Chapter 8 #3
“I’m sorry I left my troubadour at home. I’ll bring him next time.” His mouth is curved up in a smile, and it’s evident he’s trying hard not to laugh. I want to bite his bottom lip.
“You are wound so incredibly tight, has anyone ever told you that?” Shayne says, stepping quickly up to the porch.
He gently takes the stem out of my hand and then bends down and starts cleaning up the rest of the glass shards.
He’s wearing a light-colored, long-sleeved shirt that clings to his shoulders and back in a very distracting way.
I’ve never wanted to be reborn as a shirt before.
The effect this man has on me is criminal.
The combination of lust and adrenaline rushing through my body is making me dizzy.
“Did you fly here? How did I not hear those shit kickers of yours crunching on the gravel?”
“You should have. Maybe you want to get your ears checked,” Shayne says, standing, his hands carefully cradling the glass.
I consider him for a moment. “I think you intentionally try to scare me. I think you love it when I freak out.”
His eyes travel down my body, and if I wasn’t covered in red wine I’d be thrilled. “You are a tempting target.”
“I’m going to go inside and change. There’s a trash can by the garage over there,” I say, pointing.
I kick off my shoes and go inside. After everything that’s happened today, stressing out about Shayne’s intentions is the last thing I need right now.
Being around him is pure torture—I say and do stupid things, all because I can’t handle the level of attraction he stirs in me.
If I was smart, I’d stomp back out there and tell him to go lurk in the shadows off some other porch.
But I’m not smart. I’m a glutton for whatever kind of punishment he wants to give me. I change into an old, soft sweatshirt I’d brought to sleep in, grab two wine glasses and the bottle I’d opened earlier, and head back outside.
Shayne is now sitting on one of the rocking chairs, his long legs crossed at the ankle. Gordy has left his perch on the settee and is now sitting next to Shayne, his tongue lolling, as Shayne scratches his head.
“You two are peas in a pod,” I say, handing Shayne one of the wine glasses. I pour wine for him and myself and then sit in the other rocker next to Shayne. Maybe if I’m not facing him I’ll be able to relax enough to have a normal conversation.
“How’s Andy?” Shayne asks.
“Jo says he’s doing alright considering. What happened this morning? She says you found him.”
“I did,” he replies, leaning forward to put his wine glass on the porch railing.
He settles back into the rocker before continuing, “When I found him by the corral, I thought he was dead honestly. Looked like he’d taken a beating.
But from what you’re saying it looked worse than it was, and I’m glad to hear it.
He’s a lucky man.” His words are clipped, like he’s side-stepping what he really wants to say.
The hair on my arms stand up—and not just because I’m sitting within touching distance of Shayne. It’s becoming abundantly clear that Shayne does not think highly of Andy.
I’ll be the first to admit that I can be overly suspicious—probably because I’ve seen every single episode of Law & Order: SVU—so I’m conditioned to expect deep, dark secrets.
But this, combined with our bizarre Andy/Jo-centric conversation at the hot springs, is hard to ignore.
He’s also a wizard at sneaking up on people, and regularly appears out of nowhere.
Is Shayne here for work or…something else?
Shit. The greeting card. I’d completely forgotten about what Jo said about the greeting card. It ignited their fight. Andy was freaked out about it, so clearly it means something. Was it from Shayne? Did Shayne actually find Andy, or is he the reason Andy’s sitting in the hospital right now?
I glance over at Shayne to find him staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m watching your brain work overtime. What are you thinking about?”
“Did you beat up Andy?” I blurt out. I have zero chill. Smooth as a cobblestone street.
Shayne’s eyes widen and he looks at me, dumbfounded, for a beat. He then folds forward, forearms to his knees, as his shoulders quake. He sits up after a minute, and the laughter thunders out of him. There are actual tears in his eyes.
“Shut up! It’s a valid question. You roll in to town with your ‘oh I’m just a humble cow poke, poking around’ act, and Andy winds up in the hospital. You might as well have poisoned the water hole.”
“Banshee, you are something else,” Shayne says, punctuating every word. “I can’t think of anyone who makes me laugh this much. And to answer your question, no I did not beat up my boss. But I did find him after he ‘d had a bender and messed with a horse he had no business riding in his state.”
I lean over and swat him on the thigh. I might as well have swatted a rock. He’d have to be a very successful sociopath to fake this level of laughter. I still think he’s hiding something, but I’m less convinced that he’s an attempted murderer.
“So, tell me more about yourself if you want me to stop suspecting you for every messed up thing that’s happened since you strutted into town,” I say, cocking my eyebrow at him.
He looks at me consideringly. “What do you want to know?”
“Why’d you come to Silvercreek?”
“Several reasons, namely I got a job offer.”
“See, I knew it wasn’t just the job. I’d make an excellent detective. What’s the other reason? Blackmail?”
“You’d be a terrible detective. Your face reveals far too much. How do you know the other reason wasn’t so I could meet you? I’ve always wanted to meet a real life banshee.”
“Don’t ignore the question.”
“Okay, Columbo. I’ve never been to this part of the state before. Heard it described as ‘a land of unchecked wild beauty’ by someone I love. They weren’t wrong.” Do I detect a flirtatious glint in his eye, or is the glass and a half of wine leading me astray?
“So you came here for work and scenery? Nothing nefarious?”
“Nefarious? Is this the Spanish Inquisition? Yes, ma’am, I came here to plunder and pillage.”
That gets a laugh from me. Can I volunteer for the plundering?
“Let’s go back to that someone you love. I’m intrigued. Was it a lover?”
“Hate to disappoint you, but it was my grandpa. He spent a lot of time around here when he was younger. Told me plenty of stories about that time in his life, so when the opportunity came to come check it out for myself, I took it.”
“Is this the same grandpa that raised hell horses?”
“Technically. Although he was pretty young when that all fell apart.”
“Tell me about that. That’s got to be an interesting story.”
“It’s not much of a story. My grandpa’s father was originally from the Netherlands.
He came over here to breed Friesians, thought he’d become the Baron of Work Horses but never did.
He lost everything, including most of his livestock, in a massive fire.
They packed up what little they managed to save and moved to Idaho, that’s where I’m from.
I grew up around horses, I guess you could say it’s all I know. My grandpa was a rodeo clown so—”
“Shayne. Stop. Did you or did you not preface this cliff notes version of your family history with ‘it’s not much of a story’.”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry, but this story has everything—the Netherlands, fires, hell horses, tragedy, not to mention rodeo clowns! This is incredible.”