Chapter 4
Emmy
Ispend the morning trying to forget the taste of Wyatt Callahan's mouth and failing spectacularly.
The storm rolls in faster than anyone expects, dark clouds gathering like bruises across the Montana sky. By noon, the radio crackles with weather warnings, and I'm restocking the emergency kit in my truck when my phone buzzes with a text from Matty.
Matty
Road to the ranch is washing out. Can you check on the animals before it gets worse? Wyatt's radio isn't working.
I stare at the message, my pulse hammering.
Going back to Dry Creek means seeing him again, and after what happened in the barn yesterday, I'm not sure I trust myself around him.
The memory of his hands sliding under my sweater, the way he lifted me like I weighed nothing, makes heat pool low in my stomach.
But the animals need checking, and that's what matters. At least that's what I tell myself as I drive through the first fat raindrops toward his ranch.
The Christmas wreaths on Main Street flutter wildly in the wind as I pass, and the Salvation Army Santa rings his bell with determined cheer despite the approaching storm.
Mrs. Peterson waves from behind the window of Peak Produce, probably wondering why the new vet is heading toward Dry Creek in weather like this.
By the time I reach the ranch gates, rain pounds the windshield in sheets. I spot Wyatt by the cattle pens, a dark silhouette against the pale stretch of pasture. He doesn't wave. He never waves. But something about the rigid set of his shoulders tells me he's been watching for my truck.
I grab my veterinary bag and sprint through the downpour, boots splashing through puddles already forming in the gravel. The cold rain soaks through my coat in seconds, plastering my hair to my head.
"Matty said your radio was down," I call over the storm as I approach, trying to keep my voice professional despite the way my heart races at seeing him again.
Wyatt turns, and those storm-gray eyes lock on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Water drips from the brim of his hat, and his shirt clings to his chest, outlining every muscle. I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
"Power's been flickering all morning," he says, his voice rough. "Figured someone should check on the stock before this gets worse."
I nod, pulling my coat tighter, but it's useless. The rain has found every gap in the fabric, running down my neck in icy rivulets. "Let's start with the barn. The foal especially."
We hurry toward the shelter, but the wind picks up, driving the rain sideways. I stumble on the slick ground, and Wyatt's hand shoots out to steady me, his fingers closing around my arm.
The contact burns through the wet fabric of my coat. He doesn't let go immediately, and for a moment we stand there in the pouring rain, his touch anchoring me against the storm. Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the way his eyes drop to my mouth.
"Come on," he says finally, his voice barely audible over the thunder.
Inside the barn, string lights twinkle cheerfully along the rafters, casting warm shadows despite the chaos outside. Someone has hung garland around the stall doors, probably Matty's wife again, and the scent of pine mingles with hay and leather.
I check the foal first, running my hands over her legs, pleased to find the swelling has gone down significantly. She nickers softly, nuzzling my palm, and I smile despite the tension coiling through my body.
"She's healing beautifully," I tell Wyatt, who's been watching me work with that unnerving intensity. "You've been taking good care of her."
"Had good instructions."
The compliment, simple as it is, makes warmth spread through my chest. I busy myself checking the other animals, acutely aware of Wyatt moving through the barn behind me, his presence a constant heat at my back.
When I finish with the last horse, I turn to find him closer than expected. Close enough that I can see the water droplets clinging to his dark lashes, smell the rain and leather scent of his skin.
"They're all fine," I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intend. "The storm shouldn't affect them as long as they stay dry."
He nods, but doesn't move away. If anything, he steps closer, backing me against the stall door. The wood presses against my spine, solid and unyielding, trapping me between the barn wall and six feet of dangerous cowboy.
"You're soaked," he says, reaching up to touch a strand of wet hair clinging to my cheek.
His fingers are warm against my cold skin, and I shiver at the contact. "So are you."
Lightning crashes outside, closer this time, and the lights flicker. In the momentary darkness, I feel more than see him lean closer, his breath warm against my ear.
"I can't stop thinking about yesterday," he admits, his voice low and rough with want.
My pulse pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Wyatt..."
"Tell me to leave you alone, Emmy. Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering, I reach up and frame his face with my hands, feeling the rough stubble scratch against my palms. His eyes close at the touch, and he leans into it like a man starving for contact.
"I can't," I whisper. "I've tried."
That breaks something loose in him. His mouth crashes down on mine, hungrier than before, desperate with three days of pent-up want. I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his wet shirt, pulling him closer.
He presses me harder against the stall door, his body a solid wall of heat against mine. His hands roam my sides, finding the hem of my sweater and sliding underneath to touch bare skin. I gasp at the contact, arching into him.
"You're freezing," he murmurs against my lips, his warm palms spanning my ribs.
"Not anymore."
He groans at that, lifting me easily so my legs can wrap around his waist. The new angle brings us flush together, and I can feel exactly how much he wants me through the wet denim. It makes my head spin with need.
His mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear, the one he discovered yesterday, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. His hands slide higher under my sweater, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my bra, and I nearly come undone right there.
"Wyatt, please," I breathe, not even sure what I'm begging for.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?"
Before I can answer, his phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the intimate bubble we've created. We freeze, breathing hard, the spell broken.
He lowers me slowly, my legs unsteady as my feet find the ground. The phone keeps ringing, insistent and demanding.
"I should..." he starts, running a hand through his hair.
"Answer it," I finish, stepping back and trying to straighten my clothes with shaking hands.
He pulls the phone from his pocket, frowning at the display. "Matty."
While he takes the call, I busy myself checking my equipment, trying to ignore the way my entire body thrums with unfulfilled desire. The rain continues to pound the roof, and the Christmas lights flicker again, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"Road's completely washed out," Wyatt says after hanging up. "Bridge won't be passable until morning at the earliest."
My stomach flips. "I can't stay here."
"You don't have a choice. Creek's running too high to cross anywhere else."
The thought of being trapped here with him, with all this tension crackling between us, makes my pulse race with equal parts fear and anticipation. "There has to be another way."
"Not unless you can fly." He moves closer again, and I can see the hunger still burning in his eyes. "Main house has a guest room. You'll be comfortable."
Comfortable is the last thing I'll be, spending the night under the same roof as Wyatt Callahan. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the rational part of my brain knows he's right.
"Fine," I say, trying to sound professional. "But just until the roads are clear."
He nods, though something that might be disappointment flickers across his face. "Course."
As we make our way through the rain toward the house, I catch glimpses of more Christmas decorations. Lights outline the porch railings, and a wreath hangs on the front door, somehow managing to look both festive and masculine at the same time.
Inside, the house is warm and inviting, decorated for the holidays with a surprising amount of care.
A tall Christmas tree stands in the corner of the living room, covered in simple white lights and rustic ornaments that look handmade.
Garland drapes the mantel above a stone fireplace where a fire crackles cheerfully.
"Matty's wife," Wyatt explains, following my gaze. "She insists on decorating every year, whether I want it or not."
"It's beautiful," I say, and mean it. The decorations transform the masculine space into something magical, warm and welcoming in a way that surprises me.
He shows me to the guest room, a cozy space with a quilt-covered bed and more twinkling lights around the window. "Bathroom's across the hall. I'll find you some dry clothes."
When he returns with a soft flannel shirt and sweatpants, our fingers brush as he hands them over. The contact sends sparks shooting up my arm, and from the way his jaw tightens, he feels it too.
"Dinner's in an hour," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "If you're hungry."
After he leaves, I change into his clothes, trying not to think about how they smell like him, woodsmoke and leather and something purely masculine. The shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves falling past my hands, and the sweatpants require rolling up several times.
I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror and hardly recognize myself. Hair still damp and tousled, cheeks flushed, wearing his clothes like I belong here. The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
Dinner is a quiet affair, the kitchen table feeling both too large and too small for the tension humming between us. He's changed into dry jeans and a clean shirt, and I find myself staring at his hands as he cuts his steak, remembering how those fingers felt on my skin.
"Storm should pass by morning," he says, not looking up from his plate.
"Good." I take a sip of wine, hoping it will calm my nerves. "I have appointments tomorrow."
"Right. Course you do."
The conversation dies again, and we eat in silence punctuated only by the rain against the windows and the occasional crack of the fire. Every time he looks at me, heat pools low in my stomach, and I wonder if he's thinking about what happened in the barn.
After dinner, I help clean up despite his protests, and we move around the kitchen in a careful dance, avoiding contact that might set off the powder keg between us. But when I reach for a dish on the high shelf, he steps behind me to help, his chest brushing my back.
I freeze at the contact, and I feel him go still behind me. His breath is warm against my neck, and for a moment neither of us moves.
"Emmy," he says, my name rough with want.
I turn in the circle of his arms, and we're so close I can see the flecks of blue in his gray eyes. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up.
This time, when his mouth finds mine, it's slower, more deliberate. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to memorize the taste of me. I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.
The kiss deepens, growing more heated, and I find myself pressed back against the kitchen counter. His hands roam my sides, relearning the curves he discovered in the barn, and I arch into his touch.
"We should stop," he murmurs against my lips, even as his hands slide higher.
"Probably," I agree, but I don't pull away.
His phone buzzes on the counter beside us, breaking the spell. We spring apart, both breathing hard, and he checks the message with shaking hands.
"Matty," he says. "Checking to make sure we're both okay."
The reminder of the outside world, of all the reasons this is complicated, brings reality crashing back. I step away, wrapping my arms around myself.
"I should go to bed," I say. "Early morning tomorrow."
He nods, though his eyes are still dark with unfulfilled desire. "Sleep well, Emmy."
As I lie in the guest bed later, listening to the storm rage outside, I wonder how I'm supposed to sleep knowing he's just down the hall. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on my skin, taste his kiss on my lips.
This is dangerous territory, falling for a man like Wyatt Callahan. But as lightning illuminates the Christmas tree visible through my doorway, I can't bring myself to regret being here.
Even if it might break my heart in the end.