Page 29 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

He dropped the blanket across both their knees and settled in beside Liv, his shoulder brushing hers.

They sat in silence for a while. Crickets and cicadas harmonized in the trees. One of the horses nickered in the barn off in the distance.

Liv's phone was still in her pocket. Powered off. Hidden.

She could tell them. Right now. Just say it.

I got a text last night. Someone knows where I am.

Her mouth opened.

Mike turned toward her, expectant.

And the words stuck. Lodged somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Because if she said it out loud, it became real.

And if it was real, she'd have to leave.

"I'm glad I came here," she said instead. Quiet. True.

Mike's hand found hers under the blanket. "I’m glad you did, too. You doing okay?" he asked.

"Getting there. I'm sorry I put a damper on the festivities today."

"Don't be ridiculous. Drunk cowboys are enough to shake anyone up."

She glanced at him. He knew it was more than a drunk cowboy that had shaken her up. The fact that he wasn't pressing her for more details made her want to curl right into him and let him fight all of her battles.

But she couldn't do that.

"Just so you know," he said, voice low and rough, "to protect my own, I'd walk through hell barefoot and not think twice."

Liv's throat closed.

"I'm not yours to protect," she whispered.

His hand tightened on hers. "You're sitting on my porch. Wearing Heather's boots. Making biscuits in my kitchen at five in the morning." He paused. Looked at her. "You're already ours, Liv. Whether you're ready to admit it or not."

Liv didn't say anything.

But she didn't let go of his hand.

And Mike knew, right then, that protecting her wasn't a choice anymore.

It was a promise.

One he had every intention of keeping.

Even if he didn't know what, or who, he was protecting her from.

6

Five-thirty a.m., and the kitchen was hers.

Liv stood at the prep station, wooden spoon moving slow through butter and sugar going amber in the double boiler. The smell alone of bourbon, brown sugar and pecans toasting in the cast iron skillet was enough to make a person weep. Outside the window, the sky was still more purple than pink, and the only sounds were the coffee maker gurgling and the soft creak of the house settling into another day.

This was her favorite hour. Before the chaos. Before the questions she didn't know how to answer.

Just flour, sugar, and the rhythm of her own hands.