Page 63 of Ridin’ Dirty

“What are you doin’?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“What do you mean? I’m going to bed, too.”

He frowned at the sound of her jean shorts hitting the floor before she pulled back the sheets on the opposite side of the bed.

“Here?”

He couldn’t make out the look on her face, but he swore he heard her expression as she answered, “Yeah. Obviously. There’s no way you’re not concussed. What if you need something in the middle of the night? It’s easier if I sleep here.”

Lyla didn’t wait for him to reply but crawled into bed.

Too tired to put up a fight, Pistol didn’t argue. He climbed in beside her, easing down onto his back carefully. Relieved to be horizontal, he freed a heavy sigh.

“You okay?” she asked, a twinge of worry in her voice.

He closed his eyes and muttered, “Belly’s full. Wounds are tended. I’m fine.”

They settled into the darkness, silence filling the room.

For Pistol, in spite of his exhaustion, sleep didn’t come.

Instead, behind his eyelids, the scene at the Kings’ clubhouse played out again and again.

He saw her push her way through his brothers, not the least bit afraid of the Kings who stood nearby—or the one who towered over him—as she raced toward his chair.

She had no motivation to protect him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she watched with satisfaction while her brother beat him within an inch of his life. He’d done nothing to earn her bravery. And yet, she gave it.

“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered, shifting beside him.

He furrowed his brow as he turned his head in her direction.

“How do you know?”

“I can tell by your breathing.”

“Babe—quit your worryin’. Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.”

She was a bossy little thing, and a small smile played at his lips as he drew in a deep breath and attempted sleep. Except, in the silence, he swore he felt his mother. Not in the physical sense, but in the place where she lived on in his memories. He knew, if she was still alive, she would have been just as bossy in her worry.

“Pistol?” Lyla whispered, testing to see if he was still awake.

Rather than answer her, he breathed deeper, hoping his silence would encourage her to relax.

He listened for a few minutes, waiting for her to drift into slumber, all the while marveling at the woman he made his wife.

His wife.

Thoughts of his mother still filtering through his mind, he wondered what she would have thought of Lyla.

Rosemary Wells believed in angels. Pistol never did—but as he surrendered to the pull of sleep, the last conscious thought that crossed his mind was how maybe, impossibly, he didn’t marry a stranger.

Maybe he married his guardian angel.

And maybe, incredibly, it was all Rosemary’s doing.

She always did like to meddle.