Chapter 13
Can’t Get You out of My Head – Kylie Minogue
Tally
Fingers stroked my belly, skimming the edge of my pubic bone. A whisper of a promise to go lower. Soft lips at my neck eliciting a quiet moan and a tremble of relaxed limbs.
“You smell like bed,” Wilder’s tone was deep and throaty, full of sleep.
Full of a well relaxed sleep.
“Shit, Wilder! What time is it?”
He groaned, burying his face into the cushion. “Late enough that Nash is probably already planning my funeral.”
“It’s morning, you idiot. We fell asleep.”
Instantly there was urgency in his movement. He climbed over me, off the sofa where we’d obviously fallen asleep the night before. Naked, he darted around the room picking up clothes, throwing mine toward me while he searched for his own in the tumble of fabric.
“How the hell did we sleep so long?” he demanded, anxiously pulling on his jeans. “Especially on that sofa.”
“All those sexual acrobatics took it out of us.” I teased, the faint smell of smoke and his cologne, a heady mix tugging me straight back to the night before.
First slow, then frantic, until we’d collapsed in a tangle of limbs on the sofa, Wilder pinning me down with his big body.
His chest against my back as he kept up a punishing rhythm.
It felt like he was trying to erase the emotion of the soft and slow.
Like he thought if he fucked me hard enough, I’d forget the light I’d glimpsed in his shadows.
Throwing me a lopsided grin, he balanced on one foot trying to pull a boot on.
“Please, Brownie. That was just the warm-up act. What time is it anyway?”
Pausing from pulling on my panties, I picked my phone up from the floor. “Six.”
“Shit. Everyone will be awake at the house. The nosey ones anyways,” he muttered. “I’ll have to answer a whole load of questions.”
“Can’t you say you were playing cards in the bunk house?” I gathered my pajamas. “I need to shower, just let yourself out.”
“Shit,” he said with a pout. “You used me like a pro, Brownie. I’ll be emotionally wounded until at least lunch.”
Rolling my eyes, I padded across the wooden floor, it’s cool grain catching against my bare soles while the fire’s warmth still clung to the air. “Sorry darlin’ but you know how it is.”
With a deep chuckle, Wilder moved to me, his jeans still open, belt and buckle hanging down. His hand came to my waist, resting there like it was its rightful place. It felt natural and comforting and it was terrifying.
“Take your time,” he said before pressing his lips to mine. “Though if Nash or Gunner catch me sneaking out, please don’t put lily’s on my grave. Lily will hate it.”
Grinning our eyes met, and the air seemed to vanish from the room. Stolen on the undertone of possibilities as I considered what happened when he left. Would my heartbeat return to a simple, rhythmical thud or would it continue with its swelling crescendo.
“In fact, sleep in a little, Brownie, I’ll cover you with Gunner,” he said softly and kissed my forehead.
“You deserve it.” He paused at the door like he wanted to say something else, then shook his head.
And then he was gone, boots heavy on the floor.
And when the door clicked shut, I knew the answer, and it terrified me more than his hand on my waist ever could.
I hadn’t slept in. I couldn’t because for most of the morning I’d struggled to keep my mind on anything, including work.
Always one eye out for Wilder. Every footstep behind me, as I worked with a new horse we’d had in, a beautiful chestnut called Atlas, I held my breath, waiting to recognize the cologne or feel the touch of familiar fingers. But he didn’t come.
The usual relaxing solitude of the indoor training paddock, when it was just me and a horse, didn’t come. My body was tense with anticipation, my mind churning with what it all meant.
Not even thoughts of Declan’s arrival had acted as a distraction. My head was just full of Wilder and how the night before had felt different than all the rest.
Trying to push it from my mind, I got out my phone and started to video Atlas.
He was a trick horse but had started to ignore instruction and mess up routines he’d done for years.
I had an idea what the problem was and wanted Gunner’s opinion.
He and Cassidy were meeting with a couple of safety inspectors, hoping they were ready to pass off the camp buildings ready for the arrival of the equipment and furniture.
“Good boy, Atlas,” I soothed as he trotted around the ring on the end of the lunge line. “Keep going.”
I continued videoing him for a couple more minutes, until I heard the creak of the door. Holding my breath, I turned around.
I grinned. It was Bertie. Not who I’d wanted to see but she was a great alternative.
“Hey, Tally ho.” The voice was supposed to be a whisper, but it was closer to a yell. She’d taken to calling me Tally ho, after watching Mary Poppins. Apparently, Wilder was trying to expand her musical film viewing from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, but she’d deemed it too babyish.
“Hey Bertie.” I turned to see her arms out at her sides as she did an exaggerated tiptoe. “It’s fine, you won’t spook him. Come in.”
Her little shoulders dropped in relief as she began to climb over the fence to join me in the ring. “Thank goodness. I have a real struggle to be quiet, but Daddy told me I need to turn down the volume around the horses.”
“Well Atlas is fine,” I told her, placing a hand on her head as she skidded up beside me. “He’s a trick horse so he’s not easily spooked.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, crossing her arms over her mini shearling jacket. She tapped her chin, pinning her attention on the middle of the ring. Pondering.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” I asked, an amused grin lifting my lips.
“Hmm.” I looked down to see her eyes narrowed on Atlas. “He walks a little funny.” She looked up at me. “A bit like Billy when his diaper is full.”
“Well spotted. I think you’re right. He does walk a little funny. That’s why I was videoing him. To show your Uncle Gunner.”
She nodded sagely. “Good idea. He’ll like your way of thinking.”
My attention was taken by the sound of the huge oak double doors opening. Poppy, one of the stable hands walked in, her high pony bobbing with each enthusiastic step.
“Hi Bertie.” She gave a finger wave as she headed our way. “Tally, I wondered if you wanted me to get Gigi ready for home.”
“Shoot, I forgot she was leaving today.” I looked at the huge clock on the wall. “Brad said he’d be here at two, so if you can get her ready while I sign off the paperwork with Ruth that would be great.”
“No problem.” Her blue eyes shone brightly, her smile beaming. “Want me to take Atlas back, too, so you can grab some lunch first?”
“Yes,” Bertie cried. “You can come and have lunch with us. Everyone is here, it’s Sunday and we’re having one of Tommy Joyner’s pigs.”
Poppy and I both laughed as Bertie rubbed her stomach.
“I don’t have time, pumpkin. I have a sandwich in the office waiting for me,” I told her.
“Really,” she pouted. “It’s so much fun. Everyone is there for Sunday lunch.”
“I’ll take Atlas for you,” Poppy said with a giggle. “Let you decide what you’re going to do.”
As she took the lunge line from me, I turned back to Bertie. “How about you come back after lunch, and I’ll give you an extra riding lesson?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes. Because if I’m going to be ranch foreman for the class camp, I need to be better than Lucas. He wants to be the foreman, too, but I’m,” she thumbed her chest, “much more experienced. “
“I think you’re right.” I bit down on my bottom lip to try and hide my amusement. “Make sure you let your lunch digest first, though. I don’t want you getting a stitch, or worse…” I blew out my cheeks. “Puking.”
Holding her sides, Bertie let out a roar of laughter. Deep from her belly and full of the type of joy you only got as a child. Before high school, before boys became a factor, or kid’s harsh words affected you. Before social media overtook your life.
“You know,” she finally said. “It’s probably a good idea that you don’t come for lunch.”
“And why’s that?” I asked, leading us toward the exit, my hand on her shoulder.
“Uncle Wilder,” she sighed.
My heart skipped. I chastised myself for it. We were nothing more than a warm body for each other.
“What’s wrong with your Uncle Wilder?”
“He’s in a real bad mood today. He came in late and when Daddy and Uncle Gunner asked him where he’d been he told them…”
“What?” I asked, swallowing back the concern and excitement that filled me in equal measures. “What did he tell them?”
She looked up at me through long, dark lashes. “Don’t tell Momma or Daddy that I said this, but he told them to mind their own business, or he’d kick them in the…” She pointed down below the cute little gold belt that she wore. “You know. The n. u. t. s,” she spelled out.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good at all.” My voice had an edge to it, a ragged edge. An agitated edge because Wilder’s mood had to be because of me, and I had no clue what that meant for me. For us.
What I did know was that it wasn’t supposed to matter.