Chapter 20 #2
As she changed into her stable clothes, she knew how hard this had been on everyone. She hadn’t been able to see it before. Not really. Just before she left the room, she picked up her phone and sent a fast text message.
Enya: I love you, have a good day. Tell Momma I say hi.
Daddy: We love you, too, baby girl.
She swallowed down the unease building inside her and shut the phone off again as fast as she could. She knew it was unfair and knew it hurt her dad, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for the conversations that they wanted to happen.
Rain won’t judge.
Neither does Rowan.
Ten minutes later, the barn doors groaned as she shoved them open, the scent of hay and damp earth hitting her like a slap in the face.
The air was thick with the musk of horses and the sharp tang of manure.
As if he’d been waiting for her, Rain’s head shot up from the far stall, his ears twitching forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach clench.
Determined to at least try to figure out how to fix things, she walked toward him.
The barn was alive with the soft rustle of horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional clink of a halter chain, the distant murmur of voices from the tack room.
Somewhere outside, a truck engine rumbled to life, and the sound vibrated through the wooden planks beneath her feet.
“Hey, you,” she murmured, sliding the stall door open with a quiet creak.
Rain watched her, his nostrils flaring, and his body tense. His coat was still dull, patchy where sweat had dried, his ribs too sharp beneath his skin. But his eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—held hers, and for a moment, she swore he understood.
She swallowed hard, sucked in a shaky breath, and leaned her forehead against his. “Good boy, baby. How are you doing, huh? Did you have breakfast already?” Rain didn’t care what words were coming out of her mouth. He just cared that she was talking to him.
A horse whinnied in the distance, and Rowan’s voice carried from the tack room, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable—he was giving orders, his voice tight with something she couldn’t place. “I probably shouldn’t have kissed him.”
Rain bopped his head and moved it to rest over her shoulder, as if to say he agreed. His breath was warm and familiar.
“I missed you too,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his neck. His coat was rough beneath her fingers, but the heat of him seeped into her, steadying her. “How about we try to fix this, huh?”
She cocked her head to one side as the sound of footsteps coming down the aisle reached her ears.
She didn’t need to look up to see who it was.
She knew the weight of Rowan’s stare, the way it settled on her like a heavy and electric physical thing.
She could feel the shift in the air, the way the barn seemed to hold its breath when he was near.
“Gael said you were on stall duty.” His voice was rough, like gravel under boots, the words scraping against the silence.
She kept her eyes on Rain’s mane, her fingers tangling in the coarse hair. “Figured I’d start with him,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
There was a pause, followed by the thud of his boots as he stepped closer. “He’s not ready for work.”
“I know.”
“Then what’re you doing?”
She finally looked up. Rowan stood in the aisle, his arms crossed over his chest, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
A smear of grease cut across his forearm, dark against his tan skin.
His jaw was set, shadowed with stubble, and he looked both exhausted and dangerous.
Her pulse jumped, her breath catching in her throat.
“Just… loving him,” She knew the words were inadequate, but she had no others to give.
His gaze flicked between her and Rain, then he nodded. “Sometimes that’s all we have to give. That’s all they need us to give.”
The words stung, a direct hit, on how she’d locked herself away from the one who loved her most on the planet. She straightened, her spine stiffening. “I’m not sure I’m what he needs right now.”
“That’s not true.” Rowan’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes shifted and darkened, like storm clouds rolling in. “Maybe you are the only thing I—he—needs.”
Enya’s chest ached as he stumbled over the words. She wanted to ask what he meant. Wanted to demand answers for last night, for the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning too. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in fear and something worse—hope.
He jerked his chin toward the aisle. “Come on. Gael’s got the far ones; you take this side. When you’re done here, I have to run into town for feed, and you’re coming with me.”
“I-um-sure.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave The Stronghold. But what could she do? She was a guest here.
Guests don’t clean up horseshit.
She wasn’t on the payroll, so she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing on the ranch. But she was here, so pitching in was required.
It’s not safe out there.
Rowan will keep me safe.
Ugh.
Stop it.
Look up corny in the dictionary, and it’s got that thought beside it.
By the time she shook herself out of her head, she caught a glimpse of Rowan’s back as he disappeared out of the barn.
The pitchfork’s tines sank into the damp straw, the resistance familiar beneath Enya’s hands.
She leaned into it, driving the prongs deep before lifting, the weight of the soiled bedding pulling at her shoulders.
The scent of ammonia and old hay filled her nose, grounding her in the rhythm of the work. Lift. Toss. Repeat. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
Rain’s stall was first. She’d mucked it last, but the horse had spent the night pacing, his anxiety mirroring hers. The straw was trampled, the remnants of his breakfast scattered as if he’d barely touched it. Her chest tightened.
He’s losing weight.
She could see it in the hollows above his eyes, the way his hips jutted just a little too sharply beneath his coat.
Like me.
She refused to allow herself to think about it and slowly managed to lose herself in the monotony of mucking out stalls.
The wheelbarrow groaned as she dumped another load, sweat prickled at her hairline, trickling down her temple.
The barn was stuffy, the air thick with the heat of the horses and the damp of the morning.
Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, the rain from last night having left everything slick and heavy.
The storm had passed, but the world still felt waterlogged, like it was holding its breath.
She shook her head and, with a final pat to Rain, moved to the next stall.
No. Work. Just work.
One thing at a time.
By the time she reached the third stall, her arms ached, her muscles trembling with the effort. But the burn was good. It was real. It drowned out the noise in her head—the echoes of screams, the phantom touch of ropes, the way Maria’s glassy eyes had—
No.
Stop it.
She gritted her teeth and drove the pitchfork in harder.
“You’re gonna wear yourself out before we even leave.”
Enya jumped and dropped the damn pitchfork, making it clatter against the stall wall.
Rowan stood in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame with his arms crossed.
His biceps flexed as he shifted, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling tight over the old scar that cut across his forearm.
She’d noticed it last night, when his sleeves were pushed up, the jagged white line stark against his tan skin.
“Don’t do that, damn it,” she bent to scoop another load. Her back protested, but she ignored it. “I could have stabbed you with the fork.”
“I’d like to think I’m fast enough to avoid it.” His voice was low and rough again as he studied her. “You got that look.”
She stilled. “What look?”
“The one that says you’re trying to outrun your own head.”
How the hell does he know?
Her fingers clenched around the pitchfork’s handle. “Maybe I am.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Doesn’t work.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound almost a laugh. “Yeah? What does, then?”
His gaze flicked over her, dark and unreadable. “Wish I knew.”
The honesty in his voice made her chest ache. She turned away, tossing the soiled straw into the wheelbarrow with more force than necessary. “Well. Until you figure it out, I’ll stick with jumping when idiots sneak up on me, and using whatever is necessary to remind them to keep their distance.”
“Fair enough.” His boots thudded against the concrete as he moved away. “Hurry up. We leave in twenty.”
She didn’t watch him go.
The last stall was the worst. The horse inside—a big bay gelding with a scarred hip—pinned his ears as she approached, his nostrils flaring.
She didn’t blame him. She probably looked like hell, her hair escaping its braid, and her clothes damp with sweat.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, sliding the door open.
“I’m not here to make friends. I’m just scooping the poop, and giving you a comfy bed, so deal, or you and me are gonna have problems.”
The gelding snorted, sidestepping as she entered, but she ignored him, focusing on the task. The straw here was thick with manure, the scent sharp and pungent. She worked quickly, her movements efficient despite the burn in her muscles.
Almost done. Almost—
A hand closed around her upper arm, and she whirled around with the pitchfork raised instinctively, her heart hammering against her ribs. Gael stood behind her, his expression unreadable, his grip firm but not painful.
“Easy,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just me.”
She lowered the pitchfork, her breath coming too fast. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
His jaw tightened. “Wasn’t sneaking. You were just too busy trying to dig your way to China to notice.” He released her arm, stepping back. “Rowan sent me to check on you. Said you were taking too long.”
There are freaking two of them doing the sneaking crap.
What is it, scare-the-crap-out-of-me day?
She wiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing sweat and probably straw dust across her skin. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Gael nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. “Good. Go shower. You smell like a barn exploded on you.”
She shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. Because he wasn’t wrong about that, either.
The house was quiet when she slipped inside, the air conditioning cool, a shock after the barn’s humidity.
She moved quickly, stripping off her filthy clothes in the laundry room and tossing them into the hamper before padding barefoot to the bathroom.
The shower was a blessing, the hot water sluicing over her skin, washing away the grime and the sweat and the lingering scent of fear.
She stood under the spray longer than she should have, her forehead pressed against the tile, her breath steadying.
One thing at a time.
By the time she turned off the water, her fingers were pruned, but her head was clearer. She wrapped the towel around herself and rushed out the bathroom door, then stumbled to a halt, when she bounced off an unmovable object.
“Shit.”
“Fuck.”
Rowan. Of course, it’s freaking Rowan.
The towel slipped, nearly unwinding from her chest. Enya clutched it tighter, her free hand flying up to steady herself against Rowan’s arm.
His skin was warm beneath her fingers, the muscle tense.
He didn’t move back. Didn’t even flinch.
Just stood there, his breath hitching like he’d been the one caught off-guard.
“You okay?” His voice was lower than usual.
She swallowed. “Yeah. Just—didn’t see you.”
“Obviously.”
The word hung between them, heavy with something she couldn’t name. His gaze flicked down, just for a second, before snapping back to her face. But it was enough. Enough to make her skin prickle, enough to send a heat pooling low in her stomach.
Stop it.
This is Rowan.
He’s just… Rowan.
Trying to avoid the heat in his eyes, she sidestepped, putting space between them, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. “I just need to get dressed. Gimme five minutes.” She scooted around him and rushed into her room as fast as possible.