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“Rusty’s the last thing you are.” The gruffness in his voice tightens my sex.

“The Creek House is cramped with furniture. Maybe I’ll go out in the fields and dance with the cows.” He chuckles. I spin around to shamelessly nuzzle his throat, inhaling his leather and whiskey scent. His hand lowers to caress my bare thigh, traveling to tug at the garter I wear. “Or I could just dance for you, cowboy.”

I give him a flirty grin, watching as the barest trace of a smile tugs at his own lips before he smothers it.

“Darlin’, you can dance for me any damn day you like.”

Footsteps sound down the sidewalk. A man in his late sixties, black and silver hair slicked back, stops. He wears a black suit, nary a wrinkle in the expensive-looking fabric. The most well-dressed man I’ve ever seen in Tempest. No cowboy, that’s for sure.

Cole swears under his breath.

“Cole Weston. It’s been a while.” The man adjusts his tie.

A muscle jerks in Cole’s square jaw. “Granger.”

I look between them. Both men look like they’re refusing to make room on the sidewalk for the other.

“Heard you’ve been having late meetings out at your distillery.”

“No law against it.”

“Ah, there could be, if you just give me a reason.” He smiles wide as if it’s not a warning. It’s obvious the man hates Cole. In fact, it comes off him in waves. Violent, roiling waves.

“Granger, giving you ammunition is one goddamn thing I’d never do.”

“Still as arrogant as ever, I see.” The man’s shrewd gaze sweeps over me, pausing on my chest. “Now who’s this pretty little thing?”

Cole tenses. He moves his body in front of me as if to ward off the man’s words.

“None of your damn business.”

“I see you still haven’t learned your manners. Shame your mama’s gone.”

Shock hitches my chest.

“You son of a bitch.” Cole takes a step toward Granger, gaze leveled. Fists clenched.

But before he can go any further, extra footsteps echo loudly around us. “Dad, I got the gear for the tackle box…”

A young woman bounces out of the Meadowlark Market, a camera and a cooler in her hands.

She’s stunning. Dusty jeans, unkempt blouse, she looks unpolished next to the man in the suit. Her wild curls are threaded with various colors of gold. Her mouth falls open in surprise when she spots Cole.

He tenses. They obviously know each other.

My breath catches, and my skin heats. Jealousy. It’s all over me. When I have no right.

“We should go, Dad.” The girl moves closer to the man in the suit. A long, thin scar snakes its way up the center of her chest to poke above her blouse. I’ve noticed the same scar on Wells too.

“I believe you’re right.” He lifts a gray brow at us. “Excuse us.”

As they pass by, the girl falls back to catch Cole’s arm. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Don’t tell Wells I’m back.” And then she’s moving again, hurrying to catch up with her father.

Cole stands stiffly, his gaze darkening beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He rolls out his tense shoulders and loads the feed into the truck. An edge, an anger radiates around him as he moves.

We climb into the truck. Cole steers us out onto Main Street. We drive through town, exiting Tempest proper. On the outskirts of town, where the shadows thin, we pass the old white steepled church. Church bells chime, announcing that it’s noon.

I wait for us to be back on the highway before I chance a question. “Who was that man?”