Page 53 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

“I warned you,” I say.

I’ve stepped in front of Vivica, breaking his hold on her. Then my fist’s drawing back and I’m punching him square in the jaw.

He’s sent crashing into the table behind us, the entire bar going silent.

FIFTEEN

Vivica

It’s almost one in the morning, and I’m walking into the Ironhaven sheriff’s department to retrieve a twenty-six-year-old cowboy who punched my fifty-three-year-old ex-husband on karaoke night.

To say my life’s taken an unexpected turn is a huge understatement.

The station is modestly sized, with little more than a front desk, a handful of offices, and a short hallway that probably leads to two or three holding cells at most.

For a town as small as Ironhaven, it makes sense. It’s a town where the sheriff knows everybody by name, and I’m willing to bet there’s more cattle than crime if the numbers were crunched.

A deputy at the front desk gives a polite nod when I walk in and tells me to have a seat, but I barely sit down before the sheriff himself comes out to greet me.

Sheriff Langley is a stocky man in his late fifties, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and deep crow’s feet.

“You’re here for Dawson?” he asks. “Come on back.”

In the frenzy following the punch, I didn’t even get a chance to meet the sheriff. Somebody in The Hen House called the cops, and within minutes the bar was emptying out to make room for law enforcement.

Craig was all too happy to point out Rhett, and handcuffs were slapped on him before he was escorted away.

I had no choice but to quickly hop in my hatchback and follow.

Sheriff Langley leads me down the short hall and gestures toward a cell where Rhett sits on a bench, arms folded and his jaw set. He’s defiant and unapologetic, and I’m immediately both impressed and irritated by it.

“I’ll give you two a quick moment alone,” says Sheriff Langley.

I wait a beat for him to disappear down the hall and then step toward the cell, shaking my head at Rhett through the iron bars.

“Hey, doc,” he says.

“Don’t ‘hey, doc’ me right now.”

“You’re pissed?”

“What do you think?” I ask back. “Rhett, you punched my ex in a crowded bar! Half the town saw you!”

“They did, and it’s good. Now everybody knows not to mess with you.”

I rub my hand across my brow like a sudden headache’s come on. “Rhett, that’s not—I don’t want you doing that for me.”

“Then tell your ex to never put his hands on you. He caused this. I gave him what he was asking for.”

“At what cost? You behind bars?”

“This isn’t so bad.” He gives a shrug, leaning back against the wall from where he sits on the bench. “Believe it or not, the concrete walls feel good on the spine. I’m doing just fine.”

“Rhett…” I groan.

“Look, I did what I had to in that moment. If you ever think I’m gonna stand by and let some asshole put his hands on you, then you might not get what kinda man I am. And yes, doc, that includes your ex-husband.”

He speaks with such certainty it’s disarming.