Page 8 of Wrangling Wade

"At his daughter's wedding in California."

Ah, dammit. I forgot his kid was getting married.

"You working tomorrow?"

"Yes. Why?" she asks, her tone rife with suspicion.

"Same time?"

"Yes…"

"Alone?"

"I just said that Redd is at his daughter's wedding. He won't be back for another two weeks."

That's what I thought. Fuck my life. There's not a chance in hell she's working alone for another two weeks, not with every goddamn cowboy in Silver Spoon Falls passing through this bar. I will lose my shit if something happens to her.

"Might need to arrange my schedule a bit, but I'll be here," I say.

"What?" She gapes at me. "Why?"

"You shouldn't be working alone, beautiful."

Apparently, that's the wrong thing to say. She draws herself up to her full height—all five foot nothing of it—and hits me with a deadly glare. "Excuse me? I don't know who you think you are, Wade Jessup, but I can take care of myself. I don't need y—"

Yeah, nope. She's too goddamn beautiful when she's pissed, and if my dick gets any harder, I'll be embarrassing both of us in this parking lot.

I lean forward, pressing a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth. She immediately stops talking, instead making this adorable little sound that's half indignant squawk, half gasp.

"Never said you needed me, beautiful," I murmur, drawing back. "I just said I'd be here tomorrow." I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It's even softer than it looks. "See you then."

Instead of giving her time to argue—and I'm absolutely certain she will as soon as she comes to terms with the fact that I just kissed her—I stride around the side of the truck and climb in.

She stands rooted to the ground for a long moment, gaping at nothing, and then she says something. I can't hear her, but I'm guessing it's a curse or a threat, maybe even a warning. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter.

Come hell or high water, I will be here tomorrow. She doesn't have to like it, but sooner or later, she'll learn to love me.

Chapter Four

Wade

"You look like youwere rode hard and put away wet." My brother, Walker, glances at me over his coffee when I drop onto the bench across from him in the mess hall. Unlike usual, the crabby bastard's stern brown eyes are crinkled at the corners, a rare smile hovering at his lips.

It's quiet this morning, everyone too preoccupied with their food and their thoughts to say much. God knows, mornings are the only time there's any peace around here.

I grunt at Walker, flipping him off. I'm too tired for his shit. I didn't even get to bed until three.

"That's because he didn't get in until a few hours ago," Bishop drawls from Walker's left, one massive, tattooed arm planted on the table, a fork clutched in his other hand.

I scratch the side of my face with my middle finger, which only makes him chuckle. The bastard.

"Oh, really?" Walker arches a dark brow at me.

For a minute, I consider ignoring him. Where I was and what I was doing is none of his business. But I might actually need his help.

"I was at the Spur," I mutter, tucking into my plate of eggs and bacon. "Doing a favor for Morgan."

Recognition flares in Bishop's green eyes, his fork pausing midair for a moment before he slowly lifts it to his lips, glancing away. Interesting. Just what kind of favor does she have him doing for her?