24. Phoenix #2
I quiet my steps as I approach the barn. If there is an intruder, I’d rather they not know I’m coming. But when I quietly slide the barn door open a little wider, I see the back of Walker’s cowboy hat. I watch as he tries to manage the pitchfork with just his left hand.
He gets a scoop of horse shit up on it, but the weight requires him to steady it with his right hand and he must apply too much pressure.
“Ow! Fuck!” he hisses, dropping the shit—and the pitchfork—back on the floor.
“Don’t hurt yourself. I can do this part,” I say, coming into the barn, finally making my presence known.
Walker whips his head around at the sound of my voice. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry, I just…” I trail off. “Don’t make your wrist worse. I can clean the stalls out. Do you mind feeding one scoop to each of the horses currently in-house? Watch Jasmine, the Palomino. She’s impatient and has nearly taken my arm off on morning feedings more than once.”
“Yeah, well, she can have the right one. It’s fucking useless anyway,” he grumbles.
Injuries are hard on riders. It prevents us from doing the thing we love. It can feel terribly isolating because all of our friends continue to travel and compete, while we’re left behind .
I feel for Walker because I’ve been there, and it’s the only reason I let my guard down just a hair.
“Hey, I know this really fucking sucks, but you’re going to get better and you’ll be back at it, stronger than ever for next season. Try not to let your physical injury impact your mental game, okay?”
After our intense moment in Knox’s kitchen yesterday, which was followed by my childish silence when we got home, I’ve wondered how he’d interact with me today. I also wonder if he regrets coming to stay with me.
“I’ll try,” is all he says before walking to the corner of the barn and opening the lid to the feed trough.
While we work around each other, I firmly keep my eyes off the tack room connected to the barn. The absolute last thing I need are images of Walker spread out on a saddle pad beneath me, plaguing my mind. Once the stalls are prepped to welcome my broncs back home, we head in for lunch.
“How are you feeling?” I finally ask Walker, breaking our hours-long silence.
“Better after moving around and breaking a sweat,” he admits, pouring two glasses of lemonade from the fridge while I make grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Just know that increase in activity will probably make your hand and wrist swell which isn’t good for healing. In fact…here.” I pause what I’m doing and grab an ice pack out of the fridge, wrap it in a dish towel and hand it to him. “Put this on your wrist while you eat.”
“Sure, thing, Phoephoe ,” he sasses, making me roll my eyes.
“Oh, fucking hell. You heard that?” I groan, plating one of the sandwiches.
“I did,” he confirms with a blinding smile.
“Well, forget that you did. And never fucking use it again. Especially in front of the guys,” I warn .
“Or what?” he taunts, coming to the stove where I’m working so he can grab his plate which now has two sandwiches on it.
“Or I’ll make you regret it.”
He turns to face me, his chest brushing the right side of my body.
“Kind of sounds fun,” he breathes.
I rotate to face him while simultaneously taking a step back, but my ass hits the edge of my sink. I’m out of room as he advances on me.
“ Walker ,” I growl his name through clenched teeth.
“You really gotta quit saying my name like that, Phoenix.” He runs his nose up the side of my neck and along my jaw, causing heat to pool low in my stomach.
“Go ice your goddamn wrist and eat your fucking lunch,” I command even as my eyes close.
Before he turns to go, the fucker licks my skin and lets out an obscene groan. “God, I love how you taste.”
He shouldn’t know how I taste.
Gently, I push him away. “Walker, enough. We need to leave to grab the horses in a few. You need to eat and I need to go hook up the trailer. Besides,” I remind him firmly, “we’ve been over this. You and I aren’t happening.”
Disappointment flares in his eyes, but finally, he sits down and eats.
However, my reprieve is short lived because once we’re in the truck, I can’t escape his scent. And smelling him ensures my mind plays his sounds on repeat in my head… all of them.
Just to have something to fill the silence on the ride over, I go over my work schedule.
“I work twenty-four hours on, forty-eight hours off. My shifts usually start and end at seven a.m. with half the full-time firefighters. The other half start and end at seven p.m. That way, if a call comes in at the twenty-third hour, we’re not all dragging our asses.
I also have an old Jeep in the garage in case you need to go somewhere while I’m at work.
The keys are on the hook by the back door. ”
“I shouldn’t need anything, but I appreciate it.”
I glance at him quickly before returning my eyes to the road. “So, you, uh, got a plan for whatever it is you were needing to stick around and handle?” I try to phrase it like I’m not anxious for him to leave already, but the longer he stays, the more I feel my resolve slipping.
“Sort of. It’s in the works.” He doesn’t elaborate, so for all I know he’s waiting on a drug shipment or something.
“Well, how long are you planning to stay?” Aware that I sound rude as fuck, I try to soften the edges a little. “I just mean, like how soon do I need to start looking for another farm hand?”
In my peripheral vision, I see him looking away from me, out the passenger window.
“Well, the doctor told me I’m not supposed to even look at a horse for three months, but it would realistically be six before I’d be anywhere close to strong enough to grip that rope, so…I was thinking maybe I could spend the rest of the summer out here? Go back to Texas in September?”
Three months?
Walker wants to stay with me. For. Three. Months .
I’m not strong enough for that, but I’m even weaker when it comes to telling him no and turning him away.
“Sure.” It comes out as a choked whisper, so I clear my throat and try again. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”
“I’ll pay rent and stuff. Obviously,” he says quickly.
“I’m not worried about that.”
“What are you worried about?” he asks with a knowing lilt to his voice.
“Nothing.”
“ Liar.” The word rumbles from his chest.
My how the tables have turned.