A Second Chance Under Fire

The Excuse

The Oklahoma heat hadn’t broken, even though the sun was bleeding red into the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the hood of Tate’s beat-up Chevy. The air was thick, suffocating, much like the lie sitting heavy on his tongue.

Scarlett stood three feet away from him, clutching a crumpled letter in her hand, her chest heaving. She was eighteen, radiant, and vibrating with an electric kind of fury. Just twenty minutes ago, she had run out of her house, practically glowing, to tell him the news: the eventing sponsor in Kentucky had offered her a full ride. It was her golden ticket. The path to the Olympics was wide open.

And Tate had looked her dead in the eye and used her dream to burn their world to the ground.

“So that’s it?” Scarlett’s voice cracked, the sound slicing through the hum of the cicadas. “I get the biggest news of my life, and you pick a fight about logistics? Tate, we can make it work. I’ll come back on the weekends, you can drive up—”

“I’m not driving ten hours to be a tag-along boyfriend, Scarlett,” Tate snapped, forcing a coldness into his voice that made his own stomach turn. He leaned back against the hot metal of his truck, crossing his arms to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m not spending my life carrying your saddle and standing by the fences while you live out some Olympic fantasy.”

She flinched. The words hit exactly where he’d aimed them. “Fantasy? You know how hard I’ve worked for this. You’ve been right there with me every single morning at five A.M.!”

“Yeah, well, I’m done waking up early for horses that aren’t mine,” Tate lied, the acid burning his throat. He had to do this. He had to make her hate him. If he told her the truth—that he had enlisted, that he was shipping out to basic training in less than twenty-four hours to escape the suffocating dead-end of Calder—she would stay. She would throw away Kentucky. She would throw away her whole life to wait for a guy who didn’t even know if he was going to make it out of his own head.

“You’re being a selfish prick,” she whispered, her brown eyes pooling with tears she refused to let fall. She lifted her chin, that fierce, unyielding pride taking over. “If you can’t handle me succeeding, Tate Rawlins, then maybe you’re right. Maybe we are going in different directions.”

“Looks like it,” he said, his voice completely hollow.

Scarlett stared at him for one long, agonizing second, searching his face for the boy who had loved her since they were kids. But Tate had already locked him away. She spun on the heel of her boot and marched toward her own truck. She didn’t look back as she threw it into gear, kicking up a cloud of dust that coated Tate’s boots.

Tate stood in the empty driveway long after the red glow of her taillights disappeared. He gripped the edge of his truck bed, his knuckles turning white, and finally let his head drop, gasping for air as if he’d just been punched in the chest. It was done. She was free.

The Trellis

By 2:00 A.M., the world had finally gone silent. Tate stood at the base of the massive oak tree that flanked the Quinn ranch house. He had a duffel bag sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, packed with three changes of clothes, thirty-seven dollars, and his enlistment paperwork. He was supposed to be on the highway to Oklahoma City.

Instead, he was staring up at her second-story window.

He had climbed the white wooden trellis a hundred times over the past three years. He knew which crossbeams creaked and which ones would hold his weight. He moved silently, purely on muscle memory, driven by a desperate, clawing need in his chest. He couldn’t leave it like that. He couldn’t let his final memory of Scarlett Quinn be the heartbreak in her eyes.

When he reached the small balcony, he pressed his palms flat against the window frame and pushed upward. It slid open with a soft sigh.

The room was cool, smelling faintly of lavender and worn leather. Scarlett was curled on her side in the center of the bed, the moonlight washing over her bare shoulders. She was wearing one of his old, oversized gray t-shirts. The sight of it almost broke him in half.

Tate stepped quietly onto the carpet, his boots heavy in his hands. He set them down and moved to the edge of the bed. He didn’t speak. He just sank to his knees, pressing his forehead gently against the mattress near her hand.

Scarlett stirred. Her brow furrowed, and she blinked her eyes open, adjusting to the dark. When she saw the broad silhouette kneeling beside her bed, she gasped, instinctively pulling the sheet up.

“Tate?” Her voice was thick with sleep and residual anger. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the sound jagged and wrecked. He looked up at her, shedding the cold armor he had worn earlier. His eyes were entirely unguarded, filled with an ocean of desperate, agonizing grief. “I’m so sorry, Letty. Everything I said... I didn’t mean a single word.”

Scarlett’s anger faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp confusion. She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. She reached out, her fingers brushing the sandy-blond hair falling across his forehead. His skin was feverishly hot. “Tate, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

“I just needed to see you,” he breathed, leaning into her touch like a starving man. “I couldn’t leave it like that. I had to see you.”

Leave. The word slipped past her, the finality of it entirely lost in the exhaustion and the overwhelming relief that he was here, that he was looking at her like she was the only oxygen left in the room.

“You’re an idiot, Tate Rawlins,” she murmured, a tear finally slipping down her cheek.

“I know,” he choked out. He stood, his tall frame looming over the bed in the moonlight. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the hem of his own shirt, ripping it over his head and dropping it to the floor. Then he reached for her.

Scarlett didn’t ask him to explain. She just opened her arms. Tate climbed onto the mattress, his large hands immediately catching the hem of the oversized gray t-shirt she wore. He pulled it up and over her head, tossing it into the shadows, leaving her completely bare in the silver light.

The kiss started as a desperate apology, an urgent pressing of lips and a tangle of breath, but it ignited the moment his tongue swept into her mouth. Scarlett tasted salt—his tears or hers, she couldn’t tell. She felt the heavy, muscular weight of him pressing her deep into the mattress.

He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the long, elegant column of her throat. “I need you,” he rasped, his voice vibrating against her collarbone. “Let me...”

Tate began to map every single inch of her, his rough, calloused rancher’s hands worshiping her skin as if he were trying to memorize her by touch alone. He dragged his palms down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the soft, flat expanse of her stomach. He wanted to brand the feel of her into his fingertips so he could carry it with him to whatever hell he was walking into tomorrow.

He moved lower, his mouth following the agonizingly slow path of his hands. He took the soft swell of her breast into his mouth, his tongue swirling hot and wet over her hardening nipple. Scarlett arched off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as his teeth gently scraped the sensitive peak. His hand slid down the smooth skin of her thigh, gripping the back of her knee and hooking her leg over his hip to open her up completely to him.

“Tate,” she breathed, her fingers tangling tightly in his sandy-blond hair.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath hot against the juncture of her thighs.

He didn’t rush. He couldn’t. He parted her folds with his thumbs, revealing the slick, swollen heat of her, and lowered his mouth.

Scarlett cried out, her hips jerking off the sheets as his tongue found her center. He was relentless, lapping at her with a desperate, starving rhythm. He slipped two thick fingers inside her wet heat, stretching her, curling upward to find the exact spot that made her breath hitch. His thumb pushed her clitoris against his tongue, working her with a steady, punishing friction that sent electric shocks straight to her brain.

She was unraveling, tossing her head back against the pillows. The sensation was too intense, heavy with the devastating sorrow of the day and the frantic energy of the night. “Tate, please—I can’t—”

“Let go for me, Letty,” he commanded thickly against her skin, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, his mouth sucking hard at her most sensitive nerve endings. “Give it to me.”

She broke apart with a muffled scream, her thighs clamping around his head as her first orgasm ripped through her. She shuddered violently, wave after wave of intense pleasure leaving her entirely breathless, her nails digging into the broad, flexing muscles of his back.

Before she could even catch her breath, Tate was moving up her body. His chest was heaving, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He settled his weight between her thighs, his green eyes locking onto hers. They were dilated, entirely black in the dim room, feral and broken all at once.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you more than anything in this world, Letty. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you too,” she gasped, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax.

He reached down, guiding himself to her entrance, and pushed inward. Scarlett let out a long, ragged sigh as the thick, heavy length of him filled her completely. She was so incredibly wet, so thoroughly prepped by his mouth, that he slid deep to the hilt on the very first thrust.

Tate ground his hips down, anchoring himself inside her. He started to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The friction was a wet, heavy slap of skin on skin that echoed in the quiet room. He angled his hips, hitting that deep, aching spot inside her with every single thrust.

Scarlett wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking him in. She met his ferocity, arching her hips to take him deeper, harder. The rhythm was messy, raw, and desperate. Tate’s hands were everywhere—bruising her hips to hold her still, sliding under her back to arch her closer, tangling in her hair as he crushed his mouth to hers. He swallowed her moans, thrusting with a frantic urgency, trying to forge his soul to hers before the sun came up and tore them apart.

The friction began to build the fire inside her all over again. Her internal muscles contracted around him, squeezing him so tightly Tate groaned out loud, his control rapidly shattering.

“That’s it,” he ground out, his thrusts becoming short, violent, and incredibly deep. “Come for me again, Letty. Take it.”

She was perfectly trapped beneath his weight, completely consumed by the heat and the power of his body. The pressure coiled tighter and tighter in her lower belly until it suddenly snapped. Scarlett cried out his name, her back arching completely off the bed as a second, even more violent orgasm crashed over her.

Her contractions were the final push Tate needed. With a guttural, jagged groan, he drove into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. His entire body went rigid as he poured himself into her, his climax tearing through him with the devastating finality of a goodbye.

Tate collapsed heavily onto her chest, completely spent. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, silently praying to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in to protect her when he was gone.

The Morning After

At 5:30 A.M., the sun was just beginning to turn the sky the color of a bruised peach.

Tate had stayed awake the entire night, watching the steady rise and fall of Scarlett’s chest. He had memorized the way her eyelashes fanned against her cheeks, the small freckle just below her collarbone, the smell of lavender and sweat on her skin. When the digital clock clicked to 5:30, he knew he was out of time.

Moving with agonizing slowness, he carefully extracted his arm from beneath her. Scarlett shifted, letting out a soft hum of protest, but settled back into the pillows. Tate stood beside the bed, pulling his jeans and boots back on in the dark. He paused at the window, looking back at her one last time. His chest physically ached, as if someone had reached in and cracked his ribs apart.

Be great, Letty, he thought. Go win.

He slipped out the window and down the trellis like a ghost. By 6:00 A.M., his Chevy was burning rubber on the highway heading south to the city.

Ten miles away, Nash Boone was dragging himself out of his front door, holding a steaming mug of black coffee. He was expecting Tate to pull up any minute so they could head out to Stillwater for the fencing job.

Instead, he found a sealed white envelope jammed into the driver’s side door handle of his truck.

Nash frowned, setting his coffee on the hood. He ripped the envelope open. Inside was a single piece of lined notebook paper, covered in Tate’s messy, hurried scrawl.

Boone, Tell my folks I’m sorry. I couldn’t say it to their faces, they would’ve talked me out of it. By the time you read this, I’m at the MEPS station in OKC taking the oath. I signed an Option 40 contract. I’m going Ranger.

Don’t let my dad sell the Chevy, I’ll pay him back for the insurance.

Keep an eye on Letty for me. — Tate

Nash stared at the paper, the blood draining completely from his face. “You stupid, stupid son of a bitch,” Nash breathed into the empty morning air.

The Collapse

Scarlett woke up to the blinding glare of the morning sun hitting her face. She stretched, a slow, contented smile pulling at her lips. Her body ached in the best possible way. She turned over, expecting to find the heavy warmth of Tate beside her.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were cold on his side, holding only the faint indent of his head on the pillow and the lingering scent of his aftershave. Scarlett sat up, pulling the duvet around her chest, frowning. “Tate?” she called out softly, assuming he was in the bathroom.

Silence.

She swung her legs out of bed, grabbing her robe. She walked out into the hallway, peeking over the stairs. Her mother was in the kitchen, the smell of bacon wafting up, but there was no sign of Tate’s boots by the door.

Before she could process the strange emptiness in her stomach, the sound of tires tearing up the gravel driveway made her jump. She walked to the window, pulling back the curtain. Nash’s truck was parked haphazardly near the porch, the door left wide open. Nash was taking the porch steps two at a time, his face pale and panicked.

Scarlett’s heart dropped into her stomach. A cold, terrifying instinct seized her. She didn’t bother putting on shoes; she bolted down the stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her robe, and threw the front door open just as Nash raised his fist to knock.

“Nash, what’s wrong?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “Where’s Tate?”

Nash stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at her, his eyes taking in her disheveled hair, the flushed skin of her neck, the desperate panic in her brown eyes. He looked down at the piece of paper crumpled in his fist. He realized, with a sickening jolt, that she had no idea.

“Scarlett...” Nash’s voice cracked. He couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Nash, where is he?” she yelled, grabbing the front of his denim jacket. “Is he hurt? Was there an accident?”

“He’s not hurt,” Nash said quickly, grabbing her wrists to steady her. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to deliver the blow. “He’s gone, Letty.”

She froze. “Gone? Gone where? We had a fight yesterday, but he came over last night, he was right here—”

“He enlisted,” Nash blurted out, the words feeling like shards of glass. “He left this morning. He drove to Oklahoma City. He’s signing his contract today.”

The world tilted violently on its axis. Scarlett stared at Nash, the words echoing in her ears but refusing to make sense. Enlisted? The Army? No. No, Tate hated structure. Tate loved the ranch. Tate was right here in her bed three hours ago, holding her, loving her, promising her...

I love you more than anything in this world, Letty. Don’t ever forget that.

It wasn’t a promise. It was a goodbye.

The realization hit her with the concussive force of a physical blow. The air vanished from her lungs. The fight yesterday about her sponsorship, the cruel things he said, the desperate, agonizing way he had touched her in the dark—he had known. He had known he was leaving her, and he had slept with her anyway. He had stolen their last night like a thief and snuck out before she could even open her eyes.

“No,” Scarlett whispered, the sound tearing out of her throat as a ragged sob. “No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me!”

“I’m so sorry, Letty,” Nash whispered, tears welling in his own eyes.

Scarlett’s knees buckled. The strength completely evaporated from her bones. She didn’t fall to the wooden boards of the porch; Nash caught her, wrapping his arms tight around her as she collapsed against his chest. She buried her face in his jacket and let out a scream of unadulterated heartbreak, the sound fracturing the peaceful morning silence. It was a visceral, soul-tearing wail of a girl who had just realized that the boy she loved hadn’t just broken her heart—he had packed his bags, walked out in the dead of night, and taken her entire future with him.