Chapter 3 #2
The horse must be excited from its thrilling display of speed and power because the expansion of her rib cage is quick and heavy.
My breathing feels erratic, too. But with my cheek pressed flat against the man’s back, it only takes a couple of seconds to channel my focus on his lungs’ even rhythm, trying to match it.
He lets me. I don’t know for how long, or if he realizes I need a moment to decompress, but he lets me.
A close swiping sound is what finally makes me raise my head and loosen my arms. I look to the side and recognize one of the guys from the troublemaker friend group, sparkling grin and dimples on full display.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. He gently swipes over what I realize is my hat, removing more of the dust. “I picked this up for you. Might need a good steam if you’re a hat’s for show kinda gal.”
“Oh.” It’s pointless, but I feel the top of my head anyway, just to confirm that I lost it in the race. “Thank you, uh—”
He takes off his own hat before introducing himself. “Warren. Need a hand?”
I can’t help it. My lips lift into a smile almost as big as his, but not nearly as effortlessly charming. When he puts his hat back in place and reaches up to take my hand, I feel the grip on my thigh disappear. With ease, Warren supports my weight until I swing my leg over and slide to the ground.
Instead of handing me my hat, he holds it up to flatten the brim a notch, then lowers it on my head for me.
I laugh over his playful chivalry. Maybe he’s just a nice guy like that, and there’s no denying he’s a looker.
But if he’s trying to win me over with something other than common decency in mind, he’s going to go home with blue balls and a bad mood tonight.
My type’s a little rougher.
Warren is smiling at me, again, when the ground seems to shake. My face falls, and I turn to see shadow daddy, er, man, lifting the reins over his horse’s head with a scowl.
I’m still shocked by the fact that he flew through the gates and came to get me off that barrel.
Why didn’t he answer me when I put myself out there like a damsel in distress and asked him to be my pick-up man?
Did his friends tease him and make him do it?
Was it all a joke or something, and now he’s pissed off?
I try not to widen my eyes when he stalks toward us and stops right next to me.
“You didn’t—,” I stop mid-sentence to tilt my head back and meet his eyes, “have to do that. But I’m really glad you did. I needed it.”
He nods. I narrow my eyes to study his expression as it softens. Barely.
Warren clears his throat. My gaze flicks between them as they exchange subtle head tilts and shakes, their brows pinched.
“Oookay.” I draw out the word, slightly confused. “Well, like I said, thank you.”
Still nothing. I’m more curious than I am annoyed, but I still let a breathy scoff slip out.
“Caveman strong with fast horse,” a new voice claims. “Caveman no speak.”
I lean to the side and peer around Warren’s body to see the missing fifty percent of this odd but intriguing friend group.
The one with a close-trimmed beard and intimidating aura gives me a nod.
The other, in a holey t-shirt and a sleeve of tattoos, is clearly the one who called out the joke, if the smirk on his face is any indication.
I giggle at his sarcastic explanation for the silent guy next to me.
Warren shakes his head, but no one defends the caveman in question.
No one says anything at all, actually. We stand there, awkward as hell, and I almost give up and turn to leave.
Then the bearded one looks at my rescuer, cocks a brow, and motions toward me.
The jokester whispers too quietly for me to understand.
“Am I missing something?” I ask.
My pick-up man scrapes a hand down his face. I palm the top of my hat, a nervous habit of mine, while cocking my hip and putting the other hand in my back pocket. The surface of my skin feels like it’s vibrating when he finally speaks up.
“Heston.” He clears his throat and holds his hand out between us. “And—” His forehead wrinkles, and something urges me to slide my palm into his. It engulfs mine, so when he squeezes, his curled fingers almost overlap each other. “You’re welcome,” he adds, finishing his sentence.
“Heston,” I repeat with a nod.
He rubs his chest when our hands fall away. Now I’m the speechless one. My lips part as he introduces the others.
“The good,” he points to Warren, “the bad,” jokester winks at me, “and the ugly,” he says, ending with a point to the bearded guy.
I expect Ugly to frown or flip off his buddy for that, but he doesn’t seem offended. He’s also not unattractive. None of them are, so I’m guessing he’s just used to their harmless banter.
Warren sighs. “This is Tripp, and that’s Gage.”
Tripp’s eyes are lit up with mischief. “Hattie Jo, right?” I nod before he continues. “Cool. So, Heston’s got a big ‘ole crush on—”
Warren covers his hand over Tripp’s mouth, and Heston sighs.
Gage gives a low chuckle. “I need another beer,” he says. “Let’s go. You driving?”
He tosses the keys to Heston, and he catches them in one hand without a flinch.
“Nice to meet you,” Warren offers as he drags Tripp behind Gage on their way to the parking lot.
My mouth hangs open as I watch them with raised brows. “They’re—”
“Dumbasses,” Heston fills in flatly.
I laugh as he turns to smooth a hand over his patient horse’s muzzle. “I was going to say funny. Or maybe a little buzzed.”
He shrugs. “Both accurate.”
I fold my arms together, holding my elbows while looking over to the stands. The banner hanging over the people’s heads reads “Children’s Hospital Cardiology” in bold blue letters. The bridge of my nose stings, but I smile softly.
Early detection has come a long way when it comes to congenital heart disease. We had no idea that my brother had been living with it his whole life, so I’m glad donations to the Children’s Hospital help make the necessary screenings more accessible.
“So,” Heston says in the deep tone that I’ve already grown used to from him.
I turn to face him, but silence follows. My lips roll into my mouth as I watch him fidget with the cinch on his saddle. When ten more seconds pass, he looks at me over his shoulder, like he expects me to prompt him into continuing his unfinished sentence.
I don’t. My head tilts, just a bit, and I let him decide for himself if he’s going to say what’s on his mind.
That makes him puff air out of his nose with a tiny smirk. “You ever been to Westridge?”