CHAPTER THREE
Dalton
The barbed wire snapped back faster than I could react.
Pain lanced across the back of my hand—sharp and immediate. I yanked my hand back with a curse, blood already welling up.
“Fuck.”
I grabbed a bandana from my back pocket and pressed it against the cut.
Blood soaked through almost immediately.
I kept pressure on it and headed toward the barn.
I was repairing the fence line closest to the house when I should have been out with the men, working the far pastures. But I’d stayed close to the house.
Because of her.
Because for the past week, I’d found excuses to be within eyesight of the kitchen windows. To come in for lunch instead of eating with the crew just to make sure she ate. I checked on things that didn’t need checking just so I could see her at her desk, dark hair falling forward as she worked.
I was pathetic.
And now I was bleeding because I’d been distracted thinking about the curve of her neck instead of paying attention to the damn fence wire.
Pathetic and stupid. A dangerous combination.
I managed to get the bleeding slowed enough to see the damage. It didn’t look like it needed stitches, but at the very least, it needed butterfly bandages and a proper wrap so it wouldn’t pull apart and bleed every time I used my hand.
Which required two hands.
I stared at my hand, blood welling up again, and weighed my options. I could wait for Cade or one of the men to get back from town or grab something from the barn and wrap it up tight and hope for the best.
Or go inside and ask Amber for help.
Every instinct screamed to avoid that option. But I was bleeding and couldn’t bandage it on my own.
Fuck it.
Anger was riding my tail as I walked into the kitchen knowing I shouldn’t be doing this. I laid my hat on the counter and took off my coat. “Amber?” I called out.
“In the office.” Her voice drifted down the hallway.
I made it three steps before she appeared in the doorway, laptop in hand, reading what was on the screen as she walked. When she finally glanced up, her eyes went wide when she saw my makeshift bandage.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“Barbed wire. It’s fine. I just need—”
“That is not fine.” She set the laptop on the counter and crossed to me in three quick steps. “Sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit—”
“Dalton. Sit.” Her voice was firm. No-nonsense. I recognized it as one I used on her. It made me want to either argue more or kiss her. Maybe Both.
Did she feel that way?
I sat down. Partly because she’d asked. Mostly because standing this close to her was making it hard to think straight, and sitting meant I could at least hide what being this close was doing to my body. I was hard with wanting. Damn, when was the last time that had happened?
“Where’s the first aid kit?” she asked.
I motioned with my good hand. “Under the sink.” My voice came out clipped. Cold. Good. Just the way I wanted her to see me.
She bent low, her jeans pulling tight across her ass. Fuck. I was staring at her ass while bleeding all over my kitchen. This was a new low.
I looked away. Stared at the wall. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that Amber Maxwell was so close I could count the freckles across her nose if I let myself look.
She set the kit on the table and gently unwrapped the blood-soaked bandana from my hand. “Well,” she breathed when she saw the cut.
“It’s fine. Just needs to be wrapped.” I pulled my hand back slightly, but she held on. Those small fingers wrapping around my wrist.
She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me for a second and gently removed my makeshift bandage. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
She removed a small bottle of alcohol from the kit along with several gauze pads. “This is going to sting,” she warned.
Then her hands were on me, and I forgot how to breathe. Her touch was gentle as if she gave a damn if it hurt. No one had touched me like that in five years.
I hissed through my teeth but didn’t pull away when the alcohol hit the wound.
“Sorry,” she murmured. Her thumbs brushed the inside of my wrist—just a whisper of contact but it was enough to remind me why allowing her to help me was a mistake.
This was exactly what I’d been avoiding—her hands on me, her standing close enough that I could smell that citrus scent, her treating me like I was something other than the cold-hearted bastard I’d worked so hard to become.
Her hands were soft. Small. They made mine look massive and rough and completely out of place cradled in her palms.
I’d made a lot of bad decisions in my life. Letting Sarah into my world. Thinking I could trust someone who only wanted the fantasy version of ranch life. Believing promises that were never meant to be kept.
But this—letting Amber touch me, letting her this close—this might be the worst decision yet.
Because Sarah had wanted the idea of me. The cowboy. The ranch. The romance.
Amber didn’t seem to want anything except to do her job and get paid. She’d made it clear from day one that she was here to do a job. Only her job.
Which made me angrier. At her for being here. At myself for wanting her. At the situation that had brought her into my life in the first place.
I watched her work. A strand of hair had escaped her ponytail and fallen across her cheek. I wanted to tuck it behind her ear, feel that soft spot of skin beneath my fingertips. Beneath my mouth.
I had to shift in the chair as my jeans grew tighter.
Shit. This was worse than I thought. Five years of nothing and now this? Now her? My body had suddenly decided that enough was enough. That it was going to do something about the infernal attraction I felt whether I wanted to or not.
“It’s not as deep as I thought,” she said, breaking the silence. “The butterfly bandages should hold it if you’re careful. But Dalton, you really should get this looked at.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.” She glanced up at me, and our eyes met.
Too close. She was too close and looking at me with those brown eyes that saw too much. Nobody got to care about me. I didn’t allow it.
“Do you ever actually admit when you’re not fine?” she asked quietly.
“No.” I held her gaze, daring her to push. Hoping she wouldn’t. Hoping she would.
A small smile tugged at her lips. “At least you’re honest about that.”
She went back to work, pulling the edges of the cut together with butterfly bandages. Her fingers were steady. Confident. She’d done this before, I realized. Probably more than once.
“You’re good at this.”
She smiled at me, and it sent heat straight to my cock. Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have given her a compliment. Shouldn’t have acknowledged that she was good at anything because that meant I’d been paying attention.
“I had a lot of practice patching up my dad. My mother had a thing about blood, so I learned what to do at an early age.”
“Do your parents live in Billings?”
Her hands stilled for just a second. “My dad’s gone. He had a heart attack three years ago. He was fixing the roof and just... collapsed.”
“I’m sorry.” Unwelcome sympathy. I didn’t want to feel bad for her. Didn’t want to know anything about her that would make her more real. More human.
“Me too.” She placed another bandage, her touch gentle. Careful. “He would’ve liked you, I think. He appreciated stubborn men who worked too hard and didn’t know when to ask for help.”
“I asked for help.” The words came out defensive. Harsh.
“Only because you were bleeding and had no choice.” She didn’t look up, just kept working. “That’s not the same thing.”
Despite everything—the pain, the awareness of her, the way my chest felt too tight—I almost smiled.
She secured the gauze with medical tape. “There. That should hold. But you need to keep it clean and dry. Change the bandage tomorrow. And if it starts to look infected—”
“I’ll deal with it.”
She was still holding my hand. Still close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches—
No. Don’t.
But my body wasn’t listening. My thumb brushed across her knuckles before I could stop myself. Just once.
Her breath caught. Her lips parted slightly.
And I knew—absolutely knew—that if I kissed her right now, she’d let me.
That knowledge was dangerous. Intoxicating.
Terrifying.
“Thank you,” I said, and stood abruptly, pulling my hand free. Too fast. Too obvious.
But if I didn’t move right now, I was going to do something catastrophically stupid. Like pull her into my lap and find out if she tasted as good as she looked.
Forget every lesson Sarah had taught me about women and trust and promises.
“I should get back to work. Thanks for the help.” I was already moving toward the door. Away from her. Away from the way she made me feel things I’d sworn I wouldn’t feel again.
She started throwing away the supplies she’d used and closing the first aid kit. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“I will.” Another lie. I wouldn’t. I’d be stubborn enough to bleed out before I asked her for help again.
She smiled and grabbed her laptop. “I doubt that.”
I watched her walk away—watched those hips sway, watched her disappear down the hallway—and waited until I heard the office door close before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
I looked down at my bandaged hand. At the careful, precise wrapping. At the evidence that she’d touched me. Helped me. Taken care of me without being asked.
The worst part was how much I’d liked it.
How much I’d wanted to lean into that touch instead of pulling away.
How much I wanted to go down that hallway, pin her against the desk, and find out what sounds she’d make when I—
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
I put on my coat, grabbed my hat, and headed back to the barn.
But the whole way there, all I could think about was the way her hands had felt on mine.
The way she’d looked at me when she’d made me promise to take care of myself.
The way she’d smiled like she actually gave a damn. The way I wanted to believe the look in her eyes was real.
This was what I’d been trying to avoid for five years.
Letting someone in.
Wanting someone.
Needing someone.
I’d invited Sarah into my life and she’d gutted me. Left me hollow and angry and swearing I’d never make that mistake again.
But Amber Maxwell wasn’t Sarah.
Amber was competent and honest and didn’t seem to want anything from me except a paycheck at the end of the job.
Which somehow made her infinitely more dangerous.
Because I could feel the pull of her every time she walked into a room. I could feel myself thaw, just a little bit.
Which meant I needed to be more careful. Keep more distance. Be harder. Colder.
Be the bastard I’d become.