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I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Goddamnit, Delilah,” Cole growls.

I wrench my eyes open to find his burning stare on mine.

Humiliated, angry at myself, my hands shake. I back away from him. “I’m sorry.”

Turning, I run through the tasting room, the hallways, the Coop, and the distillery until I’m finally outside. Heat nips at my face. My lungs clench and won’t release. Tears build in my eyes.

Breathe. In. Out.

I stick my hands in my hair and double over, gasping. My breathing’s off-kilter, my mind racing.

The cops are after me. Melly, my friend, is missing. Another person I left behind. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong, and I know it. Just like that night with Lucy Lou—

“Oh god.”

“Breathe, Delilah.”

Cole’s deep timbre, his heat sears as he steps behind me. I can’t help it, sheer relief has me sagging back against his chest. His body feels like it’s made of steel and mountain.

Big hands on my shoulders now. “Breathe.”

My gasp erupts to a sob. “I can’t.”

“Darlin’, you’ve got to breathe. You pass out, I won’t be too happy about it.” His chest rises, helping me along. A harsh breath hits my neck. “In and out.”

I gulp air.

Cole’s mouth skims my ear, his voice rumbling straight through me. “The first time I ever rode a bull, I had a panic attack. Couldn’t get air. Couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t do a damn thing but panic. My brother talked me down. He said, ‘Nothing is ever so bad you can’t conquer it.’”

A lump rises in my throat. I lean my head back against his chest and look at him. “What if you can’t?”

A thick forearm hooks around my waist. “You can.”

I close my eyes as he and I take several slow deep inhales. Both of our chests rising and falling in a deep, calm rhythm. When I finally feel less shaky, I turn and face him. His deep blue eyes find mine.

“I’m sorry about the whiskey,” I say. “You were right, it was the wrong bottle.”

“I don’t care about the whiskey.” Cole looks down, his brow furrowing. “Your legs.”

The low swoop of my stomach has my heart racing faster. He’s here? For me?

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You got nicked.” Expression unreadable, he takes my elbow, guiding me to a low barrel. “Sit. Let me look at your leg.”

I smile as he crouches in front of me. Tucked under his bicep is a first aid kit. “Are you always so prepared, cowboy?”

A chuckle leaves his lips. “Have to be. Especially with you around.”

“I’m not normally such a klutz.”

Cole grunts and tears open a rubbing alcohol pad. There’s a coolness on my leg, and my breath catches, not at the sting of antiseptic but at Cole’s touch. His hands, calloused from ranch work, run over my legs. One big hand palming the back of my calf, while the other wipes away the blood. My nerve endings stir.

I sit so still, almost in awe of his gentle touch, but when our gazes lock, he withdraws his hand.

My eyes drift over him. He looks like the finest specimen of a cowboy. Gorgeous in a light blue chambray pearl-snap and his dusty black cowboy hat. His boots, dark brown with copper Ws, are almost as rugged as he is.