Page 11 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"No, it’s not. It’s art. You have an eye for form. Most people just see a stick. You see the life inside it."

He pauses, his hands going still. "I see what's there. That's all."

"I spent my life surrounded by people who saw what they wanted me to be. A trophy. A socialite. A bridge between two companies. No one ever looked at me and saw... me."

The silence stretches between us, filled with the scent of hay and the distant sound of a tractor. Cag finally turns, his dark eyes searching mine.

"I see you," he says, his voice rough. "I saw you the second you climbed into my truck. A woman who’d rather shred a twelve-thousand-dollar dress than spend another second being someone else’s property."

My throat tightens. He doesn't know the half of it. He doesn't know about the ledgers my father kept, the way my wedding was timed to coincide with a major merger. To Conrad Marchand, being his daughter had always come second to being useful.

A truck pulls up outside, the engine cutting out with a rattle. Cag’s posture changes instantly. He goes from a man cleaning leather to a predator protecting his territory. He moves to the door, and I follow, staying in the shadows.

A man gets out of an old, beat-up Ford. He looks like he’s lived seventy years in the sun, his face a map of deep lines and weathered skin. He’s holding something in his hand, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Cag," the man says, his voice trembling.

"Easy now," Cag responds, his voice softening. "What’s wrong?"

"You were right about where to look," the man says. "Found it in the mud down by the creek. Must’ve slipped off her hand when she was helping me with the calves last spring."

The man opens his palm. Resting there is a gold wedding band, simple and worn thin.

Cag looks at it without taking it, his gaze holding on the worn gold with a reverence that feels like a physical blow to my chest. The silence is heavy, suffocating.

I know Cag’s story. Linda gave me the shape of it this morning, quiet, while Cag’s back was turned. Left at the altar three years ago. A man who started a life and had the rug pulled out from under him. Seeing him hold that ring is like watching him touch an open wound.

"She’s been gone six months, Cag," the older man whispers. "I thought... I thought I’d never see it again. It’s all I have left of her that isn't a memory."

Cag closes the man’s fingers carefully around the ring and holds them shut a moment. "It’s back where it belongs. Go home. Get some rest."

The old man nods, his eyes filling with tears. He reaches out and squeezes Cag’s shoulder before climbing back into his truck and driving away.

Cag stands there for a long time after the truck is gone. He looks solitary, his shoulders locked beneath a weight he refuses to name.

I step out of the shadows. "You’re a good man, Cag Kramer."

He flinches, wiping his palm down the thigh of his jeans like the metal left a mark. "I pointed a grieving man toward a muddy creek. Don't make it more than it is."

"Why can't you just accept a compliment? Is it part of the cowboy code to be a brooding jerk twenty-four-seven?"

He closes the distance between us in three long strides, his presence overwhelming. Saddle oil and sun-warmed leather cling to him as he closes the distance.

"You think this is a game?" he growls, looming over me. "You think I’m some hero in a story? I’m a man who’s one bad day away from losing everything. This ranch is under fire. Your father’s world is full of men like Black Aspen, and right now, you’re standing in the middle of it. And you’re the match."

"I didn't choose him!" I yell, my anger finally bubbling over. "I didn't ask to be born to a man who treats the world like a chessboard. I ran, Cag. I ran to get away from exactly what you’re accusing me of being."

"And where did you run? Right into the middle of a war."

"I ran to you!"

The words hang in the air, raw and honest. My heart is hammering against my ribs, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Something shifts in Cag’s face. Not anger. He goes still, and his gaze drops to my lips again. He looks like he wants to devour me and push me away all at once.

"You don't know what you're saying," he mutters, but he doesn't move back.

"I know that when I climbed into that truck, for the first time in twenty-seven years, I felt like I could breathe. I know that when you look at me, you don't see a dollar sign. You see a woman."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near my face before his fingers brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat that settles deep in my belly.