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Tears stream down my face. Power and rage and exhaustion hum through my bones. I feel like a corpse, a shell of Dakota clawing her way out of her exoskeleton.
When the scream turns ragged—as shredded as I feel inside—I crumple in the secure clutch of Davis’s arms. I grip his shirt and inhale his scent. Man and earth and leather.
After a few seconds, I lift my face to his.
He brushes the hair off my face, studies my eyes. “Feel better?”
I take a deep breath before I answer. “I do.” Everything inside of me feels drained. Lightened. “Surprisingly, that—” I freeze and let out a small yelp. A tear slides down my cheek.
“Koty?” Davis releases me from his arms.
I press a palm over my belly and look down. “The baby,” I whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
I stare at my stomach, watching tears drip onto the dark navy fabric of Davis’s shirt.
“For Christ’s sake, Dakota.” Davis softly grips my jaw, forcing my gaze to his eyes that are dark and laced with worry.
“It moved.” I let out a tearful laugh. “The baby moved. Just like that.”
On an exhale, I fully press my hands to my stomach. Every nerve in my hands, waiting. And I feel it. Movement. A rippling pressure. Tiny surface bubbles rising.
I giggle.
“Oh my god.” I smile. “It feels so…weird.”
“It does?” Davis stares at my stomach.
I bite my lip. “Do you want to feel it?” I ask.
He swallows. “Yeah. I do.” He spreads a palm over the side of my stomach and holds it there. We wait. Then I watch his face soften, all his handsome features crinkling in wonder, as there’s the tiniest ripple of movement.
“That’s your baby,” he rasps. An emotion I can’t place crosses his face.
“It is.” More movement now. A tumbling motion.
“Hi there,” I whisper, stroking a hand over my belly.
My baby heard me. He–or–she woke up. Maybe I just did the same thing, too.
“If you punch that computer, Hotshot, I won’t be able to patch you back up. I’m a pastry chef, not a surgeon.” Dakota sighs while I slam buttons on my computer, logging into the department’s database. “Is this really necessary? Don’t you have ranch chores?”
“Your personal safety comes first.”
“Uh-huh,” she deadpans. “My personal safety includes that shower this morning?”
I ignore that.
My frown deepens as I look at her. “This motherfucker is out there walking around, following you, watching you, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. And until you’re ready and willing to tell me who he is, then this is my next recourse.”
Dakota gives one slow nod and stays quiet. Perched in a chair beside me, her gaze drifts to the window of the Bullshit Box, which faces the wooded area across the road in front of the lodge. Wyatt crosses the gravel drive with a vet who’s on his way to check on the horses. Charlie and Ruby have already left for town to replace equipment that’s long overdue. I should pitch in, but all my focus is Dakota.
It’s taken a week to get the security camera footage from Main Street. Richter grudgingly gave it after I threatened to take my dog and walk.
Someone wants to take her away from me. The idea is unthinkable.
And it pisses me off. I need control of my judgment and emotions in a situation like this, and with Dakota in the center of fire, I’m most definitely not.
