I do,” he said, and though he didn't mind in the least if she thought he was being glib, it was the truth. He worried about her all the damned time. And what the hell was that about? Half the women he had dated, and there had been a considerable number of them, had been rodeo queens or Miss something-or-others, which meant they'd risked their lives running horses on a daily basis. Which also meant the majority of them had taken some nasty spills. By comparison, Casie had just kind of slipped gently off Maddy, like a duckling gliding from the nest. Yet seeing her fall had been like taking a hammer to his thumbnail. “I worry.” It was the horrible truth. “What if you collapse while getting into the tub?”

“Oh, for Pete's sake! I'm not going to collapse,” she said and turned away.

“You might have hit your head,” he argued, following her with dogged, and he was certain irritating, tenacity.

“I didn't.”

“Brain injuries are nothing to fool around with.”

“I don't have a brain injury.”

She didn't mention that she didn't fool around, he realized, and thought that was a hopeful point to ponder.

“I had a buddy in Cheyenne once,” he said, gearing up for a much fabricated tale. “Name was Mick. But we called him Mayberry. No idea why. Anyway . . . he was a bulldogger who—”

“Colt!” She jerked abruptly toward him. “I just stacked three hundred bales of hay with no ill effects.”

He shrugged, doing his not-so-fantastic best to control his grin. Man, he loved it when she got fired up. Which might be pretty perverse on his part, because there were few things that made her more wigged out than those messy emotions. “Two ninety-eight maybe,” he said.

She scowled.

“Sonata stacked at least two.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

He went with her. “And the kid, Lincoln . . .” He was a little embarrassed that he had forgotten about the boy for a minute. After all, he was the supposed reason for this little sleepover. “He must have stacked five at least.” Actually, Lincoln Alexander had done pretty well despite scraped knuckles and lacerated forearms. He was stronger than he appeared, Colt thought, and wondered if that realization should make him feel better or worse.

He glanced at the bunkhouse as they reached the porch, but she stopped and turned toward him, one booted foot on the bottom step.

“Really,” she said, voice low, brows bunched over oh-so-earnest eyes, “you can't come upstairs.”

“Why not?” he asked and tried his utmost to match her solemn sincerity.

“Because I'm trying to set an example for the girls!”

He raised his brows and waited to the beat of three before speaking again. “It's not like we're going to sleep together.”

“I—”

“Is it?” He tilted his head a little.

“No!”

“Then what difference does it make if I help you with your bath?”

“They'll know!”

He allowed himself a tiny chuckle. “Well, of course they'll know, Case. It's not like I'm invisible.”

“And they'll think . . .” She shook her head.

He did the same, though he wasn't sure why . . . maybe to help her reach some sort of less-than-asinine conclusion.

“They'll think there's something going on.”

He continued to stare at her with blank fascination.

“Between us!” she explained, as if he was so remarkably obtuse that he hadn't quite followed her thought process.

“Oh!” He stepped back a startled pace. “Well, that's just wrong. I mean, you said you weren't interested. Right?”

“Right.”

He scowled as if troubled by an unacceptable thought. “You don't think I'd take advantage of a woman who's not interested in me, do you?”

“No.” Her answer sounded truthful, which was something of a relief, but the dilemma didn't seem to be settled in her own mind.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“But they won't know that.”

“Won't know what?”

She pursed her lips. It was entirely possible that he was being intentionally difficult. “That there's nothing between us.”

He swore in silence and upped the wattage of his innocent expression. “So the girls' opinion is your only concern?”

“Yes,” she said, and though her answer sounded suspiciously like a question, he doggedly took it at face value.

“Not a problem,” he said and marched past her up the porch steps with steely resolve.

He heard more than saw her spin around to follow him. “Colt!” Her voice was breathy, but he ignored her.

“Colt!”

“Just a minute.” He was in the house now and toed off his boots in deference to the recently scrubbed floor. “Girls!” He raised his voice once he saw that the kitchen was empty.

“Colton!” Casie hissed.

He waved a hand behind him. “I'll clear this up,” he told her. “Emily? Soph!”

“Don't—” Casie began, but the teenagers were already clattering down the steps. In a second they had burst into the kitchen.

“What's wrong?” Emily's face looked strained. Sophie's was stamped with her signature irritation.

“Hey,” he said and kept his own expression carefully serious. “Sorry to bother you.”

“What's going on?” Emily asked, gaze sprinting from one to the other.

“We need to talk to you,” he said.

“I was doing homework,” Sophie informed them.

“This will just take a minute. I wanted to make sure you didn't have any objections to my sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“What?” Emily asked.

Sophie had a pencil stuck above her left ear. “Why would I care where you sleep?” she asked.

“This is ridiculous,” Casie said through gritted teeth, then raised her voice a little to include the girls. “You can go back to—”

“I just wanted to make sure you weren't uncomfortable with the idea,” Colt interrupted.

“Why?” Emily asked, looking from one to the other again.

“Why would I stay, or why would you be uncomfortable?” Colt asked.

Emily narrowed her wily eyes. “Both.”

“Well . . .” he began, and now he watched her carefully. “I'm a little nervous about those burglaries in town. I'd just feel better if I was close by for a while.”

She nodded slowly as if accepting the idea. And he wasn't sure what to make of that. The day Emily Kane didn't question every single event that crossed her path was the day that something was wrong.

“How are you feeling about that?” he asked.

Emily shrugged.

“I think we should do target practice,” Sophie said.

Colt shifted his gaze to hers. “What?”

“Casie can shoot,” Sophie said. “I want to learn, too.”

That gave him pause. The idea of Sophie Jaegar carrying a loaded anything was cause for alarm.

“Okay,” he said. “That's . . .” Terrifying. “A good idea. But for right now, I'm going to hang around some. Okay?”

Sophie shrugged. “Seems like you're here all the time anyway,” she said. “Hey, is there any of that lasgna left?”

“A little.” Emily's tone was vague, as if her mind was elsewhere, but that's all Sophie needed to hear. She brushed past the others, making a beeline for the fridge.

“We just wanted you to know that there's nothing going on between us,” Colt said, and turned sideways so as to address both girls.

Beside him, Casie fisted her hands against her thighs and looked as if she would like to silently disappear into the worn linoleum.

Sophie gave them one more scowl before she pulled the refrigerator door open.

“What?” Emily asked and shook her head a little, as if the whole conversation made no sense whatsoever.

“We know you're impressionable young women,” Colt explained. “And we don't want you to think that there's any hanky-panky going on.”

Emily lifted her brows, but Colt soldiered on, managing a straight face with what he considered admirable aplomb. “Casie's made it clear she's not the least bit interested in me.”

The woman beside him moaned quietly, but other than that the house was as silent as death for the count of five.

“Are you serious?” Emily asked.

“It's not that . . .” Casie began, but her voice dwindled to a halt.

They all turned toward her. Sophie was eating leftovers straight from a glass container. Classiness, it seemed, did not extend to lazy lasagna.

Casie cleared her throat. “It's not that I'm not
interested
in . . . Mr. Dickenson.”

Oh good, she was now referring to him by his last name, he thought, and blinked with innocent bonhomie.

“I mean . . . we're
friends
. It's just that . . .” She halted again and looked at Colt, as if she thought he might help her out of this hole. But why on earth would he have dug the hole in the first place if he didn't want her in it? “We don't . . .” She took a deep breath. “I'm just not really . . .”

“She's not attracted to me,” Colt said.

“Holy shorts!” Emily sounded earnestly peeved.

“I'm going to bed,” Sophie said and headed toward the stairs.

“Okay.” Colt nodded and did his utmost not to crack a grin. “I just wanted to let you know that if you see us in the bathroom together or anything, ours is a perfectly platonic relationship.”

Sophie just raised a dismissive hand as she headed upstairs with her late-night snack.

But Emily remained where she was for another few seconds. She stared at them both in dismay, then shook her head and followed in her comrade's footsteps. The ancient stairs creaked one at a time until the doors closed and the house went silent.

“Well . . .” Colt turned toward Casie, rubbing his hands briskly together. “Good. I think that went pretty—”

“Are you out of your mind?” The words were hissed.

“No,” he said and shook his head, perfecting his baffled expression as he did so. “I don't think so.”

“You don't just . . .” She paused as if to catch her breath. “What's wrong with you?”

“I'll make you a list sometime,” he said brusquely. “But right now we should get you into the tub before that leg stiffens up.”

“Listen . . .”

“Come on, Casie. We had a deal.”

“We did not have . . .”

“Just relax. We already determined that you're not interested in me and that I'm too . . .” He shook his head. “We'll call it vanity. I'm too
vain
to push myself on a woman who isn't attracted to me. Ergo—”

“Ergo.” He grinned a little. Far be it from him to actually
be
vain, but he was fairly certain that women didn't find him entirely repulsive. “No harm can come of this,” he said, and bending slightly, shifted his arms behind her back and thighs. In a second he was cradling her against his chest.

“What are you doing?” The words were little more than a hiss against his cheek.

“Carrying you,” he said and took a step toward the stairs.

“You can't—”

“I can.”

“You shouldn't—”

“Shhh,” he said. “We don't want to wake the baby.”

“I'm not going to wake—”