Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ALLIE
The sleigh comes to an unceremonious stop. Through the soupy haze of snowflakes, I make out a looming dark structure. A cabin.
“You can warm up inside,” the man grunts, about to jump down, Stetson drawn low against the blizzard.
“But what about the horses?” I ask, unable to stop my eyes from feasting on his rugged face. Black hair and beard, eyes brown as sun-warmed earth, and a jaw so sharp it could cut glass.
He shrugs. “After I get a fire started for you, I’ll take them to the stables for a rubdown and oats.”
“Can I help?” My voice comes out like a squeak, insides still quivering.
His lips dip down at the edges, forehead furrowing. Then, a nod. He clucks his tongue, urging the horses forward.
Angry cold swirls around us. The wind whistles, biting my cheeks. I pull my scarf higher, breathing through it.
Trevor’s keys burn a hole in my purse. Everything about the day remains so surreal I can barely wrap my head around it.
There’s going to be hell to pay when I see him again.
Flurries slam into us hard now. I can’t see the structure we must pull up to so much as feel it block the wind. The man jumps down, rounding the back of the sleigh and offering me a hand. Fire trails lick up my arm where we touch, heat bleeding through the knitting.
Guilt curls low, souring my stomach. Disloyal, superficial, narcissistic. Maybe Trevor was right about me.
Still, I can’t help but notice the difference. The sleigh driver moves with easy certainty. Like he does nothing without a reason. Though a total stranger, his gestures, energy, and quiet ways neutralize every fear swarming through my head.
At the front of the sleigh, he works expertly unhitching the horses. Then, he leads one in each hand as I follow along marveling at the trust between these massive animals and their owner.
The stables feel warm against the cold gusts outside, the sounds within muted and soft.
A nicker here, a soft bray there, the swish of a tail or the grind of big teeth over hay and oats.
The air smells golden, like fresh straw, and a dangerous sting hits the back of my eyes.
Reminds me of my grandpa’s dairy farm. Memories flood me as I stand near the entrance, watching the man work.
Intuitive. Gentle.
“Want to talk about it?” A voice rolls gently toward me. I almost second guess it’s him because he never raises his head, hunched over his work.
“No.” Embarrassment and anger heat my cheeks. He shouldn’t have intervened. I had things handled. One look at him, and I know he’d see right through the lie. Does it matter that I do, too?
“C-c-can I help?” I stammer, stepping forward.
“Know anything about horses?” he asks, eyes sliding up toward mine for a fraction of a second before they drop back to brown, velvety hide.
“Enough.” I wait for him to sneer at me. Belittle me. Maybe even gaslight or challenge me on my knowledge.
Instead, he nods, inviting me with a head nod to grab a brush.
We work on the same horse in silence, my hand frantic, and trembling until the horse shifts uneasily snorting.
A big hand clamps down over mine. Not controlling, steadying, and I look up into a face too gorgeous for staring or looking away.
“Slow and easy,” he commands.
“Surprised she hasn’t kicked me,” I snort.
“Your fault if she does.” His voice is steel, but there’s no bite behind it.
“That’s real nice,” I murmur, voice shaking.
“They sense fear, and it’s pouring off you,” he grunts, like it explains everything.
“Not fear, agitation, alarm,” I correct.
The creases in his forehead deepen.
“And for the record, pretty sure I’ve heard that before,” I add.
Silence.
Everything about this moment feels too intimate for a man I don’t know. His body less than a foot from mine, rubbing the fatigue out of his mare’s muscles.
“The bit about animals sensing fear,” I clarify. “My grandpa used to say that.”
“Smart man.” He grimaces.
“He was a dairy farmer. Probably still is, though I haven’t spoken to him…” There’s that sting again. “In ages.”
More silence.
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “I should be over it.”
He stops, wetting his lips and drawing my eyes. “Never believed in shoulds.”
Can’t disagree. I nod, eyes blurring as I continue combing, slower movements now, intentional breathing and focus.
Finally, he lifts a hand, and I pull back the brush, expecting a thank you, anything. Instead, he wordlessly leads her back to a stall.
Trevor never quits talking, especially on whiskey. Now, I’m with a guy who wouldn’t vocalize a five-alarm fire that started on his sleeve.
“What’s her name?” I call after him.
Nothing.
Right at the moment I’m certain he didn’t hear me, he mutters, “Dolly.”
“And this beauty?” I ask as he brings the other back around.
“Dasher.” He says it like every syllable costs him something. I get a feeling he’s not used to visitors around here.
“As in the reindeer?” I chuckle, scrunching my nose.
He glares stony-faced.
“Where’d you get them?”
I wait for it … the aloof silence.
Instead, he grumbles, “Slaughterhouse auction.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Really? But they’re beautiful? Why would anybody…?”
“Nice and easy,” he scolds as I step forward. “More skittish than her sister.”
“Great.” A little puff of air escapes my lungs.
“You’ve been warned,” he growls. But Dasher nuzzles him with her nose, begging for pets and scratches he gives stoic-faced. Like she’s calling him on his grumpy bluff.
“Dasher doesn’t seem too intimidated by you,” I chuckle.
He doesn’t answer—no surprise—rubbing a sweet, herbal-smelling ointment into her brown pelt. “Like horses more than people.”
I laugh. “They do talk less.”
He pauses, eyeing me with too-intense eyes.
“Maybe not less than you, though.”
“Words are overrated, Allison.”
“I don’t even know your name,” I stammer, realizing how backward this whole exchange has been so far.
“Austin Fitz.” He starts to offer a hand, then nods toward the ointment.
“Allison Montgomery, but, yeah…” I’m about to tell him my nickname, unthinkingly. But then, I stop myself. Something about his silence unnerves me. Compels me to fill the space with useless chatter.
“Allison. That what you prefer?”
That question catches me off guard, as if the man’s reading my mind. “That’s what everyone calls me.”
“Not my question,” he says, turning toward me.
Allison is professional. Polished. Grown up. Something tells me none of that matters to this man.
“My grandpa always called me Allie.”
“Allie, then,” he says with a firm nod. “Unless you say otherwise.”
I huff a laugh. I think it’s the most I’ve heard him speak so far.
He scowls, working more of the medicinal balm into tired flesh, as I return to brushing. Trying to somehow process a day that started with a loud drunk and ends with a wordless cowboy in some isolated corner of Big Sky country.