Chapter Two
Beckett
I hadn’t slept.
Hadn’t really expected to, but I’d hoped the exhaustion would drag me under eventually. It didn’t. Instead, I’d laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind move through the pines and trying not to think about the woman sleeping fifty yards away.
Libby James.
Even her name sounded soft. Pretty. The kind of name that belonged to someone who smiled easy and believed the world was fixable if you just tried hard enough.
I’d known her for all of three hours, and she was already under my skin.
That was a problem.
I rolled out of bed before dawn, pulled on jeans and boots, and headed to the barn. Work was the answer. It always was. Keep moving. Keep busy. Eventually the noise in your head quieted down to something manageable.
The barn was dark and silent when I let myself in, just the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the creak of old wood settling. I flipped on the lights in the feed room and started measuring out grain, going through the motions I’d done a thousand times before.
But my mind wasn’t on the work.
It was on her.
The way she’d leaned against that stall gate yesterday, arms folded, watching me with those blue eyes that saw too damn much. The way she’d stepped back when I told her the horse didn’t need more voices—not offended, just... understanding.
And that moment when our fingers brushed. Half a second of contact that I’d felt everywhere.
When the hell was the last time I’d been so affected by a woman?
The fucking answer was never.
Oh, I’d had my share of women before the accident. Even a few afterwards.
But her. My body—hell, everything inside me—had never reacted that instantly.
I shook my head and forced my attention back to the feed buckets. This was exactly the kind of distraction I didn’t need. She was here to do a job. I was here to do mine. That was it.
Keep it simple. Keep it professional.
I’d been doing this since the military sent me home—up before daylight, hands busy, silence thick enough to hold back the nightmares
I finished with the morning feed and headed out to the round pen attached to the barn.
Wildfire’s stall was the only one that opened to it.
He didn’t like enclosed places. He only stayed inside when the weather was bad, or I coaxed him in with his favorite treat of an apple.
The mustang was already there, pacing the fence line with that restless energy that said he hadn’t slept much either.
“Yeah,” I muttered, slipping through the gate. “I know the feeling.”
He snorted and tossed his head but didn’t bolt. Six weeks ago, he would’ve been on the other side of the pen before I got the gate closed. Now he just watched me with those dark, wary eyes.
Waiting to see what I’d do.
I stood there, hands loose at my sides, and just breathed. Letting him see me. Letting him decide if I was a threat or not.
That’s how it worked with damaged things. You didn’t chase. You didn’t force. You just showed up, day after day, and proved you weren’t going to hurt them.
Eventually, they came to you.
Or they didn’t.
Either way, you respected the choice.
That was why I was on the Off-Duty Ranch. The owners here gave that same respect to the men they rescued. I’d been just as damaged as Wildfire when I’d arrived. Hell, I was still damaged.
Wildfire took a step closer. Then another. His nostrils flared, testing the air, and I stayed perfectly still. When he was close enough, I slowly raised one hand and let him sniff it.
He huffed warm breath across my palm, ears swiveling.
“That’s it,” I said quietly. “That’s it.”
I’d been working with him every day since I’d pulled him out of a canyon. Just the two of us, no audience, no pressure. Everyone thought I was wasting time that could be spent on horses with better prospects. But they didn’t understand.
Wildfire wasn’t just another rescue case.
He was me.
Scarred up on the outside, wrecked on the inside, and so damn tired of people trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed. All he wanted was to be left alone. To exist without expectation or judgment.
I saw the same thing in his eyes that I still saw in the mirror every morning—fight or flee. And no real peace either way.
“Morning.”
I recognized the voice instantly. I turned before I could stop myself.
Libby stood at the rail, forearms resting on the top bar. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the early light caught her face. She wore jeans that fit her like they’d been made for her and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her curves were absolutely fucking perfect.
She was beautiful.
Not the polished kind of beautiful you saw in magazines. Real beautiful. The kind that came from being comfortable in your own skin.
The kind that made a man want things he had no right wanting.
“You always sneak up on people like that?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.
She smiled a little. “Comes with the job. No sudden moves. Light touches. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You did anyway.” I couldn’t tell her just by being in the same space as me, she distracted me.
“Sorry.” But she didn’t sound sorry. Her voice held a hint of sunshine and mischief. “How long have you been working with him?”
“Just a few weeks.”
“And he lets you this close?”
“Most days.”
She was quiet for a moment, studying the mustang with that sharp, assessing gaze I’d seen yesterday. Professional. Clinical. But there was something else underneath it—something that looked like genuine care.
“He’s beautiful,” she said softly.
“He’s a wreck.”
“Aren’t we all?”
That pulled my attention back to her. She wasn’t looking at me, just watching the horse, but I felt the weight of those words settle between us.
“They know my background, but I think I should tell you as well,” she said, her tone shifting.
I didn’t answer. She had that look on her face that most of the men around here had from time to time.
“I got fired from my last job. I was working with a horse my boss had given to his daughter, and the woman was unkind. I called them on it. And I got fired.”
“And the horse?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say the local animal rights activists found out.”
Wildfire shifted closer to me, and I reached up to stroke his neck. “I want to make something perfectly clear. I don’t want you here. Not with Wildfire.”
She laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I am well aware. You rescued him from a canyon, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. He’d been stuck there for about a week. He’d tried to climb out but couldn’t. His skin was torn, bruised and bleeding, but the bastard hadn’t quit.”
“He’s got a strong spirit.”
Wildfire stood still as if he sensed we were talking about him. “He doesn’t need help. He just needs to be left alone.”
“Is that what you think?” She tilted her head. “Or is that what you need?”
My jaw tightened. “We’re talking about the horse.”
“Are we?”
I didn’t answer that. Couldn’t.
She pushed off the rail and came closer to the gate, her eyes never leaving Wildfire. “Look, I know I’m the outsider here. I know you’ve been doing this alone for weeks and you’ve made real progress with him. But I was hired for a reason, and I’d like to do my job.”
“Then do it.”
“I can’t if you won’t let me near him.”
I exhaled hard. She was right, and I knew it. But the idea of someone else working with Wildfire—someone who might push too hard or move too fast or undo everything I’d built with him—made me clench my hands at my side. “One wrong move and he’ll shut down completely.”
“I know.” Her voice was gentle. “That’s why I need to see what you’ve been doing with him. So I can build on it, not tear it down.”
“You’ve worked with horses like him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“About twenty. But none like him.” She exhaled. “And none like you.”
That made my jaw tighten. I didn’t want to be someone she noticed. I didn’t’ want to be anything but the wall between her and Wildfire. Protecting them both.
I looked at her for a long moment, weighing the risk. But there was something in her eyes—something honest and steady—that made me want to trust her.
Even though trust didn’t come easy for me.
“Alright,” I said. “But we do this slow. And if he shows any sign of stress, we stop.”
“Agreed.”
I opened the gate and let her into the pen. Wildfire’s ears swiveled toward her immediately, his body going tense.
“Easy,” I murmured to him. “She’s not a threat.”
Libby moved carefully, keeping her body language loose and non-threatening. She didn’t try to approach him, just stood a few feet inside the gate and let him see her.
“Hey, beautiful boy,” she said quietly. “I know you don’t know me yet. That’s okay. We’ve got time.”
Her voice was low and soothing, the kind of tone that settled into your bones. Wildfire’s ears flicked forward, tracking the sound.
“That’s it,” she continued. She moved slowly, angling her body so she wasn’t facing him head-on. Submissive posture. Smart.
I stayed back, watching, ready to step in if needed. But Wildfire didn’t bolt. Didn’t pin his ears. Just watched her with cautious curiosity.
After a minute, he took a tentative step toward her.
Then another.
Something in my chest eased.
“You’re doing good,” I said quietly. “Don’t reach for him yet.”
“I won’t.”
Wildfire stretched his neck out, nostrils flaring as he caught her scent. Libby stayed perfectly still, barely breathing.
And then the horse did something I hadn’t expected.
He butted his head against her shoulder—hard enough to make her stumble back a step.
I moved forward on instinct, but Libby laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Easy there, big guy,” she said, rubbing the spot where he’d made contact. “That’s one way to get my attention.”
I stopped mid-step. “You’re not hurt?”
“Nah. He wasn’t being aggressive. That was a test.” She looked at Wildfire with something like affection. “You wanted to see if I’d flinch, didn’t you? Well, I don’t scare that easy.”
The horse snorted and butted her again, gentler this time.
She reached up slowly to scratch behind his ear, and he let her.
Son of a bitch.
It had taken me weeks before he’d allowed me to touch him.
“He likes you,” I said, voice rough.
“The feeling’s mutual.” She glanced at me, and there was something bright in her eyes—excitement, maybe, or triumph. “This is good, Beckett. Really good. He’s curious, not defensive. That’s huge progress.”
“I know.”
But what I was thinking about wasn’t the horse.
It was the way she looked right now—flushed and smiling, hair coming loose from her ponytail, her whole face lit up with genuine joy.
God, she was beautiful like this.
And I wanted her so badly it made my whole damn body ache.
“You’ve done incredible work with him,” she said, turning back to me. “Seriously. Most horses this traumatized... they don’t come back from it. But you brought him this far.”
“I’m just a grunt,” I said. “I keep him fed and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. That’s it.”
“No.” Her voice was firm. “You’re more than that. You see him. You understand him. That’s why he trusts you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” she continued. “You’ve brought him this far. Let’s work together and heal him all the way. You know what he responds to, I know the behavioral science behind it. We combine those things, and we might actually give this horse a real shot at a normal life.”
I studied her for a long moment. She meant it. This wasn’t about proving herself or showing off her expertise. She genuinely wanted to help.
And she wanted to do it with me.
“Alright,” I said finally. “We work together.”
Her smile was like the sun coming out. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I’m not handing him over to you. We do this as a team, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Deal.” She held out her hand.
I looked at it for a second, then took it. Her palm was soft against my callused one, warm and steady.
And when our eyes met, I felt that same jolt I’d felt yesterday when our fingers brushed.
Only stronger.
She felt it too. I could see it in the way her breath caught, the way her eyes widened just slightly.
But she didn’t pull away.
Neither did I.
Wildfire nickered softly, breaking the moment, and we both stepped back.
“So,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “What’s the plan for today?”
I cleared my throat. “I usually work with him for about an hour in the morning. Just groundwork. Getting him comfortable with being touched, led around the pen. Building trust.”
“Can I observe? Take notes?”
“Yeah. Just... stay back for now. Let him get used to you being here.”
“Understood.”
We spent the next hour working with Wildfire. I led him around the pen, showed Libby how he responded to certain cues, explained the patterns I’d noticed in his behavior. She watched quietly, asking occasional questions.
And the whole time, I was acutely aware of her presence. The way she moved. The sound of her breathing. The little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was concentrating.
By the time we were done, Wildfire was calm but I was wound tight as a spring.
“That was amazing,” Libby said as we stepped out of the pen. “The way you read him, the way you adjust your body language based on his cues... you’re a natural at this.”
“I just pay attention.”
“That’s more than most people do.” She leaned against the fence, looking at me with those sharp blue eyes. “You said you’re just a grunt. But that’s not true, is it? You’re good at this. Really good.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I work with what I know.”
“Which is?”
“Damage,” I said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be broken. So does he. Makes it easier to understand each other.”
Her expression softened. “You’re not broken, Beckett.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes. I do.” She held my gaze for a few seconds that seemed like eternity.
I had to fight the urge to close the distance between us, thoughts of pulling her close…
kissing her… tasting her… running through my head.
My body hardening. This was a bad idea. She was here to work. I was here to work. That was it.
But the way she was looking at me...
“I should check the other horses,” I said roughly, stepping back. “Make sure everyone got fed.”
“Right. Yeah.” She blinked, the moment breaking. “I’ll... I’ll go over my notes. Figure out a training plan.”
I nodded and walked away before I could do something stupid.
But even as I put distance between us, I could feel her watching me.
And I knew—without a doubt—that working together was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done.
Because every time I looked at her, I wanted things I had no business wanting.
Things I didn’t deserve.
But wanted anyway.