16
Wrecked
He was unusually quiet on the ride back, and Brandy-Lyn stole a few glances his way. The trail stretched ahead, Sparrow moving steadily beneath her, and her mind wandered from focusing on the horse. She had enjoyed their time together. Working beside Rafferty had felt … right.
And the feelings beginning to stir in her chest had a chance to grow.
To take root. To bloom into something real.
Everything around her felt a little sharper now. The grass looked greener, the sky a shade bluer, and the birds chattered with cheerful abandon as they dipped and wove among the trees and brush. Even the wind against her skin carried something new — hope, maybe. Or the start of it.
Hope for what exactly, Brandy?
You really want to start something with a recovering addict ? No matter how intoxicating his kisses are, he’s still a man fighting his way out of the darkness.
By unspoken agreement, they paused at the stream, and the horses drank their fill. She leaned forward and stroked the filly’s neck. “Smart Sparrow. So very proud of you, girl.”
Rafferty made a strangled sound, and she swung her head his way. “What?”
There was a flash of something … hunger? … in his eyes before his look turned inscrutable. “You up for a slight detour?”
No! Straight home. Get on top of this madness he’s stirring up in you.
“Sure,” she found herself replying. Because, dammit , Rafferty Lawson fascinated her. And she wanted to watch him rediscover the man lurking beneath the tattoos and hard veneer.
“See that thicket of hackberry beside the cottonwoods?” he asked.
Yep. She must’ve imagined the flash of heat. His voice was flat as a board. “Yeah?”
“From there, it’s a quick five-minute gallop to an old hangout. Race you?” Rafferty lifted a brow in challenge.
She had never ventured beyond the thicket, sticking to well-worn trails when working her young horses. “You’re on, cowboy,” she said, turning to move toward the gap.
“Let’s show ’em, Sparrow,” she said, digging her heels in. They raced past the thicket, hooves pounding the hard-packed earth. Sparrow flattened her ears and surged beneath her, stretching into her stride.
The meadow opened wide ahead, sun flashing on the rippling grass, the stand of live oaks huddled dark and steady in the distance.
Low over the saddle horn, Brandy gave the filly her head and let her run.
The world narrowed to the thunder of hooves, the slap of reins, the deep burn in her legs.
Breathless, laughing under her breath, she pushed harder.
Rafferty was a streak at her side, his gelding eating up the ground, but she didn’t spare him a glance.
The trees rushed closer, and she leaned forward, willing her mare to fly. At the last moment, she sat deep and hauled back on the reins. The horse hesitated, then skidded to a halt with a squeal of protest, back legs sliding out before she regained herself.
Rafferty reined in Rocco, the gelding’s hooves barely touching the ground before he came to a smooth stop.
Sparrow stood still, huffing, ears flicking back and forth. Brandy pushed her hat back, breathless but smiling. The filly hadn’t nailed the stop, but she’d tried. And for now, that was enough.
Following Rafferty’s move, she gathered the reins and dismounted, ignoring the slight wobbliness in her legs.
It had been a while since she had ridden so hard.
“Well done, Sparrow,” she praised, giving the filly’s nose a gentle rub.
She turned to Rafferty as he walked closer. “You held Rocco in check.”
He grinned. “Maybe. Had to boost Sparrow’s confidence.
” He shifted his focus to the filly, his gaze softening as he looked into her eyes.
“You did good, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere.
Sparrow whinnied softly, nudging his shoulder with her nose, and he let out a low laugh.
“What’s this, huh?” Rafferty said with a grin, scratching Sparrow behind the ears. “You flirting with me now, girl?”
Brandy felt a flicker of something suspiciously close to jealousy — surely not? — watching the easy way Rafferty interacted with the filly. Baffled by the tightness in her chest, she blurted out, “You wanted to show me something?”
Eyebrows pulling close, Rafferty’s gaze caught hers. “Yeah. We’ll leave the horses here.” Indicating to a weathered pole, he added, “You can tie Sparrow to the post,” and ducked beneath a crooked low-hanging branch.
She deftly secured the filly and followed him beneath the thick canopy of live oaks.
The broad, leathery leaves clung to the gnarled branches.
Sunlight filtered through the dense cover above, casting shifting patches of light across the ground, and she gave a light shiver at the sudden dip in temperature.
Rafferty stopped. “It’s still here,” he said.
“What—” She gasped, pulling up short. “A treehouse!”
“We used to play here as kids.”
But there was nothing old and weathered about the square platform with its ladder-like steps. “It looks new ?”
“Yeah. It does.”
Curious, she moved past him toward the steps, calling over her shoulder as she placed a foot on the first rung, “You coming?”
“Right behind you.”
But there was something in his voice that made her hesitate.
She paused, then released her grip on the ladder and retraced her steps toward him, giving him a thorough once-over, taking in his pale features, the tight line of his lips, and the subtle tension framing his eyes. Something was off. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked rapidly. “I … I can’t …” The words faltered and died, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. He knocked his hat from his head and raked a shaky hand through his hair, his movements rough and unsteady.
Then she understood, and it hit her like a punch.
The jungle.
Without a word, she stepped up to him and slipped one hand to his back, the other to his arm, and gently guided him out from under the canopy’s shadow into the bright sunlight.
“You’re safe, sugar,” she said softly, moving to stand in front of him. Cupping his face, she continued in the gentle tone, “You’re in Texas and on the ranch and you’re safe.”
His eyes met hers, and the unguarded terror in them gutted her so hard it stole her breath.
It was like watching someone bleed out from the inside.
Her throat tightened, hot pressure building behind her eyes, but she shoved it down.
Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. “What do you need from me?” Sheer willpower kept her voice steady, despite the storm roiling through her chest.
His hands closed over her wrists, his grip hard, as if she were his lifeline, his tether to reality. “This,” he croaked. “Just … this.”
The warmth of the autumn sun settled over them like a blanket, and she held his stare. A breeze moved through the grass, cool and steady, tugging at the hem of Brandy’s shirt and ruffling his hair
The tension eased from his body, the wild edge in his eyes ebbing, revealing something quieter, rawer beneath. Her thumbs brushed gently along his cheeks, and still she said nothing, letting the silence and sunlight do their work.
His grip on her wrists lessened, and his breathing evened out.
And then he stole her breath, his hands gliding over the backs of her fingers before curling gently around them, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each hand, one by one. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered back, her heart thudding against her ribcage.
He lowered his arms but didn’t release her. “I’m totally messed up, eh?”
His self-deprecating words irked her. “Not at all,” she snapped.
“Aw, come on, Red.” He let go of her hands and took a step back. “Be honest. I’m a fucking emotional wreck,” he bit out, adding a short, hard laugh. “Can’t even fucking walk under a canopy of trees without falling apart.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You survived a harrowing experience that would’ve killed a lesser man. You’re allowed a few wobbles.”
But she also understood how desperate he was to conquer what he saw as weakness. Tossing her head back, she met his eyes and threw down the challenge: “So what’s it gonna be? You letting a few fucking trees take you down, or are you going back in?”
His eyes flared. And for a moment she thought he’d tell her to go to hell. Then he turned to face the trees. “Not letting a few fucking trees take me down.” Yet he remained rooted on the spot.
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “How about we face this together? Yeah?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed hard.
“Yeah.” He took a step, then another, and another, and together they ducked beneath the old low-hanging branches and into the shadows.
Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, holding her hand as if his life depended on it, Rafferty stood and looked around.
“Sometimes … I can still smell the noxious fumes from the marinating coca leaves.”
Her sniff was involuntary — just a quick pull of air through her nose. The scent of leaf litter and damp bark rose thick from the ground, laced with the sour tang of decaying acorns and something sharper — green, bitter, almost chemical.
Her gut tightened. She didn’t know much of his time as a prisoner — Branna had been vague on those details — only that he’d been held in a coca farm somewhere deep in the Amazon Jungle.
She leaned her shoulder into his and placed her free hand gently on his upper arm.
“You’re not there,” she said quietly, slowly running her fingers along the inside of his arm.
He didn’t speak, but his entire body was a tight coil of muscle, drawn taut like he was bracing for something that wasn’t coming.
Then, gradually, his shoulders dropped beneath her touch. His breath shuddered out, not quite a sigh, more like something he hadn’t meant to let go.
“I know,” he said at last, voice rough. “I just … sometimes, it creeps in before I can stop it.”
“How can I help?”