23. Logan
Logan
Ihear the horse before I see it.
Sharp.
Panicked.
Wrong.
Everything on this ranch has a rhythm—movement, sound, response. You learn it fast or you don’t last.
And that—
that’s not part of it.
I’m already moving before I think, boots hitting dirt hard as I cut across the yard toward the west paddock.
“Logan!” Ty shouts from the far side. “Gate’s loose—she spooked—”
I don’t wait for the rest.
The mare bolts across the enclosure, reins dragging, eyes wide, foam building at her mouth. One bad step, one wrong turn, and she’ll take the fence down—or worse.
“Get the other horses clear!” I call.
Cole’s already there, swinging wide to redirect, hands up, voice steady, trying to slow the chaos before it spreads.
Good.
That buys me a second.
I step into the paddock slowly, controlled, lowering my center, tracking the mare’s movement.
“Easy,” I murmur. “Easy…”
She doesn’t hear it.
Not yet.
Too far gone.
I adjust my angle, cutting her off from the open side, forcing her into a tighter circle.
“Logan—”
Quinn’s voice.
Too close.
I don’t turn.
“Stay back,” I snap.
She doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.
She moves along the fence line, not rushing, not panicking—watching, calculating, trying to understand the pattern like everything else she’s walked into here.
“This isn’t helping,” she says.
“No kidding,” I mutter under my breath.
The mare veers again, faster this time, heading straight for the weakened gate.
Damn it.
If she hits that—
“She’s tracking the opening,” Quinn says.
“I know.”
“Then close it.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I do.”
My head snaps toward her.
“No.”
She’s already moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
She cuts along the fence, slipping through the side opening before I can stop her.
“Quinn—!”
Too late.
She grabs the loose chain, yanking it tight, pulling the gate inward just as the mare charges toward it.
The metal slams.
The horse jerks sideways—
and Quinn’s foot slips.
She goes down hard.
“Damn it.”
I’m across the paddock in seconds, catching the mare’s reins, hauling her off balance just enough to stop the forward drive.
“Easy,” I grit out, forcing control into my voice, my grip, my stance.
She fights it.
Then—
finally—
breaks.
Breath shuddering.
Body shaking.
But still.
Contained.
I hand her off to Cole the second I can.
“Hold her.”
I don’t wait for a response.
I’m already moving back toward Quinn.
She’s sitting up when I get there, one hand braced in the dirt, the other gripping her ankle.
Jaw tight.
Controlled.
Of course.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
She’s not.
I crouch in front of her, reaching for her ankle before she can pull it away.
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
I press lightly.
She inhales sharply.
Yeah.
Not fine.
“Sprain,” I say.
“I can walk.”
“I didn’t ask.”
I slide one arm under her knees, the other at her back, lifting her before she can argue.
“Logan—”
“Save it.”
She goes quiet.
Not because she agrees.
Because she knows I’m not changing my mind.
The barn is cooler.
Quieter.
Removed from the chaos outside.
I set her down on a bale in the lower stall, grabbing a clean cloth and a bucket without thinking.
Routine.
Control.
Something I can fix.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
She exhales slowly. “It worked.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is if the horse didn’t break through.”
I turn back to her, crouching again, wrapping the cloth around her ankle.
“That wasn’t your call.”
“Someone had to make it.”
“Not like that.”
“Then faster.”
The words hit.
Because she’s not wrong.
Because she never is when it comes to decisions under pressure.
And I hate that I still see it.
Still respect it.
Still—
I tighten the wrap a little more than necessary.
She flinches.
Not much.
Enough.
“That’s for not listening,” I mutter.
Her mouth tilts faintly. “You’re welcome.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I sit back on my heels, looking at her properly now.
Dust in her hair.
Dirt along her hands.
Breath still not fully steady.
Real.
Too real.
“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” I say.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not a strategy.”
“It worked.”
We’re back there again.
Same edge.
Different reason.
I push a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.
“You don’t get to throw yourself into something like that without backup.”
“I assessed the risk.”
“You assumed control.”
“That’s how I survive.”
The words land heavier than anything else she’s said.
Not sharp.
Not defensive.
Just… true.
And that—
that’s where everything shifts again.
Because I see it now.
Not just the strategist.
Not just the one making moves.
The one who’s been doing it alone long enough that it doesn’t even occur to her not to.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m starting to get that.”
She watches me.
Closer now.
Less guarded.
And that’s dangerous.
Because it makes this—
whatever this is—
harder to shut down.
kneel in the hay beside the bale where Quinn sits, her ankle resting on my thigh as I work my thumb along the swollen tendon. The joint is warm beneath my touch, the skin slightly puffy, and she winces when I rotate her foot just a fraction.
"Hold still," I murmur.
"I am holding still." Her voice carries that edge—half complaint, half something else entirely.
I glance up at her face. The afternoon light catches the gold in her hazel eyes, turns her brown waves to amber where they fall over her shoulders.
She's watching my hands on her skin, her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifts.
The pain fades from her features, replaced by something hungrier.
Her fingers reach out and curl into the front of my shirt.
"Logan."
Just my name. Nothing else. But the way she says it—low, deliberate—makes my pulse kick harder against my ribs.
I lean in, and she meets me halfway. Her mouth finds mine, soft at first, a question and an answer all at once. I taste the salt on her lips, the faint sweetness of the iced tea she drank earlier. My hand slides from her ankle to the curve of her calf, then higher, settling at the bend of her knee.
The kiss deepens.
Her tongue slips against mine, and the contact sends a jolt straight through my gut. Heat builds fast between us—familiar now, the way our bodies have learned each other these past hours. Too easy. Too right. Like striking a match in dry grass. One spark and the whole field goes up.
I rise from my knees, moving over her as she tilts back against the hay bale.
My hand finds her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath.
She arches into me, her chest rising to meet mine, and I can feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat even through the layers between us.
My other hand works its way under her shirt hem.
Slowly. The pads of my fingers trace a path up her ribs, counting each one, feeling the muscles beneath her fair skin tense and release as she breathes.
She shivers when I reach the curve beneath her breast, and I pause there—letting my thumb stroke the sensitive skin, drawing small circles that make her exhale sharply against my mouth.
"Logan, please—" The words come out fractured, desperate.
I cup her breast fully, feeling its weight settle into my palm.
The lace of her bra is thin, doing nothing to hide how hard her nipple has already become.
I love this about her—how responsive she is, how her body answers every touch before her mind can catch up.
I drag my thumb across the tight peak, pressing firmly through the lace, and she moans into our kiss.
The sound vibrates through me, settles low in my belly, makes my cock strain against my jeans.
Her hands move with purpose now. One tangles in my hair, fingers gripping the tousled strands at the back of my skull.
She pulls, adjusting the angle of my head, demanding more—deeper—her mouth hungry against mine.
Our teeth click once in the rush, and she takes advantage, sucking my lower lip between hers, biting down just hard enough to make me groan.
Her other hand rakes down my back. Nails digging through my shirt, leaving tracks of heat in their wake.
I can feel the sting even through the fabric, and it spurs me on.
I pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, rolling the tight bud, tugging gently before releasing and starting the rhythm again.
Quinn's back arches off the hay bale. Her hips shift, pressing up against me, seeking friction. The sounds she makes—small, breathless whimpers caught between our lips—make it difficult to think straight.
Our breaths come faster now. Shallow. Urgent.
The barn fades around us—the smell of hay and horses, the distant whinny of a stallion, the golden dust motes floating in the afternoon light.
None of it exists. There's only her mouth, her hands, the soft skin of her breast beneath my palm, the hard peak of her nipple begging for more attention.
I push the lace aside, finally touching skin to skin. Her nipple is tight and hot against my calloused fingers, and I tease it mercilessly—circling, flicking, pinching just shy of too hard. Quinn tears her mouth from mine, her head falling back, exposing the pale column of her throat.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Don't you dare stop."
I dip my head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her jaw, her neck, the hollow behind her ear. My hand never stills on her breast, keeping up the relentless attention that has her squirming beneath me.
Her nails dig deeper into my back, surely leaving marks through my shirt. The sting only makes me harder. Her grip in my hair tightens, holding me against her throat, and I take the invitation—biting gently at the tendon that stands taut beneath her skin.
My hand at her waist tightens. I pull her closer, grinding her against me, grounding her body against mine so she can feel exactly what she's doing to me. The friction makes us both groan, and I swallow her sound with another kiss—deep, consuming, claiming.
And that's when it hits.
The realization crashes through me like ice water, even as my blood runs hot.
Vegas.
The photos.
The truth she didn’t give me.
The part she still holds back.
I pull away.
Abrupt.
Breath rough.
Control snapping back into place whether I want it to or not.
She blinks up at me, disoriented for half a second.
“Logan—”
“I can’t.”
The words come out harsher than I intend.
But I don’t take them back.
Her expression shifts.
Guard goes up.
Fast.
“Because of Vegas,” she says.
Not a question.
A fact.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
“You’re still here,” she says quietly.
“That doesn’t mean I forget.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” I reply. “You just didn’t tell me the whole truth.”
There it is.
Back where we were.
But different now.
Because this—
this isn’t just words.
This is something I almost lost control of.
Something I don’t trust.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
“I didn’t plan for you,” she says.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Not enough.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“Then what is?”
I hold her gaze.
Because she needs to hear it.
“All of it.”
Silence.
Again.
But this time—
it doesn’t soften.
It holds.
Tense.
Unresolved.
I step back.
Create space.
Finally.
“You should stay off that ankle,” I say.
Neutral.
Controlled.
Safe.
She nods once.
Same.
Neither of us moves.
Because we both know—
this isn’t finished.
Not the argument.
Not the truth.
Not this.
And until it is—
nothing else gets to happen.