Chapter 9
Nine
THE SCENT OF LEATHER AND SOAP SURROUNDS ME AS WYATT LEANS IN.
KINSLEY
Am I looking for a good time with a cowboy?
Yes, please—a traitorous voice answers in my head. I mentally slap it silent with the image of Brittney sprawled across Wyatt's bare chest. I'm sure he used that same line on her, and she fell all over herself to be with him. Well, I'm no buckle bunny.
"I..." I trip over the word. "I'm here about my horse."
Smooth. Real smooth.
This cannot be happening. Wyatt Halloway is supposed to be three states away, riding bulls and breaking hearts. He is absolutely not supposed to be standing in front of me looking like a cowgirl's dream.
His gaze flicks to the grain bucket, then back to my face, his cocky half-smile deepening. "This is your horse." The way he says it sounds like a question and caress all at once. "Well now, that's even more interesting."
I can practically see him shifting into charm mode as he steps closer, close enough that I catch the scent of leather and soap and something purely him. "And here I thought Grandpa was losing his mind, buying a barrel horse for a cattle operation."
The way he moves is deliberate, calculated. He knows exactly what he's doing.
And I know exactly what he's doing.
But somehow that doesn't make it any less effective.
"Don't worry," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "We're only here temporarily while I'm working in the area."
"Working." His voice drops to that low register that does things to my pulse.
I'm not buying what you're selling, I think even as I count the cash in my pocket.
"Consulting work," I manage, and immediately want to kick myself for how breathless I sound.
Someone clears their throat and we both turn. Sarah Halloway stands in the breezeway wearing pressed slacks and a crisp white shirt. The knowing look on her face makes my stomach drop.
"Hello, you two," she says. "Wyatt, I see you've met Kinsley Rose, my new political advisor."
The words hit like a bomb.
Wyatt's head whips toward me. "You hired her?" The question comes out strangled.
Sarah's eyebrows rise. "You know each other?"
"We've met," I say, praying she doesn't think I'm one of his rodeo conquests. "At the rodeo in Cheyenne."
"She wasn't too impressed," Wyatt adds. "Couldn't tell if it was with the bull riding or with me."
Heat floods my face. "Both," I quip.
Sarah laughs. "Is that so?" Her smile sharpens with interest. "I'm curious what Kinsley thinks about roughies?"
"Mom," Wyatt warns, his voice making him even more attractive.
"I don't, I'm not—" I stammer.
"Oh, she's definitely not into roughies," Sarah says sweetly, winking at Wyatt.
The mortification is complete. Wyatt's face is beet red too, which is my only consolation.
"I need to give this to Rebel." I hold up the grain bucket like a white flag and turn toward my mare's stall. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely twist off the lid or fish out the scoop. Behind me, I can feel both Sarah and Wyatt watching.
The way Wyatt Halloway makes me feel is one thing, but to have his mom witness it, is a whole other level of embarrassment.
"I'll catch up with you later." Sarah grins at her son as she walks out of the barn. "Kinsley, I'll see you at one."
“Yep.” I nod and say goodbye then focus on the task of measuring the grain. I reach over the stall door and dump some into the feeder. Pour, level, pour again.
The colt shifts restlessly at the end of Wyatt's lead rope, picking up on the scent and the sound of the poured grain.
"Easy," Wyatt murmurs to him, as he shortens his handle on the rope. I wish he’d put the horse away, tie him off somewhere, or do anything else but stare at me. His attention is too much to handle.
A gust of wind tears through the barn. The massive door slams shut with a crash like a gunshot. I flinch. The colt rears straight up, front hooves pawing the air, the lead rope burning through Wyatt's hands.
I'm standing directly in the path of those striking hooves, frozen.
"Move!"
Wyatt's shout penetrates my panic. I throw myself backward, boots slipping on the concrete, and go down hard. My head cracks against Rebel's stall, stars exploding behind my eyes.
The world tilts sideways. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear the colt's hooves hit the ground. Then hands are on me—strong, impossibly gentle. The scent of leather and soap surrounds me as Wyatt leans in.
"Don't move." His fingers brush against my head where something warm is flowing, and his touch is so tender I lean into it. "Are you okay?" Wyatt's voice is rough with panic. "Kinsley, talk to me."
The genuine fear in his voice does something to my chest I don't want to examine. This isn't the cocky bull rider from the rodeo. This is a man who's scared—really scared—and trying not to show it.
"I'm fine," I lie, though my head is pounding. "The horse—"
"He's fine." Wyatt's fingers gently check my scalp. "You're bleeding."
I try to sit up and regret it as the barn tilts.
Wyatt's hand lands on my shoulder. "Easy," he murmurs, the same voice I heard him use with the colt.
"I said I'm fine." But even I hear how shaky I sound. "He's keyed up. You need to—"
"He can wait."
"No." I force myself to focus, meeting his steel-grey eyes. "He's terrified. He could hurt himself or someone else if you don't calm him down."
Wyatt's gaze moves between me and the horse, who's stretched his lead rope taut.
"I'm not leaving you bleeding," he says finally.
"Then help me sit up." I reach for his hand, and his fingers close around mine. Adrenaline races from my fingertips through my body.
He pulls me up slowly, watching for signs I might pass out. When I stay upright, he nods once.
"Don't move," he orders. Then he turns to the colt, and I witness something unexpected.
"Easy, boy. Nobody's going to hurt you." His shoulders drop, and he approaches the terrified animal like he has all the time in the world. "That noise scared you, didn't it? Scared all of us."
He doesn't try to force the horse to settle. He just stands there, breathing slowly, letting his calm energy spread. Gradually, the colt mirrors him. And so do I.
He's a natural. Nothing to do with training and everything to do with an invisible connection between him and the animal.
"There you go," Wyatt murmurs as the colt steps toward him. "Nothing to worry about."
The horse's head lowers as fear drains away. Within minutes, Wyatt has him calm and steady.
Horses don't lie about people. They can't. This young, frightened animal trusts Wyatt completely.
Which means Wyatt Halloway is a good man.
Maybe, like Brook said, he's a good guy who makes stupid decisions.
There’s something to think about before I fall asleep at night.
"Better?" Wyatt asks the colt, running his hand down the animal's neck. After putting him in a stall, he returns to me. "Your turn. Let me see that head."
"It's just a scratch," I protest.
"Humor me." He kneels beside me.
I turn my head so he can examine the wound and find our faces inches apart. Close enough to see the silver flecks in his gray eyes and the curve of his mouth. Not that I'm staring at his mouth. It's just so close, and once I look, I can't stop. He has good lips.
"Your legs okay?" he asks, his voice rougher. "Nothing twisted or sprained?"
I flex my ankles, test my knees. "Legs are fine."
"Yeah, they are." His gaze travels up my body in a way that makes heat pool in my stomach.
This man—this gentle, patient, totally confusing man—is looking at me like I'm something completely desirable.
"Stay put," Wyatt says, rising. "I'll get the first aid kit."
I watch him go and think: the back of his jeans should have a warning label. I close my eyes. "Head injury," I rasp. "I'm not myself right now."
When he returns, he settles beside me. "This might sting," he warns.
The antiseptic makes me hiss, but it's nothing compared to how my pulse jumps when his fingers brush my skin.
"When I asked if you were looking for a good time," he says, voice dropping to that rough register that does things to my nervous system, "this isn't what I had in mind."
Despite everything, I smile. "What did you have in mind?"
"Something with less blood." His thumb traces carefully around the cut. "And more fun."
"I thought a med tent was your kind of party," I tease, trying to keep my mind off the pain. I didn't miss the bandages on his shoulder in Brittney's post.
"Nah, Doc's too old for me," he jokes with a straight face.
I snort a laugh, and it echoes in my brain—promising a headache. I moan and press my fingers to my head.
"Hold still," he murmurs, leaning closer to add another bandage. His face is inches from mine. He glances at my lips and I stop breathing.
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. "Maybe I should check these too."
The touch sends electricity through me, and I know he can see my reaction. I'm completely transparent to him, and that's more dangerous than any spooked horse.
"You have all the lines, don't you?" I manage, my voice breathy instead of dismissive.
His smile turns wicked. "Only the good ones."
I need to regain control before I do something stupid like let him kiss me.
"I owe you one," I say, forcing my voice back to normal. "For the rescue and first aid."
"Do you now?" His smile is positively predatory and my pulse jumps.
"Name your price." The words escape before I can stop them, and I watch his expression shift into something that's part triumph, part hunger.
"Go to dinner with me," he says without hesitation. "Tonight."
"I—what?" His innocent request catches me completely off guard. I half expected something that would put color back in my cheeks.
He's already standing, packing up the supplies with casual confidence.
"That's not how it works," I protest. "I'm supposed to do something for you."
He walks backward toward the barn door. "I'll pick you up at six." He grins like he's won and steps into the sunlight.
I'm left sitting on the barn floor, mouth hanging open, defenses in shambles. Six o'clock. Dinner.
I'm not about to let him parade me around his hometown like arm candy. We’ll eat at the cottage. I’ll make sure of it.
Although eating at my place is more intimate. Will he think that's what I want? A quiet dinner for two? Do I want him to run his fingers through my hair?
Absolutely not!
I push to my feet, ignoring how the idea of Wyatt in my space sets off butterflies. I know we're a recipe for heartbreak, but I feel reckless enough to want a taste.