Page 17 of Where She Belongs

She draped an arm across her eyes and sighed. It had taken one memory to show her that her biggest fear about getting married was losing herself.

While people of high society might understand her desire to be independent, Roxy wouldn’t understand the fear underneath it. It’s funny since Roxy had left to make her own way because of her fear of being locked away in Montana. Perhaps her own fear was what made up the foundation of why she’d come home in the first place. And why she didn’t want help getting on her feet.

So why was she here?

Why had it been so easy to just drop all pretenses and come next door?

Not easy.

Habit.

There had been something pulling her to this farmhouse down the trail she’d walked so many times as a child. Something she couldn’t put her finger on.

Rylee sighed again and rubbed at her eyes. Then she tugged the blankets from her body and sat upright. It was still quiet. The darkness outside the window wasn’t as thick as it had been when she’d arrived. The storm had passed and the sun would be rising.

The Dennison family didn’t have a farm like she had when she’d been growing up. They owned horses, but their property wasn’t used for ranching or farming like others in the area. What had Lydia said about her brothers? They were horse trainers, or something along those lines.

A tug on her heart had her tempted to ask Tate if he’d consider letting her go for a ride. It had been so long since she’d been in the saddle. She longed for it, craved the wind in her hair and the rhythmic beat of the hooves that complemented the pulsing of her own heart.

Perhaps she’d scrounge up enough courage to make that request.

One day this summer before she left.

She’d make sure of it.

Rylee stood and stretched then hunted for her shoes. It was very likely they were still sodden and covered in mud. She’d live. She needed to get back to her farmhouse and figure out why the power went out.

Somebody had set her shoes neatly by the fireplace, and they weren’t in terrible shape. The inside was dry and while the exterior was dirty, they weren’t caked in mud like she’d expected. She pulled her tennis shoes onto her feet and laced them up in the dark. With each creak of the house, she lifted her head so she could look toward the darkened hallway where at least a couple of bedrooms were. There were others upstairs. Tate was probably on this level. She didn’t need him waking up as she took her leave. He’d probably stop by even if she left him a note not to bother. She’d overstayed her welcome as it was.

She grabbed the sack of muddy clothes and promised herself she’d bring back what she’d had to borrow. Then she rose to her feet and turned toward the door off the side of the kitchen.

Rylee’s hand clapped over her mouth, stifling the startled scream that threatened to wake the entire house.

A tall, broad figure, cast in shadow and only partially lit by the light on the stove, caught her eye. She dropped her hand to her side. “Tate? What are you doing?”

He pushed away from the counter and took a couple silent steps toward her. He had a glass in his hand, but there was no hint of coffee in the air. Water? Milk or juice maybe? The thought made her stomach growl, but she was quickly distracted when he murmured, almost a purr, “I could ask you the same thing.”

She straightened, her grip on the bag tightening. “I was going home.”

“Not without me, you’re not.”

Her spine stiffened and her hackles rose. “I beg your pardon?”

His chuckle shot a shiver clean through her. “You said there was something in your basement. Do you think I’d just let you go back to your house if you could be in danger?”

Rylee’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and she had nothing to argue with. He made a good point—one she knew wasn’t worth fighting over.

“Besides, I can’t just let you steal my clothes without a guarantee you’ll bring them back.”

She scoffed. “I wasn’t stealing your clothes. I needed to wash them, then you would have had them back. Probably in better condition than before.”

Even in the dim lighting the amusement was carved into every one of his features. The arch of his brow. The faint hint of a dimple in his chin. Her heart reacted to him in ways she wasn’t proud of. She didn’t like feeling so off balance—especially around him.

But she couldn’t figure out why.

Still flustered, she moved her weight from one foot to the other. Her eyes dipped to the glass he held, following its trajectory as he brought it to his lips and took a sip. A change in subject was definitely in order. Maybe then she could get out of his home and back to hers. Maybe then she’d be able to figure out her mess without the help from anyone else. “Not a coffee drinker?”

He arched a brow and glanced down at his beverage. “I’m not in the habit of waking Sleeping Beauty and that’s exactly what my coffee machine would have done.”