Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A month on Wild Acre Ranch had given me a sense of peace I hadn't expected.
I'd figured the pull I felt to head to Larkspur had somethin' to do with my history, but maybe enough time had passed.
Maybe my heart had healed enough to face the demons.
Maybe it was finally time to step out of the darkness that had crept into my soul and never let up.
The late afternoon sun hung low, casting everything in molten gold.
The air smelled like warm hay and sun-baked wood, tinged with the sharp, clean scent of horse.
Somewhere behind me, a screen door creaked and slapped shut.
The breeze carried the distant hum of cicadas and the faint clang of a loose gate latch tapping against metal.
I leaned against the paddock, watching the wild stallion that Rhett had rescued snort and stomp in a rhythmic circle that wore down the dirt beneath his hooves.
The sight tugged at my memory, and for a moment, I could almost see my mother standing in the center of this paddock, smiling as she kissed a horse's nose.
It was all at once comforting and unsettling, the kind of feeling that came from remembering only half a story.
Dust rose in soft clouds with every heavy step the stallion took, catching in the light like smoke. His hide gleamed dark with sweat, muscles rippling under taut skin as he tossed his head, mane flashing like a warning.
My daydream faded into mist, bringing the agitated stallion back into sight, as a warm arm grazed mine.
Brody placed his forearms on the railing, watching the horse alongside me but not saying a word.
For someone so bright and happy and chatty all the time, I hadn't expected so many of these calm, quiet moments—like we could sit in the silence between us, not needing to fill it and feeding off the comfort of someone by our sides.
His presence was solid and grounding, the heat of him warming my bare skin where our arms brushed. The wood railing beneath my palms was rough and splintered, warm from the sun. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beside me, slow and even.
His silent comfort had words tumbling from my mouth—ones I hadn't planned to share when I took this job.
"My mama died right there"—I said, with a tip of my head—"in the center of this paddock."
A horsefly buzzed past my ear. The stallion let out a piercing whinny that rattled through my chest.
I stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the wild beast in front of me.
In my periphery, I saw Brody's head turn slowly in my direction.
His eyes bore into the side of my face. But I didn't look at him.
Couldn't. If I was going to share this with him—and, apparently, I was—I wouldn't be able to look at his gorgeous face while I did it.
I didn't want to see the pity. I didn't want this grief any longer.
It hadn't served me, and I wanted out from under its weight.
"I was twelve. She was breaking a new colt—something she'd done a hundred times, at least. But this one… he spooked. Tossed her, and her neck snapped. She died in an instant."
The memory came back in flashes—the sickening crack, the way the dust seemed to hang in the air too long, the closed eyes that wouldn't blink open, all of it wrong in a place that was supposed to smell like hay and leather and summer, supposed to feel like happiness.
When I paused to take in a sharp breath, I noticed the silent tears tracking down my cheeks. They were hot against skin that had gone cold. My throat burned. Still, Brody said nothing.
The silence that I'd just been so thankful for was deafening now. The stallion's hooves thudded against packed earth. A breeze kicked up, carrying grit that clung to my damp lashes. If the silence felt deafening for me, it had to be brutal for Chatty McGee next to me.
"You can touch me, boy scout. I know you wanna."
Slowly, like I was a horse that might spook, Brody stood to his full height.
The wood railing creaked as he shifted his weight.
He reached and palmed my cheek, gently turning my head to face him.
His other hand came up until he was framing my face.
The callouses just below the middle fingers of his massive, work-roughened hands lightly scraped my skin as his thumbs brushed away my tears.
His hands were warm. Steady. The scent of soap and sweat and something distinctly Brody wrapped around me like a tether.
I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. I didn't see pity. But I did see a soul-deep understanding. Because he'd lost his father. He knew. Knew there were no words, no niceties that would make it all better.
So, Brody did what Brody did best.
"You're a really ugly crier."
My laugh was watery as it spluttered out of me.
It cracked through the heaviness like lightning splitting the sky.
His lips tipped up slightly in the corners before he scowled and dropped his hands from my face.
Immediately, I missed the warmth, the safety I felt in his grasp.
The air was cooler without him touching me, the breeze suddenly sharp against my damp skin.
"I'm sorry," he said. He looked at the ground when he spoke, dragging a hand along the back of his neck. A faint flush crept up his throat. "Sassy always told me I need to take shit more seriously."
Oh. Hate that a helluva fucking lot.
The stallion snorted, pawing at the earth like he, too, didn't appreciate the idea.
"Nope," I said, willing the shake from my voice. He'd lent me his strength in a moment I needed it, but now, he needed the viper. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" he asked, head still lowered, but eyes peeking up to meet mine.
A gust of wind whipped a strand of my hair across my mouth.
I jutted my chin out, rounding my shoulders slightly so we were eye-to-eye.
The world shrunk in that moment—the ranch, the paddock, the circling horse fading until there was just us and the dust floating between our faces like suspended time.
He needed to see the truth in my eyes when I spoke the words.
"Don't listen to that witch," I said. His lips twitched. She wasn't a witch, and we both knew it. But we could cast her as one, for now. "One man's horse shit is another man's treasure—or however it goes." I huffed a breath. "Point is, I like you just how you are."
He searched my face like he needed to make sure I meant it. Then that grin—the one that made me want to sock him in the nose and kiss him in equal parts—broke free. "So, you like me, huh?"
Gone was the ducked head, the slouched shoulders. My boy scout sure did rebound quick.
I shrugged a shoulder. "I guess."
He took two small steps toward me, enough to bring us chest to chest. I peered up at him, fixing him with a glare I hoped he interpreted as get-the-fuck-outta-my-space-but-don't-actually-because-I-need-your-mouth-on-mine.
He tipped his head down, his breath ghosting over my cheek. "I'm gonna kiss you now, viper."
He always read me a little better than I liked.