A Real Cowboy Never Walks Away (Wyoming Rebels Book 4) (9 page)

"I'm in town all week, Lis," Rand said, his voice low, as if Travis wasn't there. "I'll be back."

"No." She shook her head. "Don't come back. Ride your bulls, Rand. It's what you want."

"Yeah, it is." His gaze raked over her again. "But that's not all I want, Lis."

What did he want? Her? Bridgette? Fear rippled through her. There was one thing he could steal from her, one thing left that mattered. He couldn't mean that, could he? She had to get him out of there before he remembered what he'd conveniently forgotten all this time. "Good night, Rand."

"Yes, good night." Travis pulled her back and stepped between them. "Don't come back," he said, his voice hard and cold. "I'm not always this charming."

He shut the door over Rand's drunken protest, and flipped the lock. Rand shouted something and hit the door with his fist, making Lissa jump.

"Go into the kitchen." Travis set his hand on her lower back and spun her around. "Ignore him. He'll go away."

"He won't—"

"Good. I'd love for him to try to get in that door again."

Lissa glanced at Travis's face as he held the door to the kitchen open for her, and chills raced down her spine. His face was pure anger, tightly contained rage that seemed to pour out of him. But it wasn't simply anger in his eyes. There was a stark, raw pain, the kind that could break a soul forever.

A
nger pulsed through Travis
, the kind of fury he'd fought against for so long. It had come back with a vengeance, threatening his self-control. He had to get Rand out of his sight right now, or he wasn't going to be able to hold his shit together any longer. "Into the kitchen," he repeated, gritting his teeth. "Now."

Lissa's brow furrowed as she ducked under his arm and into the kitchen, her face wary as she watched him.

Travis swore as he let the door swing shut. He couldn't look at Lissa. He couldn't talk. He just walked over to the counter, gripped the edge, and bowed his head, his entire body so tense he felt as though he was going to explode at any second. He could feel decades-old scars throbbing. His broken ribs. The marks from the cigarettes. The lashes from the belt. His broken nose. The drunken shouts. He remembered hiding, too little to fight back, too little to do anything to stop the drunken bastard hunting for him. He remembered fear, paralyzing fear that had turned to rage when he'd gotten big enough to fight back.

"Travis?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

She sighed. "Okay, let me rephrase that. What's wrong?"

Travis gritted his teeth, fighting desperately to shove aside the memories threatening to overwhelm him. "I don't like drunken bullies." It was the understatement of his life, but there was no way he could say more. There was no way to explain the torrent of emotion pouring through him.

She said nothing, but he heard her sneakers walking across the floor toward him.

He tensed, but he still jumped when she set her hands on his upper back, his instincts expecting pain, not her soft, gentle touch. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the warmth of her hands on his back, using her to ground himself in the present, cutting off the past.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"No need to thank me." He still couldn't turn around. He still couldn't release the death grip he had on the counter. He needed the punching bag in his tour bus. He needed to beat up on that stuffed leather bag for hours, until he was so exhausted he could do nothing but collapse in his bed, sweaty, drained, and empty. "Did you really almost marry that piece of shit?"

Her hands stilled on his back, then she pulled back.

The loss of her touch was almost staggering, and he turned around, needing to connect with her, to latch onto her to keep the darkness at bay. He caught her arm as she turned away, unable to keep himself from reaching for her. "I'm sorry."

She paused, looking up at him. "For what?"

"For scaring you. For being rude. For—"

She put her finger on his lips, silencing him. "You didn't scare me," she said quietly. "I know you won't hurt me."

His gut turned over at the way she was looking at him, without any fear in her beautiful eyes. "You don't know that. I don't know that."

Her eyebrows went up. "You really think you might hurt me?"

God, the question that had tormented him his entire life. "I don't know what I'm capable of. I—" Fuck. How did he put it into words? "I told you I was fucked up, Lissa. More than you can imagine. I—"

"I saw it." She cocked her head, watching him. "I felt your anger when Rand was threatening me. But it wasn't at me. You're too protective. You'd never hurt me."

Travis leaned back against the counter and ran his hand through his hair, unsettled by her absolute conviction. But at the same time, he was desperate for it, for her unwavering faith in his honor. "You don't know me."

She set her hands on her hips. "Then tell me."

He shook his head. There was no way he wanted to go there. He didn't want her to look at him the way everyone in this town had looked at him for the first nineteen years of his life, until he'd left. He took a deep breath. "Tell me about Rand." He knew Rand's type. He knew, because he'd lived that nightmare. "How do you know him?"

Lissa took a deep breath. "I have to be back at work in four hours. I need to sleep."

"You sleeping here? Upstairs?"

"Yes—"

He swore. "Is there a door to the outside?"

She nodded. "There are back stairs."

"That Rand could find?"

She glanced toward the front of the store. "Yes. I have a lock though—"

"Locks don't mean shit to guys like that." Travis stood up. "I was going to crash in my truck again, but your couch will be fine. Let's go."

She didn't move. "You're going to sleep in my apartment?"

"Fuck, yeah."

She held up her hand. "Travis, I'm not sure—"

He caught her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers, as fear constricted in his chest. "Let me tell you something about men like Rand," he said, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. "He's strong. He's pissed. He's drunk. He thinks he owns you, and he needs to prove it, to you, and to himself. You can't stop him if he decides to come after you." His grip tightened on her hand. "There's no fucking way I'm going to leave and take the chance that when I come back in the morning, there are going to be police and an ambulance here. I can't do that. I can't."

Her face softened, and tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. She reached up to him and placed her hands on either side of his face. His heart froze, and fear rippled through him. He'd said too much. She'd seen right through his crap. She
knew
. She was going to ask him, wasn't she? Ask him about his past? How he knew?

But she didn't. She simply nodded. "Okay."

He let out his breath, tension suddenly leaving his body. "Okay."

She dropped her hands from his face, grabbed a faded sweatshirt from a hook, and then headed toward a closed door at the back of the kitchen. He snatched his cowboy hat and jacket from their spots, catching up to her as she opened a door to reveal an ancient, wooden staircase.

She hesitated on the first step, looking back at him. She searched his face for a long moment, and he stiffened, knowing that if she looked hard enough, she would find a thousand reasons not to have faith in him.

But she simply smiled gently, and touched his face again. "A modern day knight," she said softly.

"I'm not a knight—"

But she was already jogging up the stairs, leaving his denial hanging in the air, unacknowledged, and ignored.

He swore and followed her, wondering what the hell he was doing...and knowing it was exactly what he wanted to do.

* * *

L
issa was still shaking
by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Not from Travis. From Rand. Even when she'd heard they were adding bull riding to the fair, it hadn't occurred to her that Rand would show up at her door. He'd severed all ties so completely that she'd shut herself off from him.

His appearance unnerved her on so many levels, catapulting her back to the feelings of inferiority, shame, and fear. If Travis hadn't been present, she wouldn't have been able to stop Rand from shoving past her and into her café, making it clear that despite so many years of telling herself that she was strong and competent, the truth was far grittier than what she wanted to believe.

Her fingers slipped as she turned the knob, but she managed to turn the knob. She pushed open the weathered door and walked inside, pausing as she glanced around to assess exactly how much of a mess it was.

There was a basket of dirty laundry by the exterior door, ready for a trip to the laundromat. Clean clothes were in another basket, half the contents on the floor from when Bridgette had rifled through them to find the outfits she'd wanted to take to Martha's for the week. There were a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, which was visible from the entry, and magazines and books were strewn over the rickety coffee table. It was messy and lived-in, but she knew that it was the best she could do. Every day, she had to make the choice between housework, spending time with her daughter, and earning enough money to keep them going.

Housework always came last. It had to. She was fine with that, but with Travis's feet thudding on the stairs behind her, she suddenly wished that she had somehow learned how to be one of those women who had mastered it all.

But she wasn't.

Travis appeared in the doorway and walked in, his gaze quickly scanning the room as he assessed it.

She followed his glance, and then her heart sank as she looked at the room with fresh eyes. She grimaced as she noted the threadbare couch, the stained rug that never seemed to get completely clean, no matter how many times she worked on it, the yellowed curtains that had once been white. The living room felt tiny as Travis walked in behind her, his massive bulk and overwhelming presence almost too much for the tiny space. He was probably used to luxurious accommodations with marble bathrooms and hand-woven curtains, not tiny, worn out, apartments that looked like they wanted to give up.

The shabbiness of her apartment had never bothered her. She was actually proud of her home. She'd worked unbelievably hard for it, and she saw it as a triumph...but when she thought about how Travis would see it, her pride faded. What would he see? Poverty and failure? Not the sheer grit that had secured it, she was sure.

Not that it mattered what he thought of her. It really didn't. But...it did matter. She couldn't help it. She wanted him to see more than what other people saw. She wanted him to see
her.

He looked around. "This is homey. I like it."

The genuine warmth in his voice surprised her, and she glanced over at him. He was scanning the room, a small smile curving his mouth. He seemed to relax visibly as he stood there, the tension easing from his muscles.

"Really?" She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice.

"Yeah." He set his hat and coat on the desk chair tucked in the corner, and ran his hand over the old wooden roll top desk she'd brought home from the dump. "Look how many memories this thing must have. How many letters were written on here?" He glanced at the wall, where she'd hung a few old paintings she'd also found at the town dump, paintings of Rogue Valley back in the days when it had been nothing more than a trading post on the frontier. "Incredible," he said, tracing his fingers over the battered, worn frame. "That was a magical time back then. Freedom to just pack up and move cross country, to throw down roots wherever you felt like, and no one could find you."

She stared at him, startled by his words, by his articulation of exactly why those items had appealed to her in the first place. A man of such fierce anger and strength, waxing on about the magic of the frontier? She hadn't expected that from him. From any guy, really. Maybe that's what had made him a songwriter—his ability to see stories and poetry in everything around him. She cocked her head, watching him as he ran his hand over the wood. "Someone thought they were junk," she offered, "but I grabbed them."

"I can see why you did. It takes a certain kind of mind to see beauty where others are blind to it."

Her throat tightened, and she had to look away for a moment. After Rand's unsettling visit, and the way he'd treated her, like she was a nothing who had sat around for almost nine years waiting for him, Travis's words made her want to cry. He made her feel special just because she'd gotten a couple paintings from the trash. Her embarrassment about her messy, well-used home faded, and she took a deep breath, trying to release the tension that had been gripping her so tightly.

Travis's gaze fell on the small pink sweatshirt on the couch, then she saw his gaze wander to the purple backpack hanging by the door, and then to the small set of neon yellow soccer cleats tucked up beside her cowboy boots. "You have a daughter?"

Her chest tightened at his question, for so many reasons, and she couldn't keep the smile off her face. "Yes. She's amazing. She's staying at a friend's tonight. They're helping me out this week, since I have to work so late and start so early in the morning." She hurried on, afraid he'd judge her for sending her daughter off. "It's hard to be Mom when you're working twenty hours a day, but it's just for this week." She pointed down the narrow hall, suddenly feeling empty that her daughter wasn't there, curled up in her bed. But at the same time, after Rand's visit, she was so grateful Bridgette wasn't home. What would have happened if he'd seen her? "The bathroom is the first door on the left. I only have one, so you can go first. I'll find blankets for the couch..."

"How old is she?" Travis asked.

"She's eight and a half, but she's already reading books off my bookshelf. A total reader." Lissa couldn't keep the pride out of her voice as she pulled open the tiny cabinet she kept her linens in. "She has no idea that she's reading outside her level. She just reads things she likes." Lissa grimaced when she realized there were no extra blankets. Of course there weren't. She didn't have extra of anything.

With a small sigh, she quickly ducked into her room and started to drag the blankets off the bed. She would just sleep in a sweatshirt tonight, and she'd be fine. There was no way she was going to admit she had no blankets—

"Tell me the story."

She jumped, whirling around to find Travis in her doorway. He was leaning against the doorjamb, his brow furrowed. She frowned at his question, her fingers gripping the blankets. "What story?"