Chapter 9 #2
I snorted, but the words stuck in my head. I gave the horse one last scratch, then let myself stare at Gunner just one beat longer. He still didn’t look over.
That was fine. I could wait.
The horse came back around slow, hooves slicing twin furrows through the red dirt, then stopped just out of reach, nostrils flared. There was something familiar in the way it assessed me, a challenge, maybe, or a test. I stuck out my hand, palm open, and waited.
Again, the animal didn’t shy away. It nosed my fingers, hot breath dampening my skin. I let out a shaky laugh because I couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
Maddie took a photo. “You look like Snow White, but more…” she squinted at the camera, “…Texas.”
I petted the horse’s nose, feeling the buzz of energy under its velvet skin. It was still wild, but not angry; more like it wanted to be understood.
“I used to ride, you know,” I said, voice just loud enough for Maddie to hear. “High school. English saddle mostly, but we did some jumping. I was pretty good.”
She looked at me, skeptical. “Not the same as that,” she said, gesturing at the horse. “That thing would eat you for breakfast.”
I scoffed. “It’s just a horse.”
Maddie leaned closer. “You are not going in there.”
I glanced at Gunner, who was still engrossed in conversation. “He said it’s tamed.”
“Yeah, by him. And even then, barely.”
I looked at my boots—tan, ostrich leather, stupidly expensive and barely broken in. My jeans hugged my thighs just right, and the shirt I wore was plain but flattering. For the first time since Paris, I felt almost like I belonged somewhere. It was intoxicating, and maybe a little reckless.
“Watch this,” I said, swinging a leg over the bottom rail.
“Brie, no!” Maddie hissed, but I was already inside the pen.
The ground was soft and uneven, and I nearly twisted my ankle before I even reached the horse. I walked slow, hands out, making those soft “shhh” sounds I’d heard Finn making. The animal eyed me, but didn’t spook.
I touched its neck, ran my hand up to the mane. It shivered but didn’t move away. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely think, but all I wanted in that moment was to do something—anything—that would make Gunner notice.
Maddie’s voice came through the rails, panicked but low: “If you die, I’m not giving your eulogy. You know that, right?”
I grinned, almost giddy. “I’ll be fine.”
The horse turned its head, massive black eyes staring me down. I patted its withers, then, before I could chicken out, reached for the saddle horn and pulled myself up.
It happened fast. One second I was airborne, jeans creaking, boots braced in the stirrups. The next, the horse exploded, bucking with a violence that made the entire world go sideways.
I screamed, a sound that was part terror, part exhilaration. The animal whipped its head, slamming me into the saddle so hard my teeth clacked. My hands slipped on the reins, and I grabbed for the mane, holding on for dear life as the beast twisted and launched itself across the pen.
I heard Maddie shouting, “Brie, get off! Get off!” But it was too late. The horse was in charge now, and I was just along for the ride.
We made it halfway around the ring before my grip gave out. The horse jerked left; I went right, and the rest was physics.
I hit the dirt ass-first; the impact knocking the wind clean out of me. My right shoulder caught next, a dull, hot pain shooting up my hip and down my arm. I rolled onto my back, gasping, staring up at the bright Texas sky. Tears were already pouring down my face.
The horse skittered to a stop, shook itself, and trotted away like it hadn’t just tried to murder me. The ranch hands were already running over, but it was Gunner who reached me first.
He knelt down, grabbed my hand, and hauled me to sitting. “You okay, Maverick?” His face was unreadable, equal parts worry and fury.
I wheezed, still trying to breathe through my tears. “Did I look cool?”
He grumbled a laugh, then shook his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”
Maddie arrived, pale and wild-eyed. “You almost died!” she shrieked.
I shrugged, then immediately regretted it but couldn’t speak.
Gunner put one hand under my upper back and the other under my knees as he picked me up.
I leaned into his chest with a sob. “Hurts.”
He looked over at Maddie and uttered three words that brooked no argument.
“Madison, go home.”
He didn’t say another word to me as he carried me across the yard, pulling me tight to his chest. His front door came into view in just minutes. The heat between us had an edge, the kind that could burn or cauterize depending on the day, and I had no idea which way today was going to break.
Inside, the place smelled like leather, old cologne, and something darker—maybe the weight of a life that didn’t leave much space for knick-knacks or sentimental crap.
I noticed a bookshelf that sat along one wall in the great room that held tons of books.
Gunner hauled me down the hallway, past the living room filled with leather-clad furniture and straight into a bedroom with a bed the size of a small country.
I tried to memorize everything—the rough wood dresser, the muddy boots lined up by the wall, the single photograph of a smiling boy and a German Shepherd on the nightstand.
I was so busy collecting details that I almost forgot the pain radiating up my side.
He sat me on the edge of the bed and crouched down, putting his face level with mine. “Where does it hurt, Maverick?”
I considered lying, but the concern in his eyes was like a cattle prod to my ego. “My butt. And my shoulder, I guess. Maybe my pride.”
He snorted. “Pride’ll heal. Lemme see the rest.”
He gripped my knee, warm and certain, then tugged on my boots. It was the least sexy undressing of my life—awkward, dusty, and over in seconds—but my skin burned with embarrassment, anyway. He yanked them off, tossing them aside, and then reached for the button on my jeans.
I slapped at his hands, half-hearted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He met my eyes, expression dead serious.
He pushed my shoulders back, so I was lying across the bed.
“You don’t get to ask questions right now.
I’m in charge.” His fingers found the zipper and pulled it down, then gripped the ankles of my jeans and gave a sharp tug.
The jeans peeled away, dragging a layer of dirt and dignity with them.
Underneath, my ass was already bruising on the right side—a deep, red flush radiating out like a target. I winced just looking at it.
He rolled me slightly to my side and ran a hand over the bruise, testing for tenderness. “You landed hard.”
I tried to sound tough. “I’ve had worse.”
He pulled on my arms, sitting me up, then started on my top, deftly undoing the buttons one by one.
The fabric hung open, stained with sweat and a streak of red clay.
I was still in my bralette—purple lace, because I’d hoped for a different kind of undressing today—and the way his eyes lingered made my heart start sprinting again.
He peeled the shirt away, then gently pressed my shoulder. I hissed, more from surprise than pain.
“Not broken,” he said, relief softening his jaw. “But will likely leave a bruise.”
He lay me back, hands moving slow and careful. “Roll over, Maverick.”
I obeyed, face burning. The bedspread was soft against my cheek, and I tried to focus on the thread count instead of the fact that my ass was basically on parade.
He ran his fingers over the bruise, pressing at the edges, and I nearly jumped off the mattress. “Jesus, Finn—”
“Hold still,” he ordered. His voice was calm, but there was a roughness underneath it that made me shiver. He traced the bruise from the top of my hip down to where the skin was less angry, then worked his way up my thigh. Each touch was electric—half pain, half something else.
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my neck. “You could’ve broken your damn tailbone, Brie. What were you thinking?”
I muttered into the pillow. “Wanted to get your attention I guess..”
He went quiet, then said, “Fucking hell of a way to do it little girl.”
I almost laughed. “You say that, but you didn’t see the way the ranch hands were looking at me. Like I was some dumb city girl.”
He gripped my thigh, squeezing just hard enough to sting. “You don’t care about them. You care about what I think.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah. I do.”
He let go, but not before running his hand over the bruise one last time. “Well, what I think is that you’re fucking crazy. And stubborn. And you never do what I tell you.”
I craned my neck to glare at him. “Then stop telling me what to do.”
He grinned, wolfish and wide. “Not happening.”
He left for a second, came back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel, and pressed it to my ass with zero warning. I yelped, more at the shock than the cold.
“See? You need me to keep you in line,” he said, smirking.
I tried to flip onto my back, but he held me there, one hand on my hip. The weight of him was grounding—equal parts restraint and comfort. He held the ice in place with one hand, using the other to gently stroke my hair. I hated how much I loved it.
We sat there in silence, the only sound the whirr of the ceiling fan and the thunder in my chest. After a while, he set the ice pack aside and lay down next to me, propping himself up on one elbow.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he asked, voice low.
I couldn’t think of a single smart thing to say. For once, my mouth failed me.
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Answer me, Maverick.”
I swallowed, heart in my throat. “Anything you want,” I whispered.
“Well, sweetheart. You’re not gonna like my first idea.”