Chapter 7
Colton
I’m too shocked to move as Noah spins away from me, all but stomping to his motorcycle. The engine revs to life, and he takes off, not once looking back.
What. The fuck. Was that?
I wipe my mouth and look down at my semi.
“What the actual fuck,” I hiss.
I did not just get a hate-boner over Noah King.
Did I?
No. No fucking way.
Fuuuck.
“Colt?” my brother calls.
“What?” I shout much too loudly, pushing off from the truck behind me. I swipe my hat off the ground and head toward the alleyway.
Remi appears a moment later, his eyes sweeping the area, confusion and concern in his gaze. “You were gone when I got back from the bathroom,” he says. “Don’t tell me you went after Noah again?”
“No,” I lie, immediately wincing. “Maybe. It’s nothing.”
My brother groans. “Colt, you’re gonna get yourself into trouble.”
I think I already have.
“Home?” I ask tightly.
Remi nods, and we head toward the truck. We’re both quiet on the way back to the ranch, me driving, Remi looking out the passenger window. When I pull into a spot in front of the house, we exit the vehicle without a word.
I’m so in my own head—my thoughts a jumbled mess I don’t even know how to start unraveling—that I miss the fact that Remi is talking to me. He snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I startle, blinking at him inside the entryway of the house.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “What?”
Remi looks at me for a long moment, his eyes seemingly trying to pick me apart. Remi and I don’t look all that similar, apart from our blue eyes. His cheekbones are a little sharper, like Jackson’s. And he’s always had a leaner build, though he’s strong as hell.
“I said be careful,” my brother says, those eyes still boring into me.
For a second, I wonder if he knows what happened. But how could he?
I don’t even know what happened.
“I will be,” I tell him.
He sighs like he doesn’t quite believe me, but then he leaves me be, heading further into the house. I kick off my boots and set my hat on the coatrack inside the door. It’s late, nearly midnight, but I still detour into the kitchen to find a quick snack.
I know I hit jackpot when I spot the foil marked in pen with my name. I unwrap the bundle quickly, groaning happily when I see four strips of bacon.
“Fuck, yes,” I mutter, biting cleanly through two. I send a quick thank-you to Ash and kick the fridge door shut.
Once upstairs, I take care of business and wash up before heading for my bedroom. Mine is right next to Remi’s, across the hallway from where Lawson is temporarily staying. Remi’s door is shut, no sound coming from within.
Truth be told, I think my younger brother is a big part of why I’ve never left this place. Not that I’ve wanted to, per se. And Remi would kick my ass if he thought I saw him as anything other than strong.
He is strong. He’s one of the strongest people I know, utterly unafraid to be himself, kind but not self-sacrificing when it comes to his own comfort, especially where it pertains to being Deaf. I know my brother doesn’t need me to coddle him. He doesn’t need that from anybody.
But there are times when he has a rough go of it. When his migraines flare up, and it’s all he can do to ride out the storm, hunkered down in his room as he waits for it to pass. Those are the times I want to be near, to help him however I can.
I know it’s not my job. But he’s my brother. So, in a way, it’s something bigger than that.
Once inside my room, I peel off my jeans and toss my shirt haphazardly into my hamper before flopping on my bed. Almost immediately, I’m back up again, pulling an old shoebox out from my closet. I bring it over to my mattress and lift the lid.
It’s mostly papers. Old clippings from the town newspaper. Some printouts. I rifle through them, my frustration an immediate thing as I look at the attempts of my archnemesis to beat me at my own game.
“Custom-fit or ready-made shoes, King Farrier Service has you covered.”
“Royal service and fair costs. If you want the best, go King.”
“We know your horse is part of your family. Treat them to the finest care with King Farrier Service.”
I growl, slapping the papers down and shutting the box.
See? I clearly hate the guy. That hasn’t changed. Won’t ever change.
So what in the absolute fuck was the deal with that…that kiss ? And my reaction to it?
Actually, no. I’m not calling it that. Kisses are tender and sweet. That was an attack. A mauling . It was all brute force and angry grappling and goddamn biting and—
My gut tightens, and I let out an involuntary sound I wish I could take back.
No. Nope. Nuh-uh.
We do not like Noah fucking King.
Maybe it had nothing to do with the man, I rationalize not twelve hours later. Maybe it was simply…circumstance.
Exhibit one.
I’ve never been into guys. And I’ve tried . Kinda. Jackson is gay. Remi is pan. The idea of liking someone other than a woman has never been a problem for me in theory. But I simply haven’t . Haven’t wanted to bone any guys, haven’t wanted to kiss them.
So it’s not that. I don’t think.
Exhibit two.
If I were going to test-drive dick for the first time, it would not be with Noah fucking King. Of all the men in Darling or any-goddamn-where, he would be my absolute last choice. Literal bottom of the barrel. Last two men on Earth? Hard pass.
So it’s definitely not that.
Exhibit three.
I’ve never been with a woman who…threw me around like that before. None have even tried. A couple have been a little more wild in bed, but even then, it was them wanting me to toss them around. Not the reverse.
And I think I liked it. It was kind of…a thrill.
So, there. It has to be that, right? The circumstances.
“Do you think it’s possible to have latent masochistic tendencies?”
Jackson looks at me slowly, the laptop in front of him all but forgotten. We’re sitting in the dining room, the late morning sun brightening the space. “I don’t wanna ask. I really, really don’t.”
“The thing is,” I go on, keeping my voice low, even though no one else is in the ranch house right now, as far as I’m aware, “I kinda got roughed up a bit the other night? And I…liked it?”
Jackson lets out a sigh that sounds endlessly weary. “First, are you all right?”
“What? Yeah, of course.”
He nods. “The partner that roughed you up… Do I know her?”
I nearly balk. That’s Jackson’s polite way of asking if it was someone from town—maybe even an ex of mine—or one of the tourists passing through. But how in the hell do I answer him when it wasn’t even a her to begin with? Saying that will make it sound like a big deal. Like Noah and I had a thing . We most definitely do not have a thing .
“You’ve met,” I say, skirting the topic best as I can.
He looks contemplative. “If you liked it and she liked it, then, well, I don’t think it’s something you should worry about. As for it being…masochism. Was it the pain you enjoyed?”
I think that over. “Actually, don’t think so. It was just…”
What? The roughness? Being almost helpless?
No way am I saying that out loud.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell my brother, standing quickly. “Thanks, Jackson.”
He lets out a dubious, “Mhm,” and goes back to the spreadsheets on his laptop.
I’m working at Marie Doherty’s place today. I have a couple days set aside every four weeks for the thirty-some horses on her farm-slash-equestrian clinic. Marie is the only person in a good hundred-mile radius who teaches dressage and show jumping. There are usually a handful of teens or young adults there on any given day, running horses through their complicated routines.
Aside from that, she also keeps chickens. A whole lot of them. Her eggs are the best you can get at Plum’s Grocers.
When I arrive on her property, I head inside the massive indoor arena, making my way up the stairs to her perch overlooking three separate training rings. As expected, Marie is there, giving instructions from on high to her students.
“Marie,” I say quietly, although I’m sure she heard me coming.
“Morning, Colton.”
“Anything I need to know before I set to work?”
“Watch your timing, Andrea!” Marie calls to one of the riders. “Nearly nicked the board on the way down. You’re jumping early and pulling your punches. Try again, and this time don’t slow as you near the board.” Turning, she says at a much softer volume, “Yes, in fact. I’ve got a horse in stall nineteen without a shoe.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Hit a block just right,” she answers. “Enough to pull the shoe away from his hoof on one side. I would’ve called you in, but it only happened an hour ago. We removed it the rest of the way and set him up in his stall.”
“Any damage from the nails that broke free?” I ask.
An almost-smile touches the corner of Marie’s lips. “Not that I could tell. They snapped cleanly. Almost like someone knew what they were doing when they set them.”
I hold back my scoff. “It’s certainly not my first rodeo.”
Truth is it’s not uncommon for a nail to cause a little damage on the way out if they’re pulled wrong. We crimp the ends to keep the nails—and thus the shoe—in place, like tiny hooks. Then we rasp the metal even with the outside of the hoof so the surface is nice and smooth. That also ensures the bent edge of the nail is thin enough to snap if enough pressure is applied to it.
They’re meant to break cleanly so the nail can pull straight out, but that doesn’t always happen under duress. Especially if a farrier doesn’t crimp right.
It’s a good thing I know what I’m doing.
“I’ll head to stall nineteen first,” I tell Marie, knowing she’ll want me to start with that horse.
“Appreciate it,” she says. I’m halfway to the exit when she adds, “Oh, Colton? I’ve got another fifteen horses arriving in less than two weeks. They’ll be staying here through the summer for some workshops I’ve got going on. Can you shoe them when they arrive?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, mentally running over my schedule that I know is full. “You need ’em done right away?”
“Would prefer it. I want them ready to ride and on the same routine as the rest.”
“Let me see what I can do,” I tell her.
Marie gives me a nod and turns back to her work. Once on ground level, I check my phone only to confirm that yep . My calendar for the next few weeks is booked solid. Slipping a single horse in wouldn’t be a big deal, but fifteen? I could rearrange things some, I’m sure. Work a handful of twelve-hour days in a row. Or …
I dismiss the thought before it can fully take shape and carry my things over to stall nineteen. The horse inside is a handsome brown Westphalian I recognize instantly.
“Well, hey there, Ludo. I hear you lost a shoe?”
The horse snuffles my palm when I open the door, letting me rub over his muzzle and along his neck. After a good minute of petting, I give his halter a gentle tug, and he dutifully follows me out of the stall.
It doesn’t take long to outfit Ludo with a new set of shoes. And Marie was right. There’s not a single bit of damage to his hoof wall from the nails pulling through.
With a small sigh, my mind returns to my busy schedule and the fact that I wouldn’t be taking care of Ludo here in the first place if it wasn’t for me running my damn mouth last year and losing Noah this job.
Fuck.
I could rearrange my entire schedule. Or … I could tell Marie to grab Noah for the influx of horses.
I wait until I’m done with Ludo to return up to Marie’s perch. She gives me a quick look before her focus returns to her students. “Yes?”
“I think you should hire Noah for the extra horses,” I tell her. “It’ll be difficult for me to fit them into my schedule on such short notice.”
Not a lie, even though I know I could manage it.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve suggested I take him back,” she says, a hint of curiosity in her tone.
I try not to groan. “He really is a damn fine farrier, Marie. I’ve seen some of his work firsthand. His craftsmanship is excellent, his attention to sole depth shows a keen understanding of equine husbandry as it relates to hoof care and posture, and I’ve never heard a single complaint about his handling.”
She mulls it over, her fingers tapping the railing in front of her.
“I appreciate that you’ve known me and my family for longer,” I go on. “And that you trust me with your horses. But you can trust me with this, too. I wouldn’t suggest pulling Noah in if I didn’t think he could more than handle it. You never had problems when he was here before, did you?”
“Suppose not,” she agrees. I wait, and, after a tense silence, Marie says, “I’ll give him a call.”
My breath whooshes out of me.
There. See?
I can be civil.
I can be nice to Noah King.
He’ll take these horses off my plate, and then I can wipe my hands of the arrogant farrier for good. Debt paid. No reason to see or even talk to him ever again. No reason to see his stupid face or wonder why he mauled my lips with his own.
Nope.
No reason at all.