Chapter 20
TWENTY
IZZY
The late-afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders as I lean against the top rail of the fence, watching Dylan in the upper paddock with Fury.
Buck is sitting by my feet, panting in the heat, and I reach down to rub his silky ears, not taking my eyes off of where Dylan is approaching Fury with a saddle.
Each step slow and deliberate. The stallion’s coat is as black as ink, his muscles taut.
Every inch of him says, Don’t trust, and yet he hasn’t bolted.
He’s watching Dylan, ears flicked forward, alert. Ready.
It’s been three days since we saved Moonlight and her foal.
Since I stood on the driveway with Dylan, the adrenaline still high and the world too still, and felt something shift between us.
We haven’t talked about it, haven’t talked about anything beyond the day-to-day ranch work, but the tension between us is different now—charged and expectant.
Our eyes meet and linger longer than they should.
Our fingers brush when passing tools, and neither of us moves away.
Madison has been calling every day, begging for updates on Moonlight and her foal, already naming him Quicksilver, despite my repeated reminders that we don’t name foals destined for auction.
Naming them just makes saying goodbye that much harder.
But Mad being Mad, she’s decided, and now every time I look at the little foal, the name feels like it fits.
Quicksilver is brave and cheeky, already darting out from under his mother’s legs before bounding back to her side.
His coat is a beautiful shade of gray and black, like smoke and shadows stitched together, and every time I watch him, a wave of pride swells in my chest. He’s already carrying himself with a confidence that will make him a star.
The thought of how close we came to losing him sends a chill up my spine, but I shake it off and carry on watching Fury.
It’s impossible not to notice the continual change in Dylan. How he’s not just more focused, but calmer. Like whatever silent battle he’s been having with himself since buying these horses, it’s over.
And when Jake and Harper came by to drop Buck at the ranch and collect Mama for the final Thursday night pre-season game, away to the Dallas Outlaws, Dylan didn’t grumble or retreat. He just clapped Jake on the back, hugged Mama tight, and turned back to grooming Rusty.
I should be happy. This is what I’ve wanted—proof that he cares about making this work. But instead, there’s a knot twisting in my stomach that won’t go away. Because the days are ticking down and he still hasn’t said a damn thing about what happens next. He still hasn’t asked me to stay.
Eight days. That’s all I have left.
The last time we spoke about me working here, it was after the auction when I said I was leaving when the six weeks were up.
All Dylan said was, Good. Mad will be back from camp tomorrow.
It’s our final weekend at Oakwood. All my warnings that our stay here is temporary suddenly don’t feel enough.
I know the first thing she’s going to ask about after Quicksilver is the rope swing Dylan promised her he’d build.
With Fury and then Moonlight’s foaling, he’s forgotten.
I can’t bring myself to remind him, even if I know Madison will be disappointed.
In the paddock, Fury shifts, hooves pawing at the ground, dragging my attention back to Dylan.
“Go steady,” I call softly.
Dylan glances my way and flashes the briefest smile before focusing again. Fury’s ears flick back; his body seems tense—coiled like a spring. But to my surprise, he doesn’t move away. Not yet.
Two more steps.
One more step.
Then Dylan is lifting the saddle slowly, positioning it over Fury’s back. For a heartbeat, Fury is still. Then, like a flipped switch, he bolts—exploding into motion, streaking across the paddock and only stopping when he’s in the far corner with his head high, eyes fierce.
The force of Fury’s sudden movement has thrown Dylan off balance, and he stumbles forward, landing hard in the dirt. Before I can stop it, a laugh bubbles up, bursts out. I clap a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Are you OK?” I call out.
“Kinda ruins the question when you ask it while laughing, Brooks,” Dylan grumbles, picking himself up. The scowl on his face only makes me laugh harder. All those muscles—that hulking frame of his—doing nothing to help.
“You think this is funny?” he calls, brushing himself off as he stands.
I wipe a tear from my face. “I do, actually.”
He stares at me for a long moment before his mouth quirks into a smile. “You want to give it a try?”
“Not a chance. I’m not the one who bought him.”
“Come on, Brooks,” Dylan says, picking up the saddle and moving toward me. “Admit it, you’re dying to step in and show me how it’s done.”
“Dying to watch you fall on your face again.”
He’s only half right about me wanting to step in. I’d love to work with Fury, but he’s Dylan’s horse and something about the stallion has brought out the best in him. I’d never admit this to Dylan, but I don’t think anyone could’ve made more progress than he has.
Dylan chuckles as he looks back to the stallion. “Is it just me or is he looking pretty pleased with himself?”
I laugh again. “It’s not just you. That’s one smug horse.”
Dylan places the saddle on the fence and leans against one of the posts. Even with a fence between us, the space suddenly feels tight. “Putting aside just now—” he starts.
“You mean falling face-first into the dirt?”
“You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Dylan rolls his eyes. “Seriously, I think he’s starting to thaw. He let me get the saddle up there this time—mostly.”
“If he likes you, he’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“Story of my life,” he says.
Our eyes lock, the weight of everything unspoken between us hanging in the air again.
I drink him in. Can’t look away. His hair is growing out beneath the cowboy hat he’s taken to wearing.
There’s a blade of grass stuck in his beard, and before I can stop myself, I reach forward and pluck it out.
The second my fingertips touch warm skin, I’m thinking of all the other places on his body I want to touch.
Dylan’s dark eyes are on me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s daring me to carry on.
“You had some grass,” I murmur, holding up the single blade like it’s proof.
“Thanks,” he replies as his eyes dip to my lips, gaze lingering in a way that causes an aching heat to pulse between my thighs.
I draw in a breath, catching the scent of leather and forest. Dylan draws his eyes back to mine, his gaze burning with the same feelings scorching through me.
My lips part and I narrow the gap between us by another fraction.
His hand moves like he’s about to reach behind my neck, draw me to him—
The thud of hooves pounding against the ground shatters the moment. Dammit, not again! We jolt back at the same time and turn to see Fury trotting along the back fence, his head high as if to say, Get a room.
“Looks like he’s ready for round two,” I say with a laugh that sounds more nervous than anything.
Dylan smiles before he looks out to the horizon and the dark clouds looming over the mountains. The kind of clouds that promise rain.
“We should get the horses into the barn,” he says. “Can you start on the others while I see to Fury?”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him I’ve been checking my weather app every hour and the storm is due to pass us, but Dylan cuts me off.
“Don’t fight me on this, Brooks.” A raw sadness sweeps over his expression, his entire body.
“My dad…” His voice trails off and I remember Bill explaining to me when I wasn’t much older than Madison why he’d bought twenty-five horses he could barely afford.
Because a good friend of his had died, leaving a wife and three boys with no way to support themselves.
“Your dad died in a storm,” I say quietly, my mouth suddenly dry as I say the words Dylan can’t.
Silence stretches out from one second to the next and then whatever vulnerability was showing on Dylan’s face is gone—locked up tight—and he’s nodding. “Yeah.”
I glance at the sky again. The clouds are thicker now. Dylan’s right. The horses need to be moved.
I grab the saddle from the fence, the smooth leather heavy in my arms. “I’ll start on the lower paddock.”
When I look back at Dylan, he’s moving toward Fury with quick, determined strides. I can’t deny how good his thighs look filling out those jeans or the way he’s starting to get under my skin. I turn away and head to the lower paddock before my thoughts can drag me to the gutter.
The rain is loud as it hits the metal roof of the trailer and I throw a pillow over my head in a useless attempt to block out the noise.
Who am I kidding? Even without the rain, I wouldn’t be sleeping right now.
My mind is spinning with thoughts of Dylan.
The need in his eyes when he looked at me across the fence in Fury’s paddock earlier.
How much I wanted to climb that fence, step into his arms, and press my body against his.
The thought causes heat to burn in my core. I close my eyes, my hand straying down to the waistband of my panties, fingers brushing over the fabric as I let those thoughts flood my mind.
I stroke my finger over the flimsy fabric covering my center, imagining it’s Dylan’s hand, his touch setting me on fire. I can almost feel his lips on my skin, the rough scrape of his beard. I imagine his hand sliding beneath the loose tee I’m wearing, reaching up—
Cold water smacks my face, and my mind jolts back to reality. I gasp, and it has nothing to do with the images playing in my mind and everything to do with the second drop of water hitting my forehead.
“Are you kidding me?” I sit up, flicking on the light. My eyes adjust and I see the problem—my skylight has sprung a leak. The seal must have worn thin and now rainwater is forming tiny rivulets that drip onto my bed.
“Shit.” I throw the cover off and grab a bowl from the kitchenette.
A second later, the sound of the rain hitting the bowl is even louder than the rain hitting the roof, each drop grating my nerves with every plink-plink-plink.
There’s no way I can sleep like this. Even if I could squeeze myself into Madison’s smaller fold-out bed, that dripping is already driving me insane.
I drag my hands through my hair, blowing an exhale through my lips.
For a fleeting moment, I consider grabbing a blanket and trekking over to the ranch house.
The back door will be unlocked like always, and I could crash on the couch.
Mama is away in Dallas for the final pre-season Stormhawks game.
I could be up early and out before Dylan even knows I was there.
But I can almost hear Flic’s mocking voice in my head.
Or you could, you know, actually talk to Dylan.
I roll my eyes at the thought. Sure, he’s been pulling his weight this week. But relying on him for the ranch work is one thing. Relying on him for me, that’s different. I don’t do that. I don’t need that. I can fix this problem myself.
I open the cupboard beneath the sink and pull out a trash bag and a roll of tape.
If I’m going to have any hope of sleeping tonight, I need to stop the leak.
I tug on my boots and throw a raincoat over my loose tee and panties.
The thing barely covers the tops of my thighs, but it’ll do.
I grab my flashlight and shove open the door.
The rain is colder than I expected, sharp needles that prick my bare legs as a gust of wind whips at the edges of my raincoat.
I grab the ladder by the barn and lean it up against the trailer.
With the trash bag in one hand and tape in the other, I ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me that climbing onto the roof in the middle of a rainstorm isn’t one of my finest ideas, and I start to climb.
This is fine. I’ve got this.