Forbidden Cowboy Bodyguard Bonus Scene

“And your hip still hurts.”

“It does not.”

“You limped getting on your horse,” I point out.

He scowls. “Stiff. That’s all.”

“That’s another word for hurts.”

He turns forward again. “Keep your heels down.”

I gasp. “Did you just change the subject?”

“Nope.”

“You did.”

“Relax your hands.”

“Wade.”

“Daisy knows where she’s going.”

“I don’t,” I remind him.

“Good thing Daisy’s the one doing the walking.”

I narrow my eyes at the back of his black Stetson. There are days when I love this man beyond reason. There are other days when I’m forced to consider pushing him off his horse. Today could go either way.

The trail widens as we climb, and some of the tightness leaves my shoulders. Ahead of us, the hills roll away in muted browns and golds beneath a sky so blue it hardly looks real.

Virginia City sits behind us now, a collection of Victorian rooftops and old-timey shops clinging to the mountainside. I haven’t been back to Piper’s since the night of my final performance.

So much happened then. The hospital. The sheriff’s department. Statements. Lawyers. Mom. More statements.

Then Wade’s cabin, where I spent four days doing almost nothing except sleeping, eating biscuits and gravy, and reminding Wade every six hours that he was not allowed to pretend his hip didn’t hurt.

Then San Francisco. Then New York.

Life. My life. A life that suddenly belongs to me in a way it never quite did before. And now I’m back in Nevada for three days before flying to Chicago.

Every time I leave him, it gets a little harder. The stage life looks glamorous. It can make you feel celebrated, admired, even famous. But now, I know nothing compares to a quiet night in a cabin built for two. Especially an all-brown one decorated with gunslinger photos, a jar of watermelon lollipops, a lacquered wooden music box, and an exponentially growing number of my belongings.

Wade wanted to spend this visit together at his cabin. So did I. Apparently, neither of us is very good at sitting still.

“Tell me again what Mrs. Henderson found,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder. “Old property map.”

“I know that part.”

“Then why am I telling you?”

“Because I’m nervous.”

That gets his attention. His horse slows. Wade’s expression changes immediately. Not teasing now. “About riding?”

I shake my head. “About finding her.”

His face softens. “Ah.”

We’ve been looking for Wilhelmina Pettifort Redgrave since nearly the day I arrived in Virginia City. My great-great-grandmother Evelyn’s friend. Fellow performer. Alleged bad influence. Wife of a blacksmith. Owner of what might be the most elusive grave in the state of Nevada.

We found her memorial. We found a photograph of her husband’s blacksmith shop and the little house beside it. We even found the wrought-iron gate he supposedly made himself, flowers twisted into the top. But we never found Wilhelmina.

Then Daniel happened. Everything else stopped mattering.

Until two days ago, when Wade sent me a photograph while I was sitting in a rehearsal room in New York. An old property map. A red circle. And four words.

Think I found her.

I booked my flight that night. I would have anyway. I can’t stay away from Wade for very long. Or he would’ve flown to me. He’s made that abundantly clear.

But there’s something about this cozy little Comstock life that keeps growing on me. Maybe it’s the aquacise. Okay, it’s very much the aquacise. And the ridiculously handsome, towering cowboy next to me.

Wade slows his horse until we’re riding side by side. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

I nod.

“Could just be an old gate.”

“I know.”

“Could be nothing up there.”

“Yep.”

He studies me. “Could be another dead person entirely.”

I turn my head. “Thank you. That’s very comforting.”

“Trying to manage expectations.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Daisy plods along beneath me. Wade reaches across the space between our horses and holds out his hand.

I stare at it. “What?”

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Margot.”

I put my hand in his. His fingers close around mine. Warm. Rough. Familiar. My shoulders loosen.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You know this is terribly unsafe horsemanship.”

“Probably.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me.”

“Lesson one. Don’t fall off.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. I really don’t.

We ride another quarter mile before Wade stops. My heart does the same. Half buried in sagebrush, rusted nearly brown with age, two narrow iron posts rise from the earth. Between them hangs a gate. Or what’s left of one.

Flowers curl across the top. I stop breathing. “Oh.”

Wade doesn’t say anything. I slide out of the saddle before he can help me. Or at least, I attempt to.

My boot catches. Daisy shifts. I squeal. And Wade somehow gets off his own horse fast enough to catch me around the waist before I land on my ass.

For one ridiculous second, I’m hanging against him. His jaw tightens.

“Your hip, Wade.”

“My hip’s fine.”

“You just caught a hundred and—”

“Not Princess, you’re light as a feather. Didn’t even break a sweat.”

“You know, you’re a fool in love.”

“Maybe. But I’m your fool.” And then he kisses me. The kind of kiss I dreamed about when we snuck away and had ice cream together. The kind two people share without caring about what the rest of the world thinks. That’s Wade and me now, and I can’t get enough of it.

When he lets me go, I turn toward the gate. Everything inside me goes quiet. The remains of a narrow road continue beyond it, barely visible beneath sage and rabbitbrush. Farther up the slope sits what might once have been a foundation.

Nothing else remains. No house. No blacksmith shop. Just Nevada. Wind. Mountains. And an old iron gate covered in flowers.

“It’s the one from the photograph,” I whisper.

“Looks like it.”

I walk closer.

The hinges are rusted solid. One side of the gate has collapsed into the dirt, but the flowers remain. Not roses. Lilies.

I smile.

“Josiah couldn’t remember whether they were roses or lilies.”

“Man’s old.”

“He’s going to kill you someday.”

“He’ll have to catch me first.”

“Your hip—”

“Margot.”

I laugh.

We walk around the gate rather than attempting to open it. The land beyond is quiet. Not cemetery quiet. Different. Private. Protected.

I understand immediately why Wilhelmina might have chosen it. Because here, there are no tourists or crowds. No applause, either. Just the mountains.

Wade moves ahead of me, watching the ground. “There.”

I follow the direction of his hand.

At first, I don’t see anything. Then I do. A stone. Small. Weathered. Half swallowed by the earth.

My breath catches. I walk toward it. Wade stays behind.

For once, he doesn’t tell me where to step. Doesn’t take my arm. Or decide how close I should get. He just lets me go.

I kneel. The inscription is badly worn. But enough remains. REDGRAVES. Below it, I can make out two other names: WILHELMINA and EMMANUEL.

“Oh my God.” My eyes burn. “We found her. And she’s buried next to the man she gave up everything for.”

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Behind me, Wade releases a long breath. “But maybe she got more than she gave up.”

I glance back over my shoulder, and our eyes meet. “I think she did.”

“Yeah?” Wade asks, his eyes simmering.

My smile grows. “I’m certain of it.”

I touch the edge of the stone. “You were here the whole time.”

The wind moves through the sage. Something bright catches my eye. Flowers. Not wildflowers. A bouquet. Fresh enough that the stems are still green.

I stare at it. “Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you bring flowers?”

“No.”

I look over my shoulder. He lifts both hands. “Wasn’t me.”

I look back. A small bouquet of pale flowers rests beside Wilhelmina’s stone. Someone has tied them with a faded blue ribbon. There’s also a little white teddy bear, a couple strands of beads, a tube of lipstick, a tiny pair of high-heeled shoes, and a small makeup compact.

My skin prickles. “Apparently, we aren’t the only ones that know of this place.”

“Looks that way.” He shifts his weight, eyeing the offerings. “Pretty common around rural Nevada to find spots like this where folks still leave offerings for those who came before.”

“It’s beautiful in an eclectic way.”

He nods once. “Something Mrs. Henderson found. Wanted to surprise you with it.”

My heart stops. “Wade.”

He hands me a folded sheet of paper. It’s a copy of a letter. Only a few lines. At the bottom is a signature I know as well as my own. Evelyn. For a moment, I can’t speak.

Wade reads over my shoulder. “After we visited, she started digging through old archives. Found this. Wasn’t sure if you’d seen it before.”

The words blur. I blink until they sharpen again. It’s not a letter I’ve seen before. Not one from the published collection. Just a few lines from Evelyn to Wilhelmina, written years after Wilhelmina left the stage.

She writes about missing her. About envying the quiet life Wilhelmina chose. About promising that one day, when the stage finally stopped calling so loudly, she would come see the little house in the mountains. I press my fingers to my mouth.

“Family secret,” Wade murmurs.

I laugh wetly. “Apparently.”

All these years, the story in my family was that Wilhelmina had been a bad influence. The scandalous friend. The woman Evelyn should have left behind. But Evelyn hadn’t left her behind at all. She’d written to her. Missed her. Maybe even envied her.

The realization settles somewhere deep. My great-great-grandmother had loved the stage. So do I. But maybe she also understood something I’ve only recently figured out. Loving one life doesn’t mean you can’t want another one, too.

I look at Wade. He’s watching me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“Didn’t know I had a nothing face.”

“You have many faces.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. There’s the cowboy face. The bodyguard face. The grumpy face. The Billy Bucket face.”

His eyes narrow. “Careful.”

“And my personal favorite.”

“Which is?”

I lean closer. “The one you make right before you kiss me.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “That one?”

“Yes.”

He kisses me. Softly. Then urgently until I moan against his lips—

That’s when we hear tires on gravel.  I nearly come out of my skin. Wade spins. His hand goes instinctively toward the place his gun would normally be. Then stops.

An ancient pickup attached to a battered little stock trailer sits beneath the only outcropping of cottonwoods, and two people get out. One heads for the back of the trailer to open it. The other heads our way with a huge grin.

“Grandma?” Grandma Lily stands on the other side of the iron gate. Josiah is beside her. And Zephyr is eating something out of a paper bag.

I stare at them. “What are you doing here?”

Grandma Lily looks offended. “What are you doing here?” She walks toward us, carrying a second bouquet of red roses.

My mouth falls open. “You?”

“Me what?”

“You left the flowers?”

“Not those.”

I point at Wilhelmina’s grave.

Grandma looks at the bouquet. “Nope.”

Josiah scratches his chin. “Those are mine.”

I stare at him. “Yours?”

He shrugs.

“YOU KNEW WHERE SHE WAS?”

Josiah frowns. “Knew how to get here.”

“You said you didn’t know where the property was!”

“Said I didn’t know exactly.”

Wade stares at him. “Then how the hell did you get Grandma up here?”

Josiah jerks a thumb toward the ridge. “Old access road comes in from the other side.”

I bite my lip.

Wade closes his eyes. “We rode horses.”

“Sure did,” Josiah says.

“Up a goddamn mountain.”

“Scenic route.”

Grandma Lily starts laughing.

“That’s not funny,” Wade grumbles.

“It is from here,” Josiah says.

“We’ve spent weeks looking for this place.”

“Good for your character.”

“Grandma.” She pats his cheek. “You needed a hobby.”

I am laughing so hard now I have to sit down.

Wade turns toward me. “Don’t encourage them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No.”

I wipe my eyes. “I’m really not.”

Josiah approaches the grave and carefully straightens the first bouquet. “Got to thinking after we talked about a place Granddad used to bring me when I was a kid. Hadn’t thought about it in years. Never knew it was the Redgrave property. Just knew there was an old actress buried up here.”

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Somebody oughta remember.”

My laughter disappears. I look at the little grave. At the bouquet. At the old iron flowers above us. A breeze moves through the sage. Rosewater. Faint. Impossible.

My breath catches.

Wade’s eyes narrow. “You smell that?”

I nod.

Neither of us says anything.

Grandma Lily does. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I laugh. Because what else can I do?

Grandma sets her bouquet beside Josiah’s. Two bouquets now. One pale and weathered by a few days in the Nevada sun. One bright red and new.

“For Wilhelmina?” I ask.

Grandma shakes her head. “For both of them.”

I look down at the flowers. “Both?”

“Wilhelmina for staying,” she says. “Evelyn for leaving.”

Something catches in my throat. Grandma Lily looks at me. “Both women got to choose.”

Oh. I stare at her. Then at Wade. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Because somehow this stopped being about a missing grave a long time ago.

Maybe it was never about the grave. Maybe it was about finding proof that a woman can love the stage and still walk away from it sometimes. That she can love a man without disappearing inside his life. That she can stay. Or leave. Or come back. That there isn’t one right place for her. There is only the place she chooses.

I reach for Wade’s hand. His fingers close around mine. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

Wade turns to Lily. “You two gonna stay out of trouble? Or do I need to send Sheriff Baker after you?”

“Boy, that’s none of your business. Now run along. Rum cake and coffee back at my place in two hours.” Zephyr makes a braying sound.

“And apparently, carrots for the burro,” she adds.

We all laugh.

Wade and I walk back toward the horses. Halfway there, I stop.

“Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to feed Zephyr.” His entire body goes still.

Behind us, Josiah cackles. Grandma Lily starts laughing. Wade turns slowly. “You flew all the way from New York to see me.”

“And to find Wilhelmina. And now I want to feed Zephyr.”

“Of course you do.”

I kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”

“Not pouting.”

“You’re pouting.”

“I nearly died for you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I rode a curtain.”

“You’re never going to stop using that, are you?”

“Nope.”

I wrap my arms around his waist. “Would a watermelon lollipop help?”

His expression changes. “You got one?”

I pull one from my pocket.

He takes it. “You carry those around now?”

“Only for emergencies.”

“This qualifies.”

“Obviously.”

He unwraps it and sticks it in his mouth.

Then his eyes move past me. “Margot.”

“What?”

“Don’t move.”

I freeze.

“What?”

His eyes narrow. “Your horse.”

I turn.

Daisy is several yards down the trail. Walking away. Without me.

“Oh, shit.”

“Yep.”

“Shouldn’t we stop her?”

“Probably.”

“You’re the cowboy.”

“You’re the one who wanted riding lessons.”

“Wade.”

He folds his arms. “Go get your horse, sweetheart.”

I stare at him. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re awfully bossy for a man who claims he knows better than to tell his girl what she wants.”

His mouth curves slowly around the lollipop. “Never said I knew better than to tell her to go get her damn horse.”

I laugh. Then I go after Daisy.

Behind me, Wade calls, “Don’t run!”

“I KNOW!”

“And approach from the shoulder!”

“I KNOW!”

“Margot—”

I turn around. “What?”

He stands beneath the old wrought-iron gate, black Stetson low over his brow, watermelon lollipop in his mouth. The mountains stretch endlessly behind him.

“What?”

His grin softens.

“Love you.”

My heart turns over. “I love you, too.”

Then Zephyr shoves his entire head into my coat pocket. I scream.

Grandma Lily howls. Josiah swears. Wade laughs so hard he has to grab the gate. And somewhere on a quiet Nevada mountainside, beside two bouquets of flowers and the grave of a woman who chose exactly where she wanted to belong, I laugh with him.

Turns out, finding Wilhelmina wasn’t the end of the adventure after all. It was only the beginning.

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