Chapter 7 #4
She took a deep breath and decided that she was just going to begin. But then she remembered, he had positioned himself as her trick master and had commanded she do what he said. “Am I allowed, boss?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice flat, tight all of a sudden.
The man ran hot and cold faster than an Oregon autumn, and she had no idea why.
“Great.”
This time, she did manage a smile as she leapt into action. And then her mind was blessedly blank of everything but the routine.
She felt a sense of exhilaration as her body became one with Stardust’s. Yes. They were achieving that amalgamation, the alchemy she really looked forward to when she got to know an animal.
The movements became second nature. Everything felt right—the wind in her face, the tension in her muscles, and the exertion.
She was doing it. She was really doing it.
She stood, her feet planted firmly beneath the holds that kept them locked in place as the horse moved in circles.
She let her arms fly out wide, and when she took her seat again, she did it with a flourish.
On the second lap, she did another stand up, and she fully intended to maneuver down to the side of the animal, her body outstretched completely, then come to a stop in front of West.
But instead, when she lowered herself, her foot got stuck.
As the horse slowed down and she maneuvered to the side, her right leg was still up in the saddle, her left leg crossing beneath, dangling uselessly and making her look like a mangled starfish as she hung there in her final position.
The horse came to a standstill ingloriously in front of West. And then she found she couldn’t free herself because her legs were all tangled up.
West chuckled. She heard him get off his horse, his boots making a whispering sound as they hit the soft dirt.
“You are hopeless,” he said.
And then his large, warm hands were on her ankle. Her ankle. The bare skin of her ankle. His fingers were calloused, and she realized she should’ve worn boots. Why wasn’t she wearing boots? She was a cowgirl. If she had been wearing boots, he wouldn’t have been able to touch her ankle.
All of her internal alarm bells were screeching like an outraged Victorian maiden.
Or perhaps that was just her.
Since she was a maiden, after all. Victorian or not.
“Okay, don’t panic,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist as he freed her foot. She would’ve tumbled onto the ground if he hadn’t immediately snatched her back up into his arms, against his broad chest. He was as hot as an inferno. And strong. So strong.
Then she looked up, her eyes meeting his.
Heat streaked through her like a bolt of lightning.
As if she had swallowed a flame that had burned its way down her esophagus and into her stomach, lighting her up from the inside.
Her arms were hanging down at her sides, and he was holding her.
His face was only a few inches from hers.
She could see golden whiskers on his jaw and became conscious of the whiskers just beneath his bottom lip.
Fascinated by that line between his beard and his lip.
She didn’t know why. Except she was tempted to touch it. To feel the textural difference.
It didn’t feel like a thought experiment.
It didn’t feel harmless.
His chest rose as he took in a sharp breath that seemed to surprise them both. And she watched as his pupils expanded, his eyes getting darker.
Her heart started to beat faster, her stomach getting impossibly tight.
She was aware of every point of contact her body made with his.
The heat, the hardness. And then, her heart wasn’t just beating fast—she thought it was going to burst right out of her chest. An explosion that sent her flailing out of his arms and scrambling down to her feet as she backed away.
“Thank you,” she said, breathless. Had that been thirty seconds or ten minutes? An hour? She had no idea. She was sweaty. Her palms, the soles of her feet.
“No problem. If that happens in the show, don’t panic.”
“I didn’t panic.”
“You froze. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get you out if that happens in front of people. But hopefully you’ll be more practiced by then.”
“Yeah. Hopefully.” She shook her head. “I … so when I go out of town with Dalton …”
“Dalton?”
“Yes. When I go out of town with him, is there a day of the week that works better for you?”
“No,” he said. “It’s all the same to me. As long as it’s before the eighteenth.”
“Yeah. It will be. I’ll let you know.”
She didn’t know why she had said that. Why it felt as if those words had put distance between them.
She’d said them for her own benefit honestly. To bring her back to herself, because she had felt so disoriented. So totally disoriented.
She took a sharp breath. “We have any more to go over today?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. There are two more things I need you to get a handle on before I feel like we’re ready to start rehearsing with everybody else.”
“Okay, then. Let’s do it. I made a mistake. And I have to get back on the horse.”