Chapter 7
LILY
The sky over Hearts Bend turns mean fast. It seems to be a trend around these parts between the men and the weather.
I was almost getting through to him. I knew Colt had a rough time at the doctor.
I’m sure the doctor told him exact words I’ve heard before, too.
And I know how I felt after hearing it, so I knew, for Colt, it would be that much worse.
We were breaking down a wall, and I even thought he was going to kiss me.
I would have let him.
It most likely would have ended up badly. I’m working here, not staying, and he doesn’t even want me here to begin with.
Instead, I’ve been ignoring him for the last two days while I sit in the office and try to make heads or tails of the financials, all while establishing a new system for the Callahans.
One minute, it’s just wind, hot and dry, kicking up dust against the window like the arena is alive, and the next, the clouds roll in low, swallowing the last bit of sunset.
West Texas doesn’t do polite; it barely does warnings.
So when Will sticks his head in and asks if I’ve ever moved cattle in a storm, I tell him I'm his girl.
Standing and shifting all my papers into one pile, I say, “Is this your way of inviting me on a date?”
He chuckles. “Not unless you like mud and being yelled at.”
“Depends who’s yelling,” I say deadpan.
He grins. “We’ve got a gate down on the east field. If we don’t get those heifers pushed back before the rain hits, they’ll scatter, and we’ll be chasing them all night.”
“Okay,” I say, already standing. “Point me in the right direction.”
Will looks relieved and motions toward the back. “Colt’s out there.”
“And that answers my question on who’s doing the yelling.”
“Just yell back, you’ll be fine,” Will says as he jumps in his truck and takes off to the northeast side.
I run up the field and find Colt near the pens with a flashlight in one hand and a length of chain in the other, shoulders tense like he’s personally fighting this incoming weather. He sees me, and his expression immediately sours.
“Thought you had some sponsorships to win back,” he says.
I smile sweetly. “All handled. Now I’m here to play with the big boys.”
His gaze lingers on me. “Hope you can keep up.”
“For eight seconds? That’s what they all say.”
He snorts like he hates that I’m here. But he doesn’t tell me to leave, so that’s progress.
Will pulls up and points toward the east fence line. “Gate’s hinge is busted. We gotta get it closed and push the cattle in before the sky opens up.”
Colt swings his flashlight toward me. “You know what you’re doing?”
I raise a brow. “You want the resume version or the ‘I grew up doing this’ version?” He stares at me, so I add, “I grew up ranching and can swear creatively. I’ll be fine.”
“Atta girl,” Will laughs, and Colt turns away, but not before I see his lip twitch like he wants to join in.
His dad rides ahead, and we follow before dumping the truck a little bit away from where the gate is and head out across the field on foot.
The grass is flattened in places from hooves and trucks, and the air smells like rain.
A gust of wind, cooler than normal, whips my ponytail around, and Colt’s hand shoots out automatically, catching my elbow when I step wrong in a rut.
He holds his grip on my arm until I’m steady, and only then does he let go.
His fingers are callused and leave a sizzle feeling on my skin.
“Careful,” he mutters.
“Did you just,” I glance at him, “worry about me?”
He releases me instantly. “Don’t get cocky.”
I grin as we get to the gate and see that the hinge is half-snapped. Colt crouches with the chain. “Hold the light.”
I grab the flashlight and say, “Tell me you’re about to do something stupidly macho.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m about to fix it.”
I watch his forearms flex as he wraps the chain around the post. “That’s not what I said.”
He looks up, eyes dark. “You always run your mouth when you’re nervous?”
“Who said I’m nervous?”
He goes back to fixing the hinge and shrugs. “Seems to be a common occurrence. You get yourself in situations where you just can’t shut up.”
I lean closer. “Don’t act like you don't think about me and my mouth.”
He goes still, and for a second, the wind is the only sound. Then he growls, “Hold it steady.”
I shake the light around just to get on his nerves, but then lightning strikes in the distance and the thunder answers like a warning shot, and I jump and let out a squeal.
Will calls from somewhere behind us, voice faint, “Hurry it up!”
Colt mutters something under his breath that definitely isn’t church-friendly.
“Your mom would be so proud.”
He shoots me a look. “Don’t bring my mother into this.”
“She already brought herself into it,” I say. “She practically made me her first daughter.”
His hands pause on the chain. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk about that,” he grits out.
I tilt my head. “Talk about you being good for more than just the rodeo? She told me all about how–” He looks up, and his glare is lethal, and my grin is innocent.
“Sunshine,” he bites out, “I swear to God—”
“You’re welcome,” I say brightly. “I’m making you think and therefore improving your emotional capacity.”
The gate clicks into place with such force I'm unsure if he fixed it or broke it worse. Colt stands and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“Cattle,” he says, already moving. “Come on.”
We jog back toward the herd, shooing them with shouts and arm waves. Colt’s voice goes low and commanding, the kind of sound that makes animals listen without question.
But it also does something else, to me. Something pretty inconvenient and a little nerve-racking. I knew he was a force to be reckoned with. Always in control, always stable, but I didn’t know it would make me feel a certain way when he asserted it in that tone.
The cattle finally funnel toward the pens just as the sky breaks open. Rain comes down hard and cold, soaking through my shirt in seconds. Mud forms instantly under our boots. Colt looks up at another lightning strike and curses.
“Truck,” he snaps. “Now.”
I glance toward the field where we left it, which is now a good fifty yards away, in open ground, under a sky that’s basically throwing fists at us.
“Race you,” I shout.
He gives me a look. “Don’t. You don’t know this ground.”
I take off anyway, because today? I’m all sunshine and spite.
He catches up in three strides, and his hand clamps around my wrist, yanking me toward him just as a gust of wind comes and almost knocks me sideways.
“You shouldn't be running like that. Are you trying to die?” he barks.
I laugh and tip my head back, letting the rain hit my mouth. “Is yelling your love language?”
“This is me keeping you from being stupid.”
“You keep saving me, and I’ll start thinking you like me.”
He pulls me forward again. “Not a chance.”
We hit the truck at the same time. He hauls the door open, shoves me inside, then climbs in after me, slamming the door to keep the weather out.
Rain drums the roof so loud it sounds like rocks hitting it, and the wind rocks the cab.
We’re wet, muddy, and Colt’s chest heaves as he catches his breath.
I watch as rain runs down his jaw, disappearing into the shadow of his beard.
His shirt clings to his shoulders, and my brain does something unhelpful.
I clear my throat. “Well. This is cozy.”
He glares. “You’re soaked.”
“So are you,” I say.
“That’s your fault.”
“How?”
He points at me like I’m evidence. “You ran.”
“Then imagine if we were still out there walking. I was moving with purpose.”
He rolls his eyes, adjusting himself in the cab, pulling at his wet jeans. “You were sprinting like an idiot over uneven ground.”
“Tomato, tom-ah-to.”
He drags a hand down his face, rainwater and frustration mixing together. “You ever listen to anybody?”
“No,” I say honestly. “Do you?”
He huffs a laugh. “Hell no.”
I smile. “See? Compatibility.”
His head swings to me so fast I think he may have sprained his neck. His eyes are focused on me, and then he says in that same tone he had with the animals, “We are not compatible.”
“Right,” I whisper, leaning back against the seat. “That’s why you keep grabbing me as if you own me.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” I cut in with my sugary sweet tone. “You grab my wrist, my elbow. You pull me behind you like you’re trying to protect me. It screams Prince Charming, Mr. Callahan.”
“If you got hurt, my mother would have my ass,” he bites out.
I laugh. “Wow. Romantic.”
His jaw ticks. “There ain’t nothing romantic about it.”
“No? Not even being caught in a rainstorm? I think there’s a song about that.
” I hum the pina colada song, but then thunder cracks so loud the whole truck shakes, and I jump, letting out another squeak.
His hand moves automatically, settling on my thigh just above my knee, and the contact is instant heat.
It’s not sexual. It's as if he’s trying to ground me, let me know I’m safe.
But it feels possessive.
His hand stays there for one long second until he realizes what he’s doing and tries to pull away. I catch his wrist to stop him, and his eyes snap to mine.
Rain continues to pound the roof, and my pulse pounds harder. He stares at my hand on his wrist like it’s a mortal sin. Then he looks up, and his eyes land on my lips, then flick to my eyes and back to my lips.
He swallows hard and says, “Sunshine,” in a warning voice.
I smile, soft and bright, even when my voice shakes. “Cowboy.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re going to get hurt.”
I sigh, “You said that already.”
“This time, I mean me,” he murmurs.
My heart beats fast, and I lean in. “Should we stop?” I whisper. “Should we–”
His mouth crashes into mine. It’s hot and hard and full of everything he’s been holding back. My hand slides to his cheek, and he grips my thigh again.
The kiss deepens, rough and hungry, and I make a sound I don’t mean to. He matches it, groaning into my mouth like he’s been angry his whole life and I’m the first thing that makes him feel anything else.
He slides his free hand into my hair, gripping it at the back of my neck, and when I cup his face, he breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, forehead resting against mine.
“Goddamn it,” he whispers.
I’m smiling, even though I’m shaking. “Hi.”
He huffs a laugh, low and broken. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re obsessed,” I whisper.
He kisses me again with the same ferocity, like he’s punishing himself, or maybe me, just for being this close.
Then all of a sudden, he pulls back, with wild eyes. “This doesn’t happen again,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself.
I trace the edge of his jaw, my thumb lingering on his bottom lip. “Sure,” I murmur. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
His eyes flick to my mouth, and then back to my eyes, and that's when I see it. What he’s really feeling.
It’s not anger—it’s fear. He’s afraid to want something and not get it.
It’s why he’s always in control, always keeping things and people at a distance.
It’s why he won’t give up riding because that's what he wants. And if the riding doesn’t want him, what’s next?
Outside, the rain falls hard, and inside, my heart is doing the same.