Chapter Two #2
It was everything about her. The gentle curve of her spine as she leaned into the horse’s neck. The way her fingers moved with practiced care, checking for any signs of distress or injury. The complete trust in every animal’s eyes when she was near.
He’d told himself he was just doing a sweep of the property, like he did several times a day. But that was bullshit, and he knew it.
He was here because she was here, the same reason he’d found himself at the Rusty Spur last night.
The same reason he’d stepped between her and that drunk asshole who couldn’t take no for an answer.
He shifted his weight, and a board creaked under his heel. Willow lifted her head, her gaze finding him instantly.
“Decker,” she said softly.
He turned to go.
“Wait.” The word came out firmer.
Awareness crawled up his neck as he lifted a hand, half in apology. He should leave. Mumble something about grabbing some feed and get the hell out of there before he made this any more awkward than it already was.
But she was already stepping toward him, dusting her palms down her jeans, and the way she looked at him—like he wasn’t some broken-down soldier hiding in the shadows but someone worth approaching—kept his feet planted to the spot.
“How’s your shoulder?”
He straightened instinctively, muscle memory from years of standing at attention. “Fine.”
Her brow arched in that way she had that cut through every one of his defenses. It was the same look she’d given him last night when he tried to brush off the knife wound.
The expression that said she saw right through him.
“Let me see.”
“Not necessary.” The words came out rougher than he intended, but the thought of her hands on him again, gentle and clinical while his body betrayed him with every touch, was more than he could handle.
“Decker…” She gave a little smile, the kind that melted stubbornness like butter in the summer sun. “I stapled you back together last night. Humor me.”
He blew out a breath and tugged at the hem of his shirt. She had a point—she’d already seen the damage, already touched the broken parts of him with those careful fingers.
“You could have been a drill sergeant. You don’t let anything slide, do you?”
“Nope.” Her smile widened, and Christ, when she looked at him like that, he’d probably agree to anything.
With one smooth motion, he dragged the fabric over his head. The cool air raised goose bumps along his arms, but Willow didn’t hesitate. She stepped in, fingers at the bandage, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“I’d better wash my hands first.” She walked over to the sink along one wall and scrubbed her hands, then used the hand sanitizer too.
Even though he tried not to, he watched her every move, admiring the way she made even mundane tasks look graceful.
She stepped up to him again and met his stare for a beat before asking him to turn around so she could look at his shoulder.
“This might sting.” She pulled the tape back with care. “I’m sorry.”
The apology was unnecessary—hell, he’d stitched his own arm in the field once following a skirmish.
But her touch left fire across his skin for other reasons.
Decker bit down on the inside of his cheek, refusing to utter a sound and make her think she hurt him.
Anything to keep tears out of her beautiful eyes.
She was so careful, so gentle, treating his battered body like it was something precious instead of the war-torn mess it really was.
“Not too bad.” Her fingers ghosted inches from the stapled wound, feather-light. “You’ll heal well.”
He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to lean into her hand, to close his eyes and pretend this moment could stretch on forever. And that was dangerous thinking. Willow was kindness personified…but kindness wasn’t love, and he’d be a fool to confuse the two.
She pressed the bandage over his skin once more but didn’t move away.
The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words and the soft rustle of horses shifting in their stalls.
He turned around and found himself memorizing the way the gray light caught the threads in her dark hair, turning them to burnished bronze, and the way her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks.
She held his stare for one heartbeat, then two.
Footsteps broke the spell.
“Willow?” Carson’s voice echoed down the aisle, the footsteps growing closer.
Reality crashed in as Willow stepped back, and the air between them collapsed into something awkward and charged.
“I didn’t forget about that schedule you need,” she called over her shoulder, her voice slightly breathless. “I’ll get it for you.”
Carson stopped to take in the scene. His gaze darted from Decker’s bare chest to Willow, hovering so close.
Decker watched questions flicker across the other man’s face.
Then one brow lifted in unmistakable amusement. “Uh…is this some kind of casual Friday thing?”
Heat prickled Decker’s neck like a rash. He grabbed for his shirt, fumbling with the sleeve in his haste to cover up.
This was exactly why he avoided situations like this—too easy to misread, too easy for people to get the wrong idea.
Willow rolled her eyes, completely unbothered by the implications. “Relax. I was checking his wound. I stapled it last night.” She glanced at Carson, amusement tugging her lips. “Want to see my handiwork?”
Carson smirked. “You stapled it? One more thing to add to your resumé.”
Before he could take a look at the wound, Decker yanked the shirt over his head, the hollow ache settling in his chest like an old friend.
Of course she’d treat him like any other patient. He couldn’t allow himself to think she cared about him in particular—it was just Willow being Willow.
He was another wounded animal in her care, nothing more.
Carson leaned against the stall door, clearly enjoying himself. “I actually came to ask about Layne’s baby shower.”
“Oh.” Willow wiped her hands against her jeans, her attention already shifting away from Decker. “Right. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’d like a timeline of the event as soon as you can get one to me.”
“Really, Carson? This is your wife and child, and you’re talking about timelines like it’s a business transaction or a military op.”
Carson chuckled. “Point taken. But I’d still like a schedule.”
“Okay, I’ll email you.”
Carson’s stare skimmed over Decker.
Decker waited for questions about how he sustained the injury—and how Willow came to be the person who patched him up.
A long moment passed. Finally, Carson gave him a single nod. “Catch you later, Decker.” With that, he strode off, boots stomping down the aisle, leaving behind the faint scent of the coffee he drank by the pot.
Silence settled again, heavier than before. Decker straightened his sleeves, needing something to do with his hands. The moment between him and Willow was over, whatever it had been, and he felt like an idiot for thinking it had been anything at all.
“I’ve got art therapy,” he muttered, angling toward the door. Better to retreat now before he made things worse.
Willow’s stare stayed on him. “You don’t sound excited.”
“Because I’m not.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
“Why not?”
He shrugged, concentrating on the dust motes spinning in the dim light that streamed through the barn doors. How could he explain that sitting at tables with other broken military men, trying to express feelings through watercolors and clay, felt like another kind of torture?
“Painting isn’t gonna fix what’s broken.”
She tilted her head, studying him the way she studied the horses, as if she could read his pain like a map written in a language only she understood. “Then what does feel like therapy to you?”
The answer came without thought, bald and true. “Shooting range.”
Her lips parted, then curved into a wry smile. “Figures.”
The air stretched between them, weighted with everything he didn’t know how to say. He shoved his hands into his pockets, because if he didn’t leave right now, he might start believing that look in her eyes meant something more than Willow being Willow.
And down that path lay madness.