CHAPTER 12
I do not have the patience for this.
Not this house, not this ranch, and certainly not this fucking cowboy.
“Hold the fuck still!” He bites, forcing my hands under the lukewarm water at the basin. My hands sting like a motherfucker, my leg is throbbing, my ribs smarting, but do I tell him that? No, the fuck I do not.
I do as I am told and remain still, but I curl my fingers into my palms, stopping the direct hit of the water to the wounds.
I don’t want to tell him it hurts so bad it has a lump lodged in my throat.
I haven’t cried yet, and I’m not about to start now, especially not over a couple of popped blisters.
I took a bullet in the thigh and a boot to the ribs and didn’t shed a tear, and this is what takes me out?
Ha. Not a fucking chance.
“Elena!” He growls. “If these get infected!”
Who knew sweeping and cleaning out stables could do so much damage? My poor hands have never seen so much labor.
I’ve touched all sorts of shit today, literally, so reluctantly, I unfurl my fingers, gritting my teeth but not making a sound when the water hits the raw, open blisters.
The water turns pink before it swirls around the drain, and Knox is gentle as he uses a cloth to wipe away the caked-on blood and dirt.
“Are you incapable of taking care of yourself?” He grumbles, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“I’m twenty-six.” He winces when I say it, but I ignore that. “Not five. I know my limits.”
“Do you?” He hits back. “Any sane person would have stopped at the first blister and dealt with it, and here you are, seven blisters, all split and worn down to the point they bleed.”
“I just figured it was normal,” I offer a crumb of truth.
He grunts something inaudible and continues to wash my hands, ensuring they’re clean and free of dirt before he picks up a clean towel to pat them dry only to inspect them again. After a few long seconds, he mumbles and then reaches for a tube of cream on the counter.
“What’s that?” I pull my hands back.
“Scared of a little antiseptic?” Thick brows lift.
It feels like a challenge, but the word antiseptic has the hair on my arms lifting. This is going to sting like a bitch.
He squeezes some of the ointment onto the end of his finger and then dabs a small amount onto each open blister. The burn starts immediately.
Why the fuck is this worse than a bullet wound!?
At this point, I’d rather take the steel branding iron. Rough fingertips massage the ointment into each and every one of the wounds, coating them, and when he’s done, he lets me go, and I immediately draw my hands into my body, the stinging continuing, like lemon juice in a paper cut.
“They need to air out and dry up,” He mumbles, tidying up. “Don’t go touching anything.”
“Not even myself?” I flutter my eyelashes when he whips his head to me.
He scrubs a hand down his dirty face and straightens himself to standing. “I’m going to get us dinner.”
His boots thump on the floor, adding to the dirty footprints already marking up the hardwood flooring.
There’s so much life in this flooring — dents and scratches, texture from years of foot traffic.
I picture my floor at home, the pristine marble, shined and buffed, not a scratch or scuff to be seen.
It really shows the work our hired cleaners do because those floors have been stained red a time or two.
When the stinging finally ceases, I get up from the chair Knox dragged in here from the kitchen and wander toward the fridge.
My hair feels dry, my skin tight from the sweat, and my clothes are filthy, but I need a drink before I even think about going for a shower.
I reach for the bottled water, using the very tips of my fingers to unscrew the cap since it hurts too much to do it any other way.
I chug down the entire bottle and reach for another.
Not once did I think about what’s happening at home today, the mindless labor offering a reprieve I desperately needed.
The pain was a constant companion, but being able to focus on a separate task helped quieten my mind.
Every stable was empty except for the Blue Roan, which I didn’t even attempt to enter, though the fucker found me.
He’d been taunting me all day, attempting to grab me with those big old teeth every time I walked by.
I’d avoided cleaning up outside his stall until it was the last patch that remained.
The horse immediately started messing with me, tugging my shirt, blowing hot breath on the back of my neck and fidgeting inside the stall.
I’ve been around horses my entire life. We have stables back at the house that have been empty for quite some time, but as a kid, I used to ride.
In fact, I spent every waking minute down there.
I loved the stables, the horses and the personalities they held.
I rode when I could, but then all of them were sold, and the stables went empty.
It had been something I had planned to change.
I drink half of the second bottle of water and recap it, setting it down on the table as I make my way back to the bathroom attached to my bedroom.
I strip off the shirt and shorts, kick off the boots that were surprisingly comfortable, and fiddle with the dials until I manage to get the shower set above the bath running.
It’s only when I have my hands in my hair and the water running over me that I realize I’ll have to have the ointment reapplied to my hands.
The smell of food draws me from the bedroom, something creamy and rich tying a knot around my waist to beckon me forward. I am starved.
I’m still towel drying my hair when I step into the kitchen in a pair of cotton shorts and a cami, Knox laying the table with silverware and glasses.
He flicks his blue eyes to me, running them down me once before he focuses back on his task.
He hovers behind his chair, waiting for me to take my place in front of the steaming bowl of pasta and vegetables, and only when I’ve lowered myself at the table, does he sit, reaching for the bottle.
He pours us both a glass and then sets about eating in silence.
I take a small sip of the whiskey before I pick up my own fork.
I shovel a mouthful of the pasta, vegetables and I guess sausage into my mouth, groaning at the explosion of flavor on my tastebuds.
Knox clears his throat on the other side of the table and shifts, keeping his head down while he eats.
You’d think someone was trying to steal his food with the way he bends over it.
“So what tomorrow?” I ask, trying to fill the space with some sound.
“For you?” He looks up. “Nothing.”
“What?” I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. “Why?”
One smudge of a brow quirks before his eyes go to the damage on my hands. “You really asking that, darlin’?”
“Yeah, why?” I frown at him.
“A ranch is no place to push yourself beyond your limits,” He says. “When you can stop being so stubborn, we can talk.”
“I’m not stubborn!”
His mouth notches up at the side in a smirk. “Yeah? How’s the pain?”
“What pain?” I scoff.
His deep, raspy chuckle shoots warmth down my spine. “That’s exactly why.”
“Knox,” I grumble, “I can work.”
I enjoyed today, the mindlessness of it, the busyness keeping the thoughts away, and now he wants to take it away? Already!?
“I’d like to remind you that my working here was part of the deal.”
His wide shoulders lift.
“Seriously?” I huff. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying it,” He scoops the last of his food and holds it in front of his mouth, “But doesn’t mean I believe it.”
“It’s not your job to take care of me,” I hit back.
“On this ranch, it is.” In one swig, he downs the contents of his glass and stands from the table, clearing his plate. “And if not me, then who?”