Page 33 of Hard Rain Coming

“He needs to let out Lily.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

“Benton, I…” God, why couldn’t she say what was in her heart?

“I know.” He nodded toward the exit. “Go.”

She turned and headed out into the dark. Vivian was taking a chance on something she wasn’t sure existed anymore. In fact, based on the last few times she’d seen Dallas, whatever they had was long dead. At least for him.

But what if she was wrong? What if there was still something there? What would that mean? Where would that lead?

What would it feel like?

It was those thoughts that scared the ever-loving crap out of her, and it was a miracle that she did, in fact, get behind the wheel of her brother’s truck.

She revved the engine, said a small prayer to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in, and, before she could change her mind, headed toward the mountain.

Chapter Ten

When Dallas was ten, his grandfather died. He rolled out of bed one day in July, took exactly three steps, and keeled over. The man had only just entered his fifties, but he’d had a passion for the kind of living that’s hard on a body. He liked his booze, late nights, pills, and smokes almost as much as he liked his women.

Which was a lot.

To some, including Dallas’s grandmother, Sully Henhawk was a no-good son of a bitch who didn’t care much for hard work, had an overabundance of charm, and wasn’t afraid to use it. He was sometimes selfish and always late, but to Dallas, he was everything. His son Brandon, Dallas’s father, worked for the Bridgestones sunup till sundown and wasn’t around much, so it was his Sully who’d taught Dallas to hunt and fish and play poker. He would take him camping on the mountain and tell tall tales that were so far from the truth, they almost sounded real. He didn’t judge. He loved big and hard and wasn’t afraid to show it. He might have been a crap husband, but he was the best kind of grandfather there was. That perfect blend of indulgence and love meant to spoil.

When he passed, Dallas’s grandmother had let Dallas take whatever he wanted from their home. Said whatever was left she was donating to the Salvation Army or throwing in the trash. Dallas had claimed his grandfather’s special box that was kept in the shed. It was filled with his wood carving tools, his knives and gougers, the bevel blades and such. For a good long while, Dallas had kept the box on a shelf in his bedroom; he had no interest in carving wood, but it had meant something to his grandfather, and it’s why he’d taken it.

Then, one day when he’d been fifteen or so, he’d grabbed the box off that shelf, mostly because he was bored and curious. He’d begun carving crude figures, terrible stuff he’d tossed in the fire, but Dallas kept at it, and it became more than a hobby or a way to pass the time. Carving wood, making something out of a block of mahogany or butternut, not only gave him pleasure, but it also soothed the friction inside him. Slowed down the noise in his head.

Calmed his soul.

Usually.

Tonight, he couldn’t catch his rhythm. Couldn’t concentrate. He was making a mess of things. He swore and set down his tool. He might as well start drinking. There wasn’t much else to do.

One of his horses, Bacon, knickered softly. Dallas got up and stretched his arms over his head, then rolled his shoulders, hoping to alleviate the tension in his muscles. He glanced through the barn door toward the house. It wasn’t the first time he wished he’d listened to Benton and had a hot tub installed on the back deck.

“Damn,” he muttered, walking over to the stall. A hot soak would feel like heaven about now. Bacon’s head hung out, and he gave him a scratch. The two-year-old colt was a beauty. One that had been sent to auction at six months, without his mother, and would have ended up at a Mexican meat packing plant if not for Angel Simms rescuing him and bringing him back to Taz Pullman’s place. By chance, Dallas had been at the ranch when she unloaded the young colt, and he’d taken him home after quarantine.

Bacon nudged him, and Dallas shook his head. “I’m out of carrots, bud.”

The horse’s ears pricked forward, and Dallas turned, the sound of an engine now piercing the quiet. He frowned. As far as he knew, he hadn’t made plans with Lenora. She was still pissed at him for the way he’d behaved the last time they’d been together. Not that he blamed her. He’d been an asshole.

Tiredly, he ran a hand over his beard. When had his life become complicated? He liked things simple. Black and white. Right and wrong. Company when he wanted it, which wasn’t often.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping away from the stall. He sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for talking. Headlights cracked open the night sky and lit up his house before the engine was cut and they shut off. He heard a door open and close, and as his mood darkened, he leaned back against the stall, eyes on the doorway. He needed to get rid of Lenora without turning into a bastard. After the last time, it was the least he could do.

He would end things. Let her down gently.

Bacon snorted, sensing his mood, and he glanced at the horse. “Right?”

But the woman who appeared in the doorway wasn’t Lenora. Not by a long shot. Because this woman who stood just inside the barn took his breath away. It wasn’t just one thing either. It was all of it. Her hair. Her eyes. The shape of her cheek, the curve of her waist. Her small ears, feminine hands. He wondered about the tattoo. Was it still there? Or had she removed it when things ended so badly all those years ago?

His eyes took everything in, and by the time they sent the information to his brain, his body had already reacted. His heartbeat took off. His muscles clenched. His gut tightened.

All this, and they hadn’t spoken a word.

“You’re not at the party,” she said slowly, coming inside.