Ralph’s bleary eyes narrowed.
“I ain’t bluffing.”
“Fine. If I don’t call the sheriff, she keeps her stupid mouth shut too.”
“Deal. But if you ever touch her again? You’ll deal with me, and we both know you ain’t got balls enough to cross me twice.”
While Bran and Ralph exchanged dirty looks and more harsh, threat-laden words, the shame of how Ralph viewed her brought Harper’s every insecurity front and center. She backed away quietly and ran the two blocks to her house without stopping.
Once she was inside, she threw the dead bolt and ditched her coat. Needing something to do with her shaking hands, she poured water in a mug and shoved it in the microwave. As she grabbed the tea, she heard banging on her front door.
Startled, she dropped the spoon on the countertop.
“Harper,” he yelled. “Let me in.” A pause. “It’s Bran.”
Bran had followed her? Why?
To see if you made it home safely.
He had an inner core of a cowboy gentleman, even though he hadn’t shown it to her in recent weeks.
She walked back through the living room, pausing beside the door but keeping the locks in place. “Thanks for checking on me, but I’m fine. Really.”
“Open the goddamn door, Harper.”
“Bran—”
“Now.”
Reluctantly, she flipped the lock and let him in. He threw off his coat and toed off his boots as if he planned to stay a while.
“By all means. Make yourself comfy.” Harper spun on her heel, intending to return to the kitchen.
Bran stopped her, turned her to face him, holding her upper arms. “Why in the hell did you run off like that?”
“Wouldn’t you have?”
“We ain’t talkin’ about me here, sweetheart.”
“You sure felt entitled to speak for me when Ralph was already on the ground, didn’t you? Maybe I wanted him to call the sheriff. Maybe I’m sick and tired of his harassment.”
“That’s not what . . .”
His look of surprise fueled her frustration with him. “You know what, Bran? Just go. I cannot deal with you right now.”
“Tough shit. I ain’t leaving until you talk to me.”
Harper broke his hold on her. “I’m not on the clock at the Turner Ranch. I owe you nothing, including a conversation. So back off.” She sidestepped him, but he followed her to the kitchen anyway. She took the mug from the microwave and dunked the tea bag in it, not offering him a cup. Maybe he’d get the hint.
She meandered back to the living room and curled up in the easy chair instead of the couch so Mr. Helpful couldn’t sit next to her. Wrapping her hands around the mug, she closed her eyes and willed this day to be over.
Cupboard doors opened in the kitchen. Footsteps came closer and stopped. When Harper heard the sound of glass clinking against the glass-topped coffee table she opened her eyes.
Bran set two juice glasses and a half-empty bottle of Jameson whiskey between them. He poured the amber liquid in each glass, then held one out to her. “Trade ya.”
Harper allowed the exchange—Bran would get his way no matter if she gave in now or ten minutes from now. And for some stupid reason, his high-handed behavior didn’t bother her.
He lifted his glass. “To you knocking Ralph in the dirt where he belongs.”
She raised her glass to his toast and tossed back the shot. A full-body shudder worked free as the alcohol seared her throat and hit her stomach.
“Ah,” Bran said, after draining his whiskey. “You want another?”
“I’m good.”
“Yes, you certainly are.” Bran poured, drank, and studied her with a look akin to admiration. “Tell me ... where’d you learn to defend yourself like that?”
“My sister Liberty. She’s had hand-to-hand combat training in the army and she’s drilled both Bailey and me on basic defense moves.”
“Was tonight the first time you’d ever used it?”
Harper shook her head.
“Christ.” Bran consumed another shot. “It shouldn’t have happened. None of it. I should’ve . . .”
“What could you’ve done to prevent it?”
His gaze met hers and held. “If I hadn’t been such a chickenshit and had asked you to dance, you would’ve been sitting with me, not alone. I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you walk outside alone.”
She permitted a small smile. “You’re so sure I would’ve danced with you?”
A rare vulnerability flashed in his face. “I figured maybe I could guilt you into it, bein’s I’m your boss and all.”
Silence.
His gaze flitted around the living room. “This is a nice place.”
Harper choked back a laugh. “Right. It’s a rental.”
“You fixed it up nice. Looks a lot better in here than my trailer.” He pointed to the colorful display on the top of the bookshelf. “Are those antique perfume bottles?”
“Yes.”
“They look cool lined up like that.”
“You aren’t here to praise my decorating skills, Bran.”
“True.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you, but as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. You shouldn’t feel obligated to stay.”
“Obligated.” Bran laughed, a little bitterly. “You have no f**kin’ clue what I feel.” He reached for the whiskey bottle, thought better of it, and dropped his hand.