Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
GRACE
I don’t know much about riding, but I’m pretty sure denim shorts aren’t what you wear. I sprint to my room and lose the shorts, pulling on my old jeans. Tight with holes at the knees, they feel much better, considering what I’m hopefully about to do.
Moments later, I reach the barn to find Mack leading Trigger from his stall. Faltering on the hay-covered ground, he steadies himself with one hand on the horse. I step in his space and take the lead rope from his hand.
“Show me what to do,” I breathe, almost against his chest.
He stills, so close. The wind picks up outside. The clouds that hung low on the horizon are now closing in. The air temperature has dropped, sending a chill over my skin that was flushed with heat only an hour ago. Trigger waits patiently, seemingly unaware of the barometric changes in his surroundings. Or the rapid increase of my blood through my veins.
Thunder rolls in a soft echo. The weather is turning.
Mack studies the sky. “Maybe just saddle him up. That’s enough to learn for one lesson, at any rate.”
“Sure, where are his things?”
He nods to a small room with an open door at the back of the barn. “Tack room.”
“Can I lead him over?”
Mack steps back, his face unreadable. “Of course.” He waves a hand toward the small room.
I cluck my tongue like I’ve seen in movies and give a small tug on the lead. Trigger walks by my side instantly. I huff a disbelieving laugh. Wow, he understands me. I mean, obviously, he’s well-trained. This is my first time, and it’s surreal that an animal this magnificent will follow the smallest of commands.
The gelding stops before the door, prompting me to halt, too. Good lord, the horse is smarter than the rider. Nerves skitter along my veins. My heart picks up pace with the realization that maybe learning how to ride is more than I imagined it to be.
Mack catches up and walks past into the dimly lit room. He tugs a rope, and a light bulb zaps and flickers to life. One side is covered in tack and equipment, the other, feed and buckets and what not. He takes a bridle from a hook and walks out, handing it to me. I study the soft leather in my hand.
Returning, he eyes a large looking western saddle sitting on a round rack, a thick pad underneath. Setting his shoulders back, he moves in and shoulders it with a grunt. The weight must be too much. His face strains. A soft curse falls from his lips, but he takes long, confident strides out to us and hauls the saddle onto Trigger’s back.
Sweat breaks over his brow and his chest heaves from the exertion. He steps back, leaving what I assume is the girth dangling. I open my mouth to call it quits. This is too much for him. He shakes his head, face tight in warning. He wants to do this.
“Mack,” I plead. “It’s okay, we can try another day.”
He leans over, hands planted on his knees. With every long breath he sucks in, his back muscles move under his T-shirt. His biceps, carrying a light sheen, flex in his sleeves as he pushes to stand tall, homing his gaze to mine. “Saddle.” He points toward Trigger’s back. “Seat, pommel, and fenders.” His hand moves over the tack as he explains. “Stirrup iron.”
I nod.
“I’ll show you how to put his bridle on. Then you can take it all down and redo it yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Still in awe of this man’s grit and determination, I find myself staring. He moves closer but stalls with a wince. Oh no.
“Mackinlay?”
“It’s okay, I’m fine.” But a flush has claimed his neck and face, his breathing quickening.
“You’re not. I can put Trigger back in his stall.”
“If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not making progress, Grace. I’m fine. I’ll rest later.”
I shake my head at him and move aside as he files in closer to Trigger and explains the bridle. He slides it up Trigger’s face, waits while he takes the bit into his mouth, then gently slips the band over the horse’s ears. Mack’s eyes are tight with something I can’t place. My mouth dries up and my stomach turns into a fluttering mess.
“...and then you lift the reins over his head. Let them rest on his neck while you fix the girth.”
The bay gelding moves, shifting his feet, and Mack teeters on the spot. He grabs a handful of mane and steadies himself. I grab his arm, hoping to help, and move into his space. The last thing I want is him hurting himself because he’s entertaining me. His gaze drops to where my hands are wrapped around his bicep.
Thunder crackles overhead.
I retract my hands like I’ve been burned, and Mack’s eyes snap back to the horse. “Should probably get inside before the storm gets a go up.”
I reach up and pull the saddle from Trigger’s back. Shit, it’s so heavy and awkward. Bulky to hold. I walk it back inside and try to haul it onto the high rack. Halfway up, my arms falter—and it’s all I can do to keep from dropping it. Warmth folds in around me. Long arms slide around my arms, hands griping the wide seat. We lift it up onto the rack in one movement.
Four hands, two beating hearts. One movement.
Wow, where the hell did that come from?
The warmth disappears along with the very distinct, heady scent of Mackinlay, and I stand dazed. Still. Listening to my heart rattle through my head. Soft clip-clops see me turn away from the wall to find Trigger walking back to his stall. Mack leads him, talking away as they go. I wonder if not riding, not being physically able to ride, bothers him.
After chasing any type of romantic thoughts about my boss from my head, I cross the hay-littered floor to the barn doors to find Mack leaning against the frame. Rain is falling in light, misty waves. Shit, now the driveway is slick with it.
“Do we wait it out?” I ask.
A grin splits his face, mirth lining his eyes. “Hell no.” He grabs my hand and hauls me into the rain. With an awkward gait, he turns a circle, arms out, head tilted back, eyes closed, and mouth open. I laugh at him. Guess rain means something else entirely to ranchers. Up until now, it has always been an inconvenience. Something to duck out of, something to dampen spirits.
The joy on Mack’s face is changing the way I see rain. Lightning hits miles away. The thunder that follows echoes in, quicker than the last clap. We should go inside.
The wind moans. The rain gets heavier and heavier. I stand, getting soaked. His spinning slows and his laughter fades as he steps up to where I stand.
His dark hair is soaked. Drops run over his jaw, down his neck. Veiny forearms hang by his side as he studies my face. “Smile, Gracie. It’s rainin’.”
My lips part.
I don’t want to smile.
I want to smash my mouth to his. Send my fingers into his hair. Rest my palms on his chest and let the fire that bloomed in my core minutes ago rage to life and take me down. Every short, quick breath burns.
“Mac—”
Thunder drowns out his name. He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.
Oh god.
Moving into my space, he dips his head, closing his eyes. “You have no idea how much I needed you.”
Needed.
Past tense.
Is this a thank you for helping him back onto his feet?
“You’re welcome,” I choke out.
Rain falls even harder. He straightens, standing tall. “Come on, we should get inside before lightning finds us.”
Right now, that doesn’t sound so bad. For a second, I thought something else was going to happen. To my surprise, I wanted it to. I want it to.
I follow behind, picking my way around the more slippery looking parts of the driveway. The driveway is turning muddier by the second. I hold my arms out to steady myself on cautious steps. My sneakers are slipping. Mack’s more sturdy footwear is proving to be a better choice. I glance up at his back. The tight shirt, now soaked, highlights his muscles moving to steady his own footwork.
My foot slips and I gasp as my ass hits the ground with a splash. “Ah shit!”
I scramble to get back up, feet slipping. Mack is over to me a second later, laughter spilling from his stupid, handsome face.
“Not funny, Mackinlay, these are my only other jeans.”
I tug on his arm. He winces.
Fuck. I slap a hand over my mouth. God no. Why did I do that? “I’m so sor?—”
He swipes up my hand playfully, trying to haul me to my feet. His grip on the muddy earth slips. He flails, arms windmilling. Mack hits the ground beside me. He groans and lies flat out. Muddy water seeps into his hair. Splashes cover his shirt. I sit beside him, waiting for some sign I didn’t cause any more damage.
The smile blooming over his face is followed by those dark blue eyes narrowing in on me. He grabs my waist and pulls me down to the muddy ground. “Down here with me, Gracie.”
We lie in the driveway, looking up into the falling rain. The cool water soaks my shirt, jeans, and underwear. The sky sways with falling droplets. I lie, mesmerized as much by the leaking sky as by the man lying in the mud beside me.
“Are you alright?” I finally breathe.
“Better than alright. I’m alive.”
“Have been for a while.”
His hand slips around mine by my side. I turn my head, and he’s staring at me. “I have you to thank for that.”
Not really true, but I get what he’s trying to say. I turn my face back to the sky. “Just doing my job.”
“Right.” His voice is sharper than a heartbeat ago. A million tiny droplets fall around us. Looking up into them as they fall is nothing short of tranquility. The grey clouds cover every inch of the sky, pelting drops down over us. It’s humbling.
We lie in the pouring rain until lightning chases us onto the porch. Dripping with muddy water, we stand, both hesitating.
“I don’t want to drip mud through the house,” I say, looking at the front door, still closed.
“Same.” His chest heaves where he stands, and he runs a hand through his wet hair. “Or I can clean it up, if you wanna go inside.” His gaze dips to my mouth.
I don’t want to move from this spot. I’m sure the desperate, strung-out look that just claimed his face is not because he’s scared of the lightning or staving off pain. I step up to him and tilt my head up. He studies my face before running the ends of my hair between his fingers by my arm. I wrap my own hand around his wrist, not wanting him to leave when he realizes how close we are.
“There’s mud in your hair.” His voice is gravel.
“I know. I need a shower. And so do you.”
His hand drops away. He turns and opens the door, gesturing for me to go on in. With a shallow nod, I do. Every step toward my room, I have the heat of his stare on my back. As if something just shifted and we’re both stunned. Spectators blinded by headlights.
I tiptoe into my room, like that will minimize the mud that hits the floor. Not bothering to shut my door, I pad to the en suite and turn on the shower. I rip my T-shirt off my body, the sucking noise it makes sending a giggle up my throat. It’s ridiculous.
Today is the most alive I’ve felt in a long time, and the best fun I have had in years. I release the button on my waistband and tug my pants down. Wet jeans. They don’t budge. Shit. Managing to get them over my panties, I lean on the vanity counter and struggle. Both hands tighten to white knuckles as I try to pry one leg of denim away from my skin. I may as well be Velcroed into the jeans.
“Dammit.”
I try again, arms tense, palms cramping from using the cold muscles. “For the love of—” I fall against the vanity with a thud.
“You okay in there, Grace?”
Crap. I hop on one foot and suck in a breath. “Yup!”
My foot slips, and I slam into the open door. It bangs into the wall.
Heavens above.
Footsteps close in on the wooden floor of my room. Before I have a chance to close the door or grab a towel, Mack fills the doorway. My hands tighten on the opening of my jeans. “They’re stuck.”
It’s then I remember I’m shirtless, a black lace bra the only thing covering my now hard nipples. I’m not a hundred percent sure if my body is reacting to the cold or his gaze. He steps back, dragging his gaze up to my face. “Sorry, I?—”
Fuck it.
Leaving any inhibitions on the floor, I close the space between us and wrap my hands over his jawline. I pull his mouth down to mine. He stiffens in my hold, and I realize I’ve made a mistake.
I pull back so fast, he teeters forward.
“I really shouldn’t have don?—”
Mack’s stunned face turns desperate in a heartbeat, his eyes searching, brows down, lips parted. Before the next beat, his hands are in my hair, his mouth over mine. Pressing his body against me, he claims my mouth. He’s hungry but gentle. I palm his wet shirt, and he wants in with his tongue.
I open.
He grabs me under the butt and his arms flex as my feet lift from the floor. His strength gives out, and I’m dropped awkwardly to the floor. He breaks the kiss, having to steady himself on the doorjamb. Devastation has now replaced hunger.
“What is it?” I say on ragged breath.
“I can’t.” He hobbles a tight turn and pads for the door. Fingers gripping his wrist, I stop him mid-step.
“You will, okay?”
He turns back, and the heartbreak is eating him alive. The part that makes him feel less than. So I offer, “Help a girl out of her jeans?”
He hangs his head for a moment, and I am sure he’s about to deny me the help. But he closes in and tugs them down as he kneels. I wriggle my hips, and under his strong grip, they fall to my feet. I can’t help myself when my hands sink into his hair.
He looks up, those dark blue eyes searching my face.
“You’ll be okay, Mack. You’ll get everything you lost back. I’m not leaving until you do.”
The brief interlude of softness hardens as he pushes to his feet. Before I can inhale enough air viable for life, he’s out the door.
His slams a few seconds later.