Chapter 6 Under His Skin
Falling Fast
The problem with spending an entire summer on a ranch was that there was nowhere to hide from your own thoughts.
Back in college, distractions had always been easy to find.
If I didn't want to think about something, I could lose myself in classes, assignments, crowded coffee shops, movies, or late-night conversations with friends.
There was always noise.
Always movement.
Always something demanding my attention.
Blackthorn Ranch was different.
The ranch gave people too much time to think.
Especially at night.
Especially when they were lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the same moment over and over again.
Which was exactly what I was doing.
Again.
For the fifth night in a row.
Not that I was counting.
I rolled onto my side and groaned into my pillow.
The storm had happened nearly a week ago.
A full week.
Seven entire days.
Yet my brain refused to move on.
Specifically, it refused to move on from one particular moment.
Ryder's arm around me.
His hand against my back.
The way he'd pulled me close without hesitation when lightning struck.
The memory should have faded by now.
Instead, it seemed determined to haunt me.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
It didn't help.
Nothing helped.
The image remained crystal clear.
Every detail.
Every second.
Every frustratingly perfect moment.
"You're pathetic," I muttered to myself.
The ceiling offered no disagreement.
Unfortunately, neither did I.
Because deep down, I knew exactly why the memory wouldn't leave me alone.
It wasn't really about the storm.
Or the lightning.
Or even the fact that Ryder had reacted instinctively.
It was about how safe I'd felt.
That was the dangerous part.
The part I couldn't stop thinking about.
For one brief moment, everything else had disappeared.
The fear.
The uncertainty.
The loneliness I'd carried around for months.
Gone.
And all because one stubborn cowboy had wrapped an arm around me.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I buried my face in the pillow.
The pillow remained unsympathetic.
The next morning wasn't any easier.
If anything, it was worse.
Because Ryder existed.
Everywhere.
Not literally.
But close enough.
I saw him during breakfast.
During chores.
During lunch.
During meetings with ranch hands.
The man seemed physically incapable of staying in one place.
Normally, that wouldn't have mattered.
Unfortunately, my brain had apparently decided Ryder was now the most interesting person on Earth.
Every glance felt significant.
Every conversation felt important.
Every smile—rare as they were—felt dangerous.
The realization annoyed me.
Mostly because I couldn't seem to stop it.
A few weeks ago Ryder had simply been my intimidating boss.
Now everything felt different.
The shift happened gradually.
Small moments.
Small changes.
Accumulating over time.
The praise after Whiskey.
The conversations during the storm.
The glimpses of vulnerability hidden beneath Ryder's tough exterior.
The rodeo photographs.
The quiet sadness that appeared whenever he thought nobody was looking.
I noticed all of it.
Too much of it.
The problem wasn't attraction.
At least not entirely.
I was attracted to Ryder.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
The man was handsome.
Strong.
Confident.
The kind of person who drew attention without trying.
Anyone with functioning eyesight could recognize that.
The real problem was everything beyond attraction.
Because attraction faded.
This didn't feel like it was fading.
If anything, it was getting worse.
A few days later, I found myself sketching again.
No surprise there.
Drawing had always been how I processed emotions.
The trouble was that my sketchbook had developed a very specific obsession.
Ryder.
Everywhere.
Ryder fixing fences.
Ryder riding horses.
Ryder talking to ranch hands.
Ryder standing beneath sunsets.
Ryder existing.
At this point, the sketchbook was becoming embarrassing.
I flipped through several pages.
Then immediately closed it again.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Nobody was ever seeing those.
Especially Ryder.
The thought alone nearly gave me a heart attack.
I shoved the sketchbook back into my backpack.
The movement caught Whiskey's attention.
The horse lifted his head from the grass.
"You didn't see anything."
Whiskey remained unconvinced.
Typical.
The horse had become my unofficial therapist.
Mostly because he couldn't tell anyone my secrets.
A valuable quality.
I scratched behind his ears.
"Maybe I'm losing my mind."
Whiskey chewed thoughtfully.
Not particularly helpful.
The following afternoon brought another problem.
Ryder smiled.
That's it.
That was the entire problem.
The smile wasn't even directed at me.
One of the ranch hands told a joke during lunch.
Ryder laughed.
Actually laughed.
For several seconds.
The sight completely derailed my ability to focus.
I spent the next ten minutes staring at my plate like it contained the meaning of life.
This was becoming absurd.
Dangerously absurd.
I was twenty-one years old.
Not fourteen.
I should have been capable of handling a simple crush.
Because that's what this was.
A crush.
Temporary.
Manageable.
Normal.
Right?
The answer arrived later that evening.
Unfortunately, it wasn't the answer I wanted.
I was helping close one of the paddocks when I noticed Ryder working near the far fence line.
The setting sun painted the entire ranch gold.
Everything looked softer in the evening light.
Less harsh.
More beautiful.
Ryder stood beside a horse, adjusting a saddle.
Nothing special.
Nothing dramatic.
Yet I found myself stopping to watch.
Not because of how he looked.
Not entirely.
Because of who he was.
The man worked harder than anyone else on the ranch.
He treated the animals with respect.
He protected the people who worked for him.
He carried old pain without letting it define him.
He was stubborn.
Loyal.
Quietly kind.
Even when he tried pretending otherwise.
The realization hit unexpectedly.
Like a punch to the chest.
My feelings weren't built on fantasy anymore.
Not really.
I knew Ryder now.
At least pieces of him.
Enough to understand that my attraction wasn't based solely on appearance.
I liked him.
Genuinely.
The actual person.
That changed everything.
Because crushes were easy.
Crushes existed from a distance.
They relied on imagination.
This felt different.
Much different.
The truth followed immediately afterward.
Brutal in its simplicity.
I wanted to know what made Ryder laugh.
I wanted to know what made him happy.
I wanted to know what dreams he'd given up when rodeo ended.
I wanted to know why loneliness still appeared in his eyes when he thought nobody was watching.
I wanted to know everything.
And suddenly the word crush felt far too small.
My stomach dropped.
The realization settled heavily inside my chest.
Terrifying.
Unavoidable.
Real.
I wasn't simply attracted to Ryder Cole.
I was falling for him.
Fast.
Far too fast.
The knowledge should have scared me.
In some ways, it did.
The age difference alone made the situation complicated.
Then there was the fact that he was my boss.
The fact that he probably didn't feel the same way.
The fact that pursuing anything would be a terrible idea.
A truly terrible idea.
Yet none of those facts changed the truth.
As I stood beneath the fading evening sky, watching Ryder work across the ranch, something inside me finally stopped fighting.
Stopped denying.
Stopped pretending.
I knew what this was.
And I knew there was no going back.
Because somewhere between the storms, the horses, the long conversations, and the quiet moments that somehow mattered most, Ryder Cole had gotten under my skin.
And what I felt for him was becoming far more dangerous than a simple crush.
Old Wounds
There were some memories a man never escaped.
It didn't matter how many years passed.
It didn't matter how much work he buried himself under.
Those memories waited.
Quiet.
Patient.
Always ready to return when least expected.
For me, they usually arrived at night.
The ranch slept.
The workers went home.
The horses settled into their stalls.
And the silence gave old ghosts room to breathe.
I sat alone on the porch of the ranch house, nursing a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
The sky above Blackthorn Ranch stretched endlessly overhead.
Stars covered the darkness.
The view should have been peaceful.
Instead, my mind drifted somewhere I hadn't wanted to visit in a long time.
The rodeo.
The beginning of everything.
And the end.
At twenty-five, I thought I had my entire future mapped out.
I was competing professionally.
Winning regularly.
Traveling across the country.
Sponsors called.
Interviewers asked questions.
People remembered my name.
For a kid who grew up on a ranch in a small Texas town, it felt impossible.
Then it became normal.
That was the dangerous part.
Success always feels permanent while you're living it.
You convince yourself tomorrow will look exactly like today.
You stop imagining failure.
Stop imagining loss.
Stop imagining that everything can disappear in a single moment.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
The memory remained sharp.
Painfully sharp.
I remembered the arena.
The crowd.
The heat.
The nervous excitement before every ride.
Most of all, I remembered the horse.
A beautiful gray stallion.
Fast.
Powerful.
Unpredictable.
The kind of animal every competitor secretly wanted.
And secretly feared.
The ride started normally.
Then everything went wrong.
The horse stumbled.
Not a major stumble.
Just enough.
Just one mistake.
One misplaced step.
One terrible second.
I still remembered the feeling of losing balance.
The moment when instinct screamed that something was wrong.
Then came the fall.
The impact.
The pain.
After that, things blurred together.
Sirens.
Doctors.
Hospitals.
Months of recovery.