Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
ROSE
I watched him leave.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t pause. Didn’t do any of the things that would’ve given me a reason to be angry, which was annoying, because I really needed a reason to be angry right now.
I turned back to Ricky, forcing my voice steady. “Good boy. Storm’s almost over. You’re okay.”
He dropped his head and sniffed at the hay like maybe the world wasn’t ending after all. I kept my hand on his neck, stroking slowly, even though my fingers were shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.
My boot had slipped. Graham had caught me. That was it. Basic reflex. Nothing worth the way my pulse was still hammering like I’d run a mile.
Except his hands had been steady when everything else wasn’t.
And he’d stood in this barn with a terrified horse and talked to it like the animal’s fear mattered more than the storm.
And then, then, he’d looked at me like I was a person instead of a problem, and I’d opened my stupid mouth and told him about my parents.
I never talked about the crash. Not with strangers. Not with guests. Not with men who’d been on my property less than forty-eight hours and had already seen me in a towel.
Then he’d offered up his own damage without me asking for it.
My dad died when I was nineteen. Said it like a trade: here’s mine, since you showed me yours.
His voice, rough and unsteady when he spoke about his father losing everything, was no act.
I knew performance. I’d hosted corporate executives who performed empathy for a living.
That was real.
Ricky’s ear flicked toward me.
I pressed my forehead against his neck, breathed in the warm smell of horse and hay, and gave myself a minute.
A minute to feel whatever this was, the heat still sitting low in my stomach from his hands on my waist, the ache behind my ribs from a conversation I never should’ve had, and then I was done.
I straightened up, wiped my palms on my jeans, and got back to work.
By the time I finished, the storm had downgraded from “apocalyptic” to “dramatic background noise.”
Rain still drummed against the barn roof, but the thunder had moved east, grumbling in the distance like it had somewhere better to be. The horses were calm. The barn was secure. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
Except me.
I was supposed to be inside playing host. Instead, I was standing in the barn aisle, soaked to the bone, staring at the door Graham had walked through and trying to talk myself into walking through it too.
You’re being ridiculous. He’s a guest. You’re the owner. This is your job.
My job. Right.
I forced my feet to move.
The cold hit me the second I stepped outside. The rain had eased to a steady downpour, but my clothes were plastered to my skin and the wind cut through the wet fabric. I crossed the yard at a jog, boots squelching in the mud, and ducked into my cabin.
I didn’t let myself think. Thinking was dangerous right now.
I peeled off my soaked shirt, my jeans, my socks, everything, and left the whole mess in a pile on the bathroom floor.
Hot water from the sink. Quick scrub of my face.
Clean flannel, dry jeans, wool socks that felt like a hug from a better version of my life.
I yanked my damp hair into a knot and checked the mirror long enough to confirm I looked like a ranch owner who’d handled a storm, not a woman who’d been held upright by a man’s hands on her waist and was still thinking about it three stalls and a clothing change later.
Stop.
I stopped. Gripped the edge of the sink. Breathed until my reflection looked like someone who had her life under control.
Close enough.
I let go of the sink, grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door, and headed for the main house.
Through the front window, I could see the group gathered around the fireplace.
Kaya had handled dinner while I’d been in the barn.
Plates scattered across the coffee table, mugs in everyone’s hands, the ease of people who’d survived something together and were bonding over the relief of being warm and dry.
Graham sat slightly apart from the others. Not isolated. Just adjacent, like he was comfortable being near people without needing to be in the middle of them. He’d changed into a dry sweater that looked soft and worn in a way that made me want to touch it.
I shouldn’t want to touch it.
I wanted to not notice it.
I took a breath, put on my business face, and pushed open the door.
“There she is!” Kaya’s voice carried across the room, bright and relieved. “I was about to send a search party.”
“Horses needed settling,” I said, hanging my jacket on the hook by the entry. “Everyone okay?”
“Better than okay.” Dex lifted his mug in a toast. “That was the most excitement we’ve had since Jamie tried to pet a wild boar in Scotland.”
“It was friendly,” Jamie protested.
“It charged you,” Olivia said flatly.
“Friendly charging.”
My mouth twitched despite myself.
This was easier. The banter. The warmth of people who weren’t expecting anything from me except hot food and dry shelter. I could do this. I’d been doing this my whole career.
My eyes drifted to Graham.
He was already looking at me. Not staring. Not obvious about it. Just checking, the way someone does when they want to make sure you’re okay but don’t want to make it a thing.
I turned toward the kitchen.
“There’s stew on the stove if you’re hungry,” Kaya said, appearing at my elbow. “I also saved you the last of the bread because I’m a good person and you should appreciate me.”
“I appreciate you,” I said.
Kaya studied me for a beat too long, her expression shifting into something careful. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear after she’s been wrestling livestock in a thunderstorm.”
Kaya’s mouth curved, but her eyes stayed serious. “I just mean you look like someone who’s been wrestling with more than horses.”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at her until she dropped it.
“Go eat,” Kaya said finally. “I’ve got the guests handled.”
I nodded and escaped to the kitchen.
The stew was good. Warm and thick and exactly what I needed after two hours of soaked denim and adrenaline, not that I was going to say that out loud.
I ate standing at the counter, watching the group through the pass-through window. Not watching Graham specifically. Just monitoring the room. The way any responsible host would.
He laughed at something Dex said, and the sound carried into the kitchen like it had been aimed at me.
He fit here. That was the annoying thing.
He didn’t stick out the way guests usually did, uncomfortable with the quiet or too loud in the space or treating everything like it existed for their entertainment.
He just existed. Like he understood the ranch was a living thing and he was a visitor in its world.
It bothered me how much I respected that.
It bothered me more that I kept noticing.
Jamie pulled out her phone at one point, and Graham’s whole body went tense. Not obvious, not to anyone who wasn’t looking. But I was looking, and I watched him lean over and say something low. Jamie’s face flickered with annoyance before she tucked the phone away without argument.
Interesting.
They kept saying Jamie was social media for their “adventure travel company.” But the way Graham watched her phone like it was a loaded weapon didn’t fit. People in adventure travel lived on their phones. They didn’t treat them like a threat.
I filed it away and went back to my stew.
Around eight, the power flickered.
Not a full outage, just a stutter. Lights dimming and brightening like the storm was reminding us it wasn’t done. Enough to make everyone pause mid-conversation.
“Generator’s fine,” I said before anyone could panic. “Storm probably knocked a connection loose.”
When the lights flickered again five minutes later, I grabbed my flashlight from the drawer and headed for the breaker box.
Graham appeared in the hallway before I’d made it three steps.
“Need help?”
“It’s fine,” I said, which wasn’t no but wasn’t an invitation either.
He fell into step beside me anyway. I could feel the warmth coming off him, which was stupid, because we weren’t even close to touching and the hallway was plenty wide enough for two people to walk without their arms nearly brushing.
The breaker box was in the mudroom, behind a door that stuck in humid weather. I yanked it open harder than necessary, annoyed at the door, annoyed at Graham, annoyed at myself for the whole catalog of annoyances that had nothing to do with doors.
“Hold this.” I handed him the flashlight without looking at him.
He took it without comment and angled the beam toward the panel. His forearm braced against the doorframe above my head as he reached, and I became very focused on the breaker switches.
I flipped through the connections, checking for anything obviously tripped.
“You know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I own a ranch. Knowing what I’m doing is the minimum requirement.”
“Not always. Some people own things and hire other people to know what they’re doing.”
I glanced at him, suspicious of the compliment. He was close in the narrow mudroom. Close enough that the flashlight beam caught the damp curl of hair at his temple and the line of his jaw.
I looked back at the panel.
“Found it.” I flipped a tripped breaker. The lights steadied. “Loose connection.” I still sensed heat coming from Graham. “Fixed,” I added, because apparently I’d lost the ability to stop talking.
Graham nodded, but he didn’t move to leave. He leaned against the doorframe, flashlight still in his hand, watching me in a way that made the mudroom feel about half its actual size.
“Rose.”
“We’re not doing the apology thing again.”