Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Duke
The look on Annie’s face hits me right in the chest.
That’s inconvenient.
Not because I don’t like Annie. I do. Probably more than I should for a woman who’s been here about five seconds and already has both my brothers acting like something’s gone wrong in the accounting department.
I’m used to liking people. I’m good at it. I like half the town, most of the horses, and one mean rooster that’s tried to take me out every morning for a year.
No, what’s inconvenient is that this doesn’t seem to be an ordinary concern.
This feels more intense.
More personal.
She’s standing in the barn aisle as if the ground might not hold, one hand clenched around her camera strap so tight her knuckles have gone white, her blue hair dragged into a messy bun that’s trying its best to come apart, and her expression makes every instinct in me go dead serious all at once.
Which, for the record, I hate.
I’m excellent in a crisis, but I much prefer mine with less heartbreak in them.
“You okay?” I ask, because people still deserve the dignity of deciding how honest they want to be.
And then her face twists painfully.
That stiff, held-together look people get when they’re one careful breath away from falling apart and are deeply offended by the possibility.
Well.
Hell.
I set my Thermos down on the nearest feed barrel and take a slow step closer. Not too close. Annie has the vibe of someone who’d bolt if handled wrong, and while I’m a people person, I’m not stupid.
“Hey,” I say, lighter this time. “That bad, huh?”
She lets out the kind of laugh that got dragged over gravel on the way out. “You could say that.”
“Okay.” I nod once. “We can work with that.”
Her mouth twitches. She wants to smile just to prove me wrong, but it doesn’t quite get there.
I glance toward the open barn doors, where cold morning air keeps slipping in. “First things first, you’re freezing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She exhales. “I’m having a bad day. Don’t make me fight you about temperature.”
I lift my Thermos. “I’ve got coffee.”
She shakes her head.
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Hot chocolate? Broth? That weird herbal liquid Sherry keeps in the back of the pantry and swears is calming?”
Annie finally looks at me properly, gray eyes tired and bright in a way that says she’s running on adrenaline and stubbornness alone. “Do you have iced coffee?”
I stare at her. “In this weather?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “It helps.”
I breathe out a laugh through my nose. “That’s the least sensible answer you could’ve given me.” I point toward the house. “Come on.”
She doesn’t move. “Duke—”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not in a barn. Come inside.”
From the nearest stall, Sergeant lifts his head at the sound and stares with all the solemn disappointment of a retired school principal.
“See?” I say. “We’ve got an audience here.”
Annie glances at the horse, and the corner of her mouth actually does lift this time. Barely. But enough.
That’s all I need.
I snag my Thermos again and start toward the door, slow enough that she can choose to follow instead of feeling herded. After a second, I hear the soft scuff of her boots behind me.
Good.
The walk back to the house is hushed, but not awkward.
There’s a difference. Awkward is when silence bulges and sweats. This silence just feels tired. The kind you don’t need to fix right away.
Still, I can’t help glancing at her every few steps.
Annie Wright has a face made for being underestimated. Too expressive to look guarded at first glance. Too observant not to be.
Storm gray eyes, blue hair, all those piercings that make people assume rebellion before they ever think defense. Most people will look at her and see the effort of her edges before they ever notice how careful she actually is.
Their loss.
I noticed.
The kitchen is empty when we slip in, sunlight pouring across the counters and making the copper pots over the island shine. There’s still heat in the room from breakfast cleanup, rich smells of bacon, fresh bread, and coffee hanging in the air.
I gesture grandly. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
Annie huffs a little breath through her nose. “This is a kitchen, not a kingdom.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never watched grown men nearly cry over my peach cobbler.”
“I feel like that says more about the men than your cobbler.”
“Blasphemy.”
She leans against the edge of the island while I move for the fridge, and I notice the way she keeps one hand wrapped around her camera strap even now.
I pull out the big glass bottle of cold brew I keep hidden behind the milk because Silas thinks my caffeine habits are excessive, and Cody thinks I don’t label things clearly enough, which is rich coming from a man who color-coded spices once and then denied it.
“Glass?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
I grab one from the cabinet. “Alright.”
She watches me. “That’s it? No commentary?”
I glance at her. “On what?”
“My impeccable manners.”
“Seem fine to me.”
She gives me a look. “I could be difficult instead.”
“Yeah,” I say, pouring the coffee and sliding it over to her. “I figured that out already.”
Then I head into the pantry.
Annie narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you something to eat.”
“I didn’t ask for food.”
I open the cabinet and pull out the tray. “Doesn’t matter. Food is my answer to all problems.”
She leans a little closer. “What is that?”
“Lemon bars.”
“Aren’t those for everyone?” she asks.
“Everything in this house is for everyone until I decide it’s for me.”
“That sounds suspiciously like dictatorship.”
“No, sweetheart, it’s hospitality with initiative.”
Her eyes flash at the endearment, and for half a second I wonder if I imagined it. Then she reaches for a lemon bar.
We sneak out of the kitchen, which is ridiculous considering I live here and pay for half the groceries, but that’s part of the fun, I guess.
I hook the tray under one arm, nod toward the stairs, and say, “Come on. Safer upstairs.”
“Safer from what?”
“Silas’s lectures. Cody’s inventory awareness. Getting caught committing cake crime. General oppression.”
“I’m pretty sure those aren’t all the same thing.”
“You’ve been here a week. Give it time.”
She follows me anyway.
My room’s at the far end of the hall over the kitchen, which means it usually smells faintly of coffee, cinnamon, and whatever I’ve got roasting below.
Best spot in the house, no contest. Big window looking out toward the paddocks, worn leather chair in the corner, bed unmade, guitar against the wall, and an old record player I picked up in Spokane three years ago because I’m incapable of passing a thing with history and good woodwork.
Annie steps in and pauses just inside the door.
I try not to grin at her expression.
“What?” I ask.
She glances around. “It’s… nice.”
“That sounded like it surprised you.”
“It did.”
I set the tray down on the dresser. “You expected what? Beer cans and bad decisions?”
“I don’t know. More drama?”
“What gives you the impression that I come with drama? I’m very calm and controlled, you know?”
She gives a soft snort.
Good. Again.
I cross to the bed and grab the thick knitted blanket folded at the foot, then hold it out. “Here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not.”
“I meant temperature-wise.”
“Mm.” I step closer and drape it around her shoulders before she can argue. “I reject your testimony.”
She stills for the briefest second as the blanket settles around her, and the atmosphere between us changes so subtly I almost miss it.
Her fingers come up automatically to catch the edges of the blanket in place. Small hands, silver rings, a faint ink smudge near her thumb that probably came from some note she took this morning before her day went to hell.
I step back before I can do something dumb, maybe smooth the fabric at her shoulder.
“Sit,” I say instead, pointing to the bed.
“Is that an order?”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. If it gets you to sit.”
Then she does.
I go to the record player and flip through the stack beside it. “You want music?”
“Do I get veto power?”
“Within reason.”
“Then yes.” She nods enthusiastically. “Music sounds good.”
I pick an old country record with soft guitar and enough heartbreak to feel companionable without getting maudlin, drop the needle, and let the room fill slowly with warm, familiar sound.
When I turn back, Annie has tucked one leg under herself on the bed, the blanket wrapped around her like armor she didn’t ask for but isn’t giving back. Her iced coffee sits on the nightstand. She’s looking at the framed photos on my dresser.
Three of them.
One of me and my brothers years ago, muddy, sunburned, and squinting at the camera because the future hadn’t yet occurred to us.
One of me with Willy and Red at the rodeo grounds, all of us grinning idiotically.
And one of my mama.
That one usually gets people.
Annie looks at it, then at me. “She was beautiful.”
I glance over, caught off guard by the softness in her voice. “Yeah. She was.”
Her eyes go back to the photo. “You look like her.”
“Nah. Silas has her eyes.”
“You have her smile.”
I lean against the dresser, folding my arms to stop myself from doing something embarrassing. “Well. Good to know I inherited at least one endearing trait.”
She sips her coffee. “Charm isn’t a trait. It’s a strategy.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
A quieter note drifts through the room from the record player, all steel guitar and low ache.
“So,” I say, “you want to tell me what happened, or do you want me to keep distracting you with baked goods and excellent taste in music until your nervous system files a complaint?”
Her fingers tighten on the blanket. “That depends.”
“On?”
“How much prying are you planning to do?”
I put a hand to my chest. “Me? Pry? Never.”
She gives me a look.
I grin. “Okay, that’s not true. But I’m selective about it.”
I think she’s going to dodge, deflect, throw me a joke and call it good. I’d let her, mostly.
I know enough about people to understand that forcing honesty out of them usually just teaches them not to trust you with the next one.