But Natalie had her boyfriend, the book relationship was a little one-sided, and Dad, well, God, he needed her, but didn’t even know it.

Didn’t know her, not anymore.

She disliked having negative feelings, the ones that leaked out whenever she was in the shower, face turned to the spray as if they could be washed away before she noticed.

“Darn allergies,” she’d mutter while toweling off. Allergies that struck in late autumn when most plants were dead or dormant, allergies that had never appeared until now.

Hey, it could happen.

Or maybe she was just allergic to the pressure resting on her shoulders, threatening to bow her spine. The pressure to . . . that was the problem . . . she didn’t even know. It was like there was pressure just to survive, make it through each day. Stress, depression, and burnout from Dad’s condition nipped at her heels. Plus the fear. The always nagging fear. What if Dad’s condition is hereditary? What if . . .

No. Not now.

“Sure, I’ll go,” she said. “If it’s not a nuisance. There’s a luncheon at Dad’s place so I need to be there for that, but later I’ll be alone.” God, could she sound any more pathetic?

“If you’re crazy enough to want to eat with our family then you’re welcome to it,” Wilder muttered, his hand slipping slightly. The blade sliced his thumb, a line of red welled up. He swore softly, ripped a handkerchief out of his back pocket and pressed it to the small wound.

Looking up, his gaze was frustrated, a challenge, as if “Yeah, I’m just a guy okay, cut me and I bleed.”

“Do you want a Band-Aid for that?” She realized he expected her to ignore him.

He blinked. “Don’t have any.”

“Never fear. I do.” She walked to her bag, grabbed a small bandage from the box, and passed it over. “No point carrying around a purse as big as my head if I don’t keep it well stocked for anything from a zombie apocalypse to a small kitchen accident.”

Sawyer’s phone rang. “Sorry, this is work, got to take it. I’ll step outside.” He walked away, taking away the ease of the conversation with him.

Wilder glanced at her and then away. Wordlessly, he undid the wrapper and wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t have to go to Thanksgiving. That she didn’t mean to barge into his whatever-this-was life he had going on in a haunted gulch at the end of town. But that would mean letting him know that he had gotten under her skin, was circulating through her system, the confusing feelings multiplying at an alarming rate.

She wished he’d just say no. Or yes. Anything but ignore her. Every silent second was a form of intense but addictive torture.

He wasn’t carving, rather poking the wood with his knife, these useless little stabbing motions, and it dawned on her.

He doesn’t know what to do about this thing between them either.

This thing.

What else was there to call it?

“Any requests?” she asked, shifting her weight, wincing at the telltale creak.

That drew his gaze back.

“For dinner,” she clarified. “What are you bringing?”

He shrugged. “Napkins.”

“What? Really.”

“Yeah,” he ruefully admitted. “They left me in charge of the important stuff.”

“Do you have any favorite recipes?”

He set down his knife. “You cook?” He sounded surprised.

Better to get the truth out there as fast as possible. “No actually. I’m terrible.”

“Well, Archer is doing the turkey with Grandma, Edie will bake bread and probably five different cakes, Annie is doing her Tofurky and probably other granola stuff that no one will touch but Sawyer because he’s under obligation.”

“Okay. So . . .”

“Rice Krispies Treats,” he said suddenly.

“What about them?”

“My mom used to make them for every holiday.” His gaze turned wistful. “She let me lick the spoon. You’d have liked her. She had a laugh sort of like yours, loud but in a good way that made everyone feel good.”

She hugged herself, as if it would be possible to hang on to the warm feelings he’d given. “Hot dogs,” she said. “That’s the taste of my childhood. I used to spend summers out here with my dad as a kid. Every Fourth of July we’d go to the rodeo grounds and he’d buy me a hot dog. I can’t see one without thinking of him.” She scrubbed her face, willing away the tightening in her throat. “But no point moping. If he ever saw me sad he’d say ‘No use crying over baked beans.’ Which doesn’t even make sense come to think of it.”

Wilder raised his head, blinking as his leg slammed against a table leg.

He turned away, but without even seeing his face she knew. Something had shifted—but what?

He drew a harsh, rattling breath. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” She swallowed. The comfortable exchange had taken a sharp turn. She tried to think but her brain didn’t work right, not when she was locked in that forceful gaze. “But maybe? I mostly spent my time here with Dad, going camping, riding his four-wheeler, hiking, and stuff like that. Sometimes I played with other kids during town events though. But I’m twenty-five and you’re . . .” He was older than her, hard to say by how much.

“Thirty-one.”

“Sorry to get us going, but we got to get going.” Sawyer came back in, face grim. “I got you a tow organized but I’m going to have to head in to work. I’ll be back for you around lunch,” he told Wilder.

“What’s up?” Wilder asked.

“Fire.” Sawyer shook his head. “On one of the new properties. No one was home, thank God. The owner lives somewhere out on the east coast, but the damage is extensive.”

Quinn didn’t miss the long look the brothers exchanged before both cleared their throats and went back about their business. She went to get Dad up and going, trying to ignore the unnerving feeling Wilder induced. Just when she had him pegged as gruff and bad tempered, he surprised her with some sort of awkwardly endearing interaction. And it scared her.

It scared her how much she liked it.

Chapter Seven

WILDER HUNCHED IN the big leather chair as the cheerful sounds of Thanksgiving preparations hummed throughout Sawyer’s cabin. Quinn hadn’t arrived and already his stomach muscles clenched. It wasn’t just her gorgeous face or that infectious laugh that set him on edge. No, it was when she said, “No use crying over baked beans.” As soon as those words left her mouth, that one bad memory, long shoved into the “never think about again” mental file sprang front and center.

A dimly lit stall. The earthy, rich smell of hay. A small hand settling on the small of his back. “Why are you crying?”

No. Impossible. That couldn’t have been her.

He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Maybe she reconsidered coming. Then again, Archer had just mentioned that Kit, a second cousin and his youngest brother’s best friend, was giving her a ride out to the ranch.

Good for Kit and his two long strong legs and the SUV he could drive without any problem. What did Wilder care? He took another swig of beer. He didn’t.

Why are you crying?

He cleared his throat. Across the coffee table, Annie’s son, Atticus, making engine sounds with his mouth, drove Matchbox cars between the stacks of Astronomy Today and Vegan Life magazines. The kid kept sneaking a not-so-subtle stare at his legs.

Finally Wilder couldn’t bear it.

He didn’t feel like playing patty-cake at the moment. “Got something to say, pal?” He growled, leveling his best junkyard dog expression. “Spit it out why don’t you?”

But Atticus didn’t scamper off; instead he took the question as an invitation and crawled over. “Is it true?” The kid’s eyes were wide. “That you’re a pirate?”

Wilder snorted. “What would make you say that?”

Atticus glanced around, making sure the coast was clear before leaning in and whispering, “Mama said you had a fake leg. I thought only pirates have wooden legs but you don’t have a patch.”