Page 19 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

But for now, in the quiet of the loft, it’s just us.

And that’s enough.

It has to be.

I lead her back to the cot, tucking her back in as the light grows stronger. The day is going to be long. There are tanks to check, records to search, lawyers to call, and brothers to stand beside.

But as I walk down the ladder to the tack room, the half-finished magnolia tucked safely in my pocket, I don't feel like the man who was left behind.

I feel like a man who’s finally found his way home.

And I dare the world to step into the road.

The air in the barn is cool and damp, the smell of hay and horses a grounding presence. I walk to the large double doors and swing them open, letting the morning light flood in.

I see Benjamin out by the fences, his silhouette familiar against the rising sun. He looks over and nods, a silent acknowledgment of the storm we’re both facing.

I nod back, then head toward the workshop.

The hawk and magnolia wait at my bench. For once, I know I’ll return to both. And there’s a life to build.

One stroke of the knife at a time.

5

JULIETTE

By the time Cag leads me back to the tack room loft the following evening, I know every complaint in the ladder. The third rung groans. The fifth flexes beneath my foot. The last gives a sharp little creak, as if announcing that the runaway bride has returned to the scene of her latest bad decision.

Except Cag doesn’t feel like a bad decision.

His hand is warm and heavy at the small of my back, guiding me upward into the shadows where saddle oil, shaved cottonwood, and old leather hang thick in the air. I slept here. I woke here. I learned what safety felt like here.

Tonight, the room feels different.

Lantern light flickers across the rafters and catches on the sharp planes of Cag’s face. The loft hasn’t changed, but the way he’s looking at me has. His gaze drags over Linda’s cotton dress as if the simple fabric has personally offended him by standing between his hands and my skin.

“You’re shaking.” Cag carves the words out slowly, watching me from across the loft.

“I’m not shaking. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference.”

The sass arrives on instinct, but my voice doesn’t have enough bite to make it convincing. I smooth my hands over the cotton dress, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers.

Cag doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. He stands there like a wall built out of denim, scars, and bad intentions. His gaze shifts past me to the wedding gown still crumpled in the corner.

"That thing," he mutters. "Still looks like a cage."

“It was a cage. A very expensive, hand-stitched, silk-lined cage.” My jaw tightens. “My father didn’t care whether I could breathe in it. He cared how I’d look in the photographs after he finished selling me.”

Cag closes the distance between us. His hand settles at my waist, his thumb dragging over the seam of the cotton dress. The touch is rough, possessive, and hot enough to steal what remains of my breath.

“You aren’t an asset here, Juliette,” he says. “You’re a beautiful, dangerous problem that’s probably going to cost me everything.”

“And yet, you’re still holding on.” I point out, stepping closer until the heat radiating off his chest begins to melt the chill that’s been settled in my bones since I climbed into his truck. "You could have dropped me at the gas station. You could have handed me over to those Black Aspen suits and saved your ranch a lot of trouble."

"I could have," he agrees. His other hand comes up, cupping my jaw, his fingers tangling in the messy chestnut curls that have escaped my bridal updo. "But sending you away would be walking away again. I’m done doing that."

Something old tightens his jaw, a wound he still hasn’t trusted me enough to name. He thinks he’s broken because someone didn't choose him.