Chapter 9
CLAY
Three days later, Clay strode into the stables. With the sun now high in the sky it was hot as Hades outside – they were having their hottest June on record – and the shade provided instant relief. He was too preoccupied however with thoughts of her.
For fuck’s sake, she’d been in his life for one week. Not even in it – adjacent to it. One week exactly since he’d laid eyes on Stevie Everhart. Just one week and she’d taken up permanent residency in his head like some kind of earworm.
And then there was Friday night – the bar and the pool and their ride home, the side of her body pressed into the side of his.
Riding alone with her in his pickup after Mags had vacated.
Aware of every bump in the track between the ranch house and her cabin.
Finding out she’d googled him. Feeling her anguish over her lack of privacy even in her grief.
His pulse thudding like a gong in his chest as her eyes had fluttered closed and she’d rubbed her cheek into his palm. Having to stop himself from leaning in and kissing all her hurts better.
Giving her something else to think about if only for a moment.
So preoccupied with the memory, Clay didn’t hear the guitar at first but as it filtered past his feverish thoughts, he stopped dead in the middle of the central thoroughfare.
Stevie.
Frowning, Clay tried to locate the direction of the music but with his heart thumping loudly through his ears it was like trying to identify the sound under water.
She started to sing then and even though it was quiet and soft, the words were so familiar they cut through the noise, drawing him like a siren singing from the rocks.
It was her Grammy song. He’d heard it from his radio dozens of times but there was something much more raw about it up this close.
His boots crunched on the dirt and grit underfoot as he walked towards the singing, his head swivelling left and right, homing in on it, pinpointing a stall. When he realised which one, his pulse spiked in alarm, urgency quickening his steps.
Electra’s stall. Hell…
The filly may be considerably calmer now but that didn’t mean she was 100 per cent predicable, particularly if she was around people she didn’t know. She could be devilishly edgy still and mistrustful of anyone other than Clay.
His pulse hammering at his neck, Clay took the last remaining steps at a clip, reaching for the stall door to wrench it open. But, to his surprise, he found Electra standing passively, ears pricked as if she too could hear the underlying ache in the song.
Stevie startled at his sudden appearance causing Electra to toss her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said from her position on the floor, her denim-clad legs extended out and crossed at the ankles, her guitar held across her front, her back to the cinder block of the stall.
Her cheeks were wet, as if she’d been crying.
‘I thought Electra might appreciate some soothing music. I hope that’s okay?
I know music is used a lot in equine therapy. ’
Clay ignored her explanation. None of that mattered right now as he spotted the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.
‘It’s fine.’ He shoved a hand through his hair, wishing he hadn’t reacted so badly and ruined the ambience for horse and woman.
‘She can just be a bit unpredictable still, I didn’t want you to get hurt. ’
Glancing at the horse, Stevie dashed away the tears. ‘She’s been really well behaved.’
With his heart rate still recovering from the adrenaline injection, Clay unlatched the door with hands that weren’t quite steady.
‘Good girl, Electra,’ he crooned as he approached, giving Stevie time to collect herself.
Deliberately, he relaxed his posture to reassure the horse everything was okay as he reached out his hand to stroke her nose.
‘You’re lucky, getting your own one-woman show from none other than Miss Stephanie Everhart. ’
She laughed and Clay glanced at her, those misty mountain eyes almost silvery now but the tears were gone even if she still seemed unbearably sad.
Electra nuzzled his hand as if she too was concerned about Stevie.
It should have been no surprise – in his experience, horses keenly sensed emotional shifts in people.
He just hadn’t expected it from this cantankerous, skittish filly.
Electra was clearly a big softie under all that taut, powerful horse flesh.
‘You okay?’
Nodding, she cleared her throat. ‘Yes. Sorry. Sometimes it hits harder than others.’
Of course it would. Clay wasn’t exactly the most emotionally evolved of men but even he knew that grief wasn’t a linear process. He remembered when he was a kid, stumbling across his mother crying over the death of her father years before and her saying something similar.
And, although it wasn’t comparable, his sorrow over the sudden ending of his career had also followed a rollercoaster trajectory.
‘You picked the right audience. Horses are good listeners.’
Smiling softly, she said, ‘I’ll remember that.’
Clay pointed to the instrument. ‘You brought your guitar.’
She tapped the wood, the sound resonating around the hollow centre. ‘Never go anywhere without it.’ She strummed the strings then as if it was second nature to do so. ‘Never know when inspiration might strike.’ Another strum. ‘Do you play?’
‘God no.’ Clay huffed out a laugh. ‘I’m not remotely musical.’
Her brows drew together into a tiny pleat. ‘You don’t like music?’
‘Oh… no. I like it. Very much. I’m just more of a listener.’
‘So you don’t go off riding into the sunset with a guitar strapped to your back?’
Another laugh slid from his throat. ‘Definitely no Roy Rogers.’ She smiled and hell if Clay didn’t feel the impact of it from across the stall.
‘What do you like? What do you listen to?’
‘Country.’
‘Duh,’ she replied, rolling her eyes.
Clay grinned. It was good to see Stevie shaking off her funk and to be the recipient of her teasing. It burrowed under his skin and made him feel lighter.
‘What artists?’ she clarified.
He reeled off a half dozen – the usual chart-topping suspects. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he said, ‘And I like you.’
Her smile got bigger, which hit bigger. ‘You’re just saying that because I’m right here.’
‘Nope.’ Clay shook his head. ‘I’m a bone fide fan, Ms Everhart. Cross my heart.’
He slashed his index finger in an X over the left side of his chest and Clay swore he heard her breath catch. Her smile faded a little, her eyes searching his as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t let herself go there.
‘Okay,’ she said eventually, removing the guitar strap from around her head. ‘Prove it.’ One hand holding the neck of the guitar, the other using the wall behind for leverage, she pushed herself up.
Hand sliding from Electra’s neck, Clay stepped forward to help her, taking her guitar and offering his hand. When she shook her head, Clay was both disappointed and relieved. The stall was spacious but they were already standing too close for comfort.
Retaking her guitar, she propped it against the wall. ‘Name one other song of mine besides the Grammy winner.’
Turning his brain to her challenge, Clay didn’t bother to tell her that he had her album downloaded in its entirety on Spotify; he just reeled off the half dozen songs he could think of, off the top of his head.
He’d burned through her entire discography several times already this past week and it was gratifying to see her surprised blink.
‘You wanna see my Spotify?’
She shook her head, a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. ‘I believe you.’
‘So…’ Clay tipped his chin at the guitar. ‘Has inspiration struck?’
Something shifted in her eyes before she lowered her gaze to the guitar, her hair falling to obscure her face as if she was suddenly not as sure of herself. Eventually, though, she nodded. ‘Uh huh.’
‘You’ve written a song?’ he asked her downcast head. ‘What’s it about?’
She didn’t say anything for the longest time. He supposed maybe that was the wrong question to ask someone who worked creatively. Maybe she didn’t talk about her songs until they were done. But then she lifted her chin, her gaze direct as if she’d come to some kind of decision.
‘You.’
The air in Clay’s lungs stuttered to a halt, his gut squeezing reflexively. There was no hesitancy there, just a frankness that made his blood heat and throb. She’d written a song about him? ‘Really?’
She nodded, holding his gaze. ‘It’s not finished yet but… yeah.’
‘What’s it called?’
She took a beat before she answered. ‘Cowboy Kisses.’
Well, fuck… His breath rushed out. She wasn’t making it easy to remember he had no business thinking about kissing her – none at all. ‘And what do you know about that?’
Clay hadn’t meant it to sound flirty, really he hadn’t, but the way Stevie’s eyes widened told him it could definitely have been read that way. Or hell, maybe deep within his lizard brain ruled by carnal urges and libido, he had meant to flirt.
Because this woman had been frying his brain for a week now.
‘After my botched attempt a week ago, not a lot,’ she admitted with a deprecating laugh resonating with her husky vibrato. ‘But I know a lot about yearning.’
Oh God. She was killing him. Those soft blue-grey eyes looking him straight on as she told him in a roundabout way that she… yearned for him?
‘It wasn’t botched.’
She gave a soft snort. ‘Okay.’
Urgently needing to reassure her, Clay took a step towards her – a big mistake because now he was close enough to touch. Close enough to pick out her light scent over the heavier odours of hay and manure. She smelled like sunshine on the pastures. Fresh and grassy. Like wildflowers.
He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t.’
Her chest rose and fell a little quicker and Clay half expected her to retreat, but she didn’t. Her cheeks were flushed but she didn’t shy away. ‘I’m sure you’ve had much more sophisticated kisses.’