Come Home to Me

“You can’t. Presley deserves some happiness. And she is happy these days, isn’t she?”

“Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

“Then that’s proof you’re doing the right thing.”

“Still, if Aaron or Dylan ever find out...” She felt heartsick at the prospect, but she couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t risk telling because of what it could destroy.

“You have to hope they don’t,” Eve said matter-of-factly.

“What a mess.” Someday what she and Presley were doing would not end well; the thought of that terrified her. “Anyway, I’m home now. I should go.”

“Okay. You’re on tomorrow?”

Cheyenne had recently scaled back her hours so she could help with Wyatt. Neither of them were quite used to her new schedule. “Yeah.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

As they disconnected, Cheyenne tried to push her concern into the back of her mind, as she’d done so far. But when she went inside and turned to hang up her coat, she saw the hole in the wall—proof that she couldn’t tell Aaron about Wyatt. He had an anger problem. That alone suggested they’d better not second-guess the decisions made two years ago.

“What happened?” she called out to Dylan. “Don’t tell me you and Aaron got into it again.”

There was no answer.

Unhappy with the damage that had been done to her house, Cheyenne hurried into the living room. Her husband sat on the couch with the TV on pause, holding his head in his hands.

“Dylan, what is it? He didn’t hit you, did he?”

She grew even more alarmed when he glanced up at her with a hollowness in his eyes.

“No, he didn’t hit me.”

“What made him punch the wall?”

Dylan shoved a hand through his hair. “Aaron didn’t do that. I did.”

“What?” She’d never known Dylan to do such a thing. Like Aaron, he had a temper. Heaven help any worthy opponent who pushed him too far. But he’d always been able to control himself—at least since she’d come into his life. Before that, he’d had a reputation for being reckless, even dangerous, but that was understandable. He’d felt he had to do whatever he could to survive, and to make sure his brothers did, too.

“I’ll patch it,” he said in an attempt to mollify her.

“I’m not worried about that so much as I am about you.” Sitting down next to him, she rubbed his back, trying to soothe him. “What got you so upset?”

“Aaron infuriates me. You know that.”

“But you can usually cope with it. What did he say or do to set you off tonight?”

His beard growth rasped as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I was trying to tell him to stay away from Presley, and he got belligerent, as he always does.”

The guilt she’d been feeling burrowed a little deeper. “Don’t fight with your brother over Presley. That makes me feel I’m the one who dragged you into it, because I’m so concerned about her.”

“There’s no need for him to screw up her life. If he loved her and was willing to step up and marry her, I wouldn’t feel like this. But...he doesn’t want anything she’s got to offer. Not now. She has a kid, and that’s entirely too much responsibility for him.”

Dylan adored Wyatt, felt protective of him. “Are you sure? That Aaron’s not ready for—” the way he looked at her made her adjust what she was about to say “—for someone who might be interested in a more serious relationship?”

“Hell, no. He’s never been able to maintain a serious relationship. What makes you think he could start now? I wouldn’t want him to get involved with Presley again, anyway. That’s all we need. You know how volatile he is, how their relationship could potentially affect ours.”

But Aaron wouldn’t ask permission. No one could tell him what to do; no one could make him see reason if he didn’t want to. If Dylan tried to step in, to influence him, Aaron could do exactly the opposite just to prove his autonomy.

“It’s too bad that she had to come back before he left,” Cheyenne lamented.

“I’d rather have her here in Whiskey Creek than depending on people she can’t trust to take care of Wyatt.”

Dylan had been as livid as she was when Presley found those marks on Wyatt. The owner of the thrift shop had let her bring Wyatt to work three days a week, but she still had to leave him on the weekends, because it was busier, and when she went to massage school at night.

“I agree Wyatt’s better off here,” she said, “but...”

“What?” he prompted.

But he didn’t know nearly as much as she did. “Having the two of them in town for even a month is too long.” She gave him a rueful smile as she checked his hand. He’d bruised and scraped his knuckles. “Do we need to take you to the hospital? Have that X-rayed?”

He shook her off. “No. It’s not broken.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’ve broken it often enough to know the difference.”

She mussed his hair. Although he was as tough as a man could be, there was a childlike innocence in the way he cared for her that formed the foundation of her happiness. “I love you so much, too much. Even when you punch holes in my wall.” She stood up. “Let’s wash off your hand before you get blood on the couch.”

“Chey?” He caught her wrist, pulling her back to him.

“Yes?”

“Does it ever make you...envious to see Wyatt?”

The gravity of that question gave her an inkling of what might be causing Dylan to act out. It didn’t have to do with Aaron. Not completely.

“Why would it make me feel envious?” She could guess, but wanted to draw him out. He rarely put a voice to his fears and concerns; instead, he expressed them in some physical act, by making love to her, going to the gym he and his brothers had set up in their barn or—tonight, anyway—punching a hole in the wall.

“We’ve been married for a while now and...no baby.” He studied her. “Despite how badly you want one.”

He felt he had to provide something she wanted that much. He wasn’t used to being unable to give her what would make her happiest. Since he was eighteen, he’d been taking care of the people in his life. He always took on added responsibility; it was just who he was.

“I do want a baby,” she admitted. “I want your baby. But if we can’t have one, we can’t. Nothing could ever make me regret marrying you.”

“What if it’s me—my fault? You wouldn’t resent it someday?”

“Of course not.”

“Because it’s got to be me,” he said. “You’ve never done anything physically damaging.”