Outlaw Cowboy (19 page)

She was nothing. She was alone. She might have warm baths and sweet guys not touching her now, but it wouldn't last. Once Caleb knew the whole truth, his sweetness would be done. His kindness, his friendship, anything that was between them.

Dead. Forever. No take backs this time.

Okay, fuck, she was going to cry like a baby. She pressed her forehead to her knees, and the sobs poured out.

Delia might have cried a few times in his presence now, but that didn't mean he knew what to do with her tears. Still, he couldn't sit idly by. He supposed she needed to get it out, but he couldn't just
watch
.

So he sat down next to the tub and rested his hand on her shoulder. He didn't know what else to do, not with her naked in the tub, surrounded by quickly fading bubbles. So he just rubbed his hand on her shoulder, keeping his gaze on the floor while she cried.

“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry,” she said in between sobs.

He almost took his hand off her shoulder. Honest emotion and regret wasn't something either of them did comfortably. Still, she was upset enough to not be in her right mind, so he kept his hand where it was. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “you'll see,” but that didn't make any sense.

“Delia.” He squeezed her wet, soapy shoulder. “If Rose and Steph are taking care of it, why are you so upset?” Didn't that mean she was off the hook for all this? “Shouldn't you be happy?”

She slapped his hand off her shoulder, which was comforting in that it wasn't tears or apologies. “You don't get it! She's still there. She had a bruise on her
face
, but she told me to go and not come back. Because her and
Rose
, who I know is in Blue Valley only because of Summer!
Summer…
” Her hands clenched into fists on top of her knees, and she looked straight ahead.

At least she was getting some of her spark back.

She thumped her fists on her knees. “What am I supposed to do now?”

He hesitated to say anything, because he was pretty sure she would try to cut off his balls. She was naked and soapy. He didn't stand a chance.

But her fierce gaze moved to his, as if she expected him to answer. As if he
had
to answer.

“Well… Doesn't this mean you can do whatever you want?”

Apparently that was the wrong answer, because she lowered her head to her knees again, hugging her legs tight to her chest.

Shit. So… “Look. You've…got a place here, for as long as you need. I don't really have any cash to spare to get you to wherever you'd want to go, but there's the cabin and—”

“Shut up.”

No, things were never as he expected with Delia. “I'm trying to be nice.”

“I know. Shut up. Stop being nice. Stop…” She shook her head violently and then fisted her hand in his shirt and pulled him over the bathtub wall.

She crushed her mouth to his, and as much as he wanted to pull her out and take her on the bathroom floor, there was something too vulnerable and desperate about her right now for this to be right.

“Damn it, Caleb,” she muttered against his unmoving mouth. “Kiss me back.”

Through a sincerely regretful and great force, he peeled her fingers off his shirt. “I'm trying to be a better man over here.” They couldn't keep doing this, solving all their problems by ignoring them for sex.

“Why? Why would you want to be the better man when I am naked and wet and begging you to make me forget?”

That was a really good question, and one he could find no answer to. Not in a joke. Not in a truth. He had no words, only a clutching in his chest, foreign and uncomfortable. It was a feeling he usually ignored or hid from, but he had neither of those choices here.

So he stood and held up the towel. “Let's get you into some clean clothes.”

She gaped at him, but he wasn't going to relent. Not this time. She needed to be on even ground, and throwing herself at him—while far more enjoyable than it had a right to be—wasn't doing her any favors.

He was really shitty at doing the right thing for people, but Delia had no one else. He might be the shittiest guardian angel on the face of the planet, but it was better than none.

He hoped.

She finally stepped out of the tub and he wrapped the towel around her shoulders.

“I can't even get attention naked. I really am pathetic,” she muttered, toweling herself off.

He was pretty sure she meant it as a joke, but it didn't strike him as one. Maybe because he knew too well the hurt that tinged those words. The feeling you were alone, and no one saw you, and even if they kind of cared, it wasn't enough to make you feel whole or good.

“Delia.” He didn't think he was supposed to say this, so maybe that meant he
was
supposed to. He sucked at this stuff. But she needed…good Lord, she was a woman who needed no matter how much she pretended not to, and maybe that was the veneer that gave him the push
he
needed.

So he stood in front of her, looked her in the eye, and said words he'd probably only ever said to his sister, and rarely at that. “I care about you.”

Her eyes went wide and her body went still. The seconds ticked by like that, her frozen and him…well, a little frozen himself.

Eventually she gave her head a little shake. “Let's not—”

“I don't know what I can do with that.”

“Well,
I
certainly don't know either.”

“I didn't figure you would, which is why I thought I should tell you. Do I want to have sex with you right now? Let's not be stupid. There's nothing more I would love than to be inside you, to hear you sigh my name like it's something special.” Okay, maybe this was getting a little too close to honesty. A guy had his pride. “But maybe just this once we don't ignore the problem by trying to ride each other into the sunset.”

Her mouth almost
almost
quirked upward.

“You were expecting something entirely different than what you got today. This thing you've been working on so hard got flipped. Take some time to figure out what the next step is.”

Her eyes were dark and inscrutable. For all the ways he thought he could see through her, he couldn't see through that look. “And what if there's no next step?”

“There's always a next step.”

“Now you sound like Summer.”

“No need for insults.” This time he did earn a mouth quirk. He held out a hand. “Come on. You can wear something of mine.”

He stood outside the bathroom, and she stood inside, the threshold between them, separating them. Delia's gaze remained unreadable, and it was silly that his heart hammered a little harder and his stomach felt empty as he held out his hand to her. Like he was nervous.

What was there to be nervous about? He was going to clothe her and feed her and keep her warm until she figured out that next step. And, yeah, okay, he cared about her. But none of that hinged on some imaginary line separating them or her taking his hand to cross it.

Hand or not, he cared. Hand or not, life was going to separate them eventually.

The empty feeling in his stomach dropped, but he ignored it. What, like this all mattered? People didn't stick around. Even Mel had left Shaw—the thing she'd once claimed
was
her. So he might care, but he wasn't going to believe.

That'd get him knocked in the teeth. He was sure of it.

But he was much less sure when her hand slipped into his and warmth and comfort and…love…bloomed in his chest.

Okay, he might be fucked.

* * *

Delia woke up alone in Caleb's bed.

Wait. How had this happened? She sat up in the tangle of his blankets and squinted at the clock on his nightstand. It read five fifteen, so likely Caleb was out doing his chores.

How had he slipped out of the room without her waking up? She'd always been a light sleeper, had to be to survive. But last night Caleb had fussed over her and put her in one of his T-shirts, and had not copped
one
feel.

Asshole.

And…she didn't remember past him ordering her into bed. Had she just zonked out? Man, she really was in a bad state.

Of course she was. Her sisters didn't need her, the man who
cared
about her and was caring
for
her was about to find out what a mistake he'd made.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Everything in her recoiled at the idea of telling him about the warrant. It was the right thing to do, but…

She didn't want to do it. She wanted some comfort, a warm bed, and a warm body at night.

Worst of all, she wanted Caleb. She wanted this stupid thing between them to be less stupid than it was. But she couldn't magically wish a warrant away, like, apparently, Rose and Steph could wish away a sister.

Delia flopped back onto the pillow. She was getting melodramatic and that wouldn't fix her problem.
Nothing will fix your problem, so…

She kicked off the covers. They were warm and soft, and if she didn't escape them, she'd be tempted to become one with them and never leave. Living in Caleb's bed couldn't be that bad, could it?

The floor was cold under her feet, but the air felt like a tropical island compared to the cabin, and Caleb's old T-shirt felt like silk compared to the dirty jeans she'd been walking around in for days upon days.

This kind of luxury was going to ruin her. She'd never be able to rough it again, and Lord knew she was going to have to rough it. Possibly in jail.

She'd gotten through life by putting one foot in front of the other. She'd survived worse than this and yet, somehow this was scarier because she had nothing to work for: no sisters to rescue, no goal to reach.

She was almost thirty years old and she had nothing. Hell, maybe she should go to jail simply for somewhere to be. Of course, then she'd have no idea what to do when she got out.

She shook her head and forced herself to look at the window, the faint smudge of sunrise visible through the crack in the curtain. She couldn't keep going in this hopeless circle. She had to figure something out, and until she did, she'd just have to keep the warrant business to herself.

If that was the shitty thing to do, well, she couldn't help it. She had to protect herself first.

She searched the room for her clothes but couldn't find them. Maybe they were in the bathroom. But a note balanced on the doorknob stopped her in her tracks.

Your clothes are in the dryer. Help yourself to food in the kitchen.

He'd underlined food three times, and she wanted to be irritated, but…

He cared about her. He
admitted
he cared about her. How could she ruin that by telling him about the warrant? Maybe if he didn't have the Tyler thing hanging over his head, she could convince him she was innocent and it wasn't a big deal.

But that wasn't going to happen. Even if he believed she was innocent, he wouldn't risk the police. Not when Shaw was on the line and he'd already risked so much. She grabbed the note and crumpled it.
You don't deserve this.
The absolute truth and weight of that hit her like a blow. She didn't deserve his kindness. She was using him, just like she'd used all the others.

Maybe it felt different, but that didn't
make
it different. Because, once again, all she had to offer was sex. Guys might find that worth it for a while, but it wasn't worth it in the long run for the hassle that was her.

She had to come up with a plan to get out of here. To find some tiny grasp of control, and not be undone by laundry and food.

Just another thing to survive. The only problem with this survival? Those were all things she desperately, foolishly, deeply wanted.

Don't deserve it. Keep on moving.

Trying to keep her mind occupied on
anything
else, she poked around Caleb's room, looking for some kind of pants or shorts of his she could wear. It was hard when he was this disorganized and they were so differently sized. She found herself sitting at the bottom of his closet, going through a plastic tub of what seemed to be summer clothes. Maybe she could find some shorts.

Instead, she found a little shoe box, so old the brand label had faded away. It would be wrong to snoop, but it was already wrong to be here. She nudged the box open with her index finger, then frowned at the yellowing papers inside. They looked like trash, all in all. Old school papers. A few birthday cards. It took flipping through almost all of them for it to dawn on her what this was.

A collection of positive reinforcement. It was a tiny little stack for someone who'd grown up with so much more than her: a few papers from probably elementary school with
good job
or
great work
written across the top; a birthday card with a three on the front, signed
Grandma
, along with a note that talked about what a good little boy he was.

She had to press a palm to her chest, where pain bloomed so sharp and big she could hardly breathe. She wished she hadn't put it together, wished she didn't envy him this tiny world of goodness.

But that's what it was. A collection of items from when there'd still been a chance. Before they'd been labeled bad, wild, out of control. Before they'd become the kids you kept your kids away from, the kids who stole things, burned things, and caused trouble.

She'd acted out because she'd wanted to. To feel free. To feel powerful. Caleb's acting out was something she never quite understood, but she could see this was a part of it. No matter how good he tried to convince himself he was, he had some weird belief deep down he was bad. Broken.

Why? Why would he think that? It was so obvious to her he was the little boy in the birthday card—good and sweet and ready to help. Maybe he had a bit of a temper, but, jeez, who didn't?

She replaced the lid and put everything back the way it was. In the end, she grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them up to her waist, clutching the extra fabric at her hip. She'd go get her clothes, some breakfast, and then…

Maybe there were some chores she could do—hidden in case Tyler stopped by. Maybe she could at least offer enough in the way of help he wouldn't totally hate her when he found out about the warrant.