Saint
“You done?”
I fold my arms over my chest and watch her wheel the loaded barrow out of the stable, every shove slow. My fists clench, resisting the urge to push it for her. Once I do shit like that for her, I won’t stop.
“Yeah,” she says, without the bite I was half expecting.
“Right then. Let’s go.”
When she follows without a word, I register the obedience, and it grates on me because I’ve always known her to push back.
I glance over my shoulder and catch the flush in her cheeks from physical work; the pout pinching her pink lips as if she’s biting back a rant.
I don’t ask what’s on her mind because I sure as hell know better than to open that door.
Bran’s tacked and waiting by the round pen. Shay’s holding the reins, and he’s got a riding hat tucked under his arm. I take it from him and hold it out to Keira.
“That’s for you.”
While she looks at it, I wait for the argument that seems to play out in her mind.
After a few silent seconds, she takes it from me and shoves it on without even the slightest whisper of annoyance. I wait while she adjusts the strap, my eyes catching on the bare line of her throat before I force them away.
I should be thankful that she’s all picture and no sound now, but I’m tempted to push her buttons for a little more volume.
“You’re on the back with me.”
“I know how to ride,” she mutters.
“And I know how to keep ya outta trouble.” I nod to Shay. “Give her a leg up.”
Shay steps in closer, one hand already out.
“You sure ya don’t want me to handle it?” he asks quietly.
“If someone’s been messing with the boundary fence and shifting markers, I want eyes on it myself,” I reply. “That’s my land out there.”
Shay nods and offers his hand to Keira’s boot.
I steady Bran and wait as she clambers on, landing behind me on the saddle with a huff of breath, her thighs pressing into the backs of mine, close enough that I feel it everywhere I shouldn’t.
Bran’s hind bounces, impatient as always.
I don’t look back. “Arms.”
She goes rigid. “What?”
“You won’t stay on without putting them around me.” I reach behind me and tug her right wrist, bringing her hand to my hip. “And the other one.”
“I’ve got my balance.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Keira hesitates, then slides her left arm around me.
“Do it properly,” I order.
She swears under her breath and tightens her hold. There’s no avoiding how close she is now.
Her chest presses flush to my spine as Bran breaks into a trot, the contact of her plastered against me warm despite the wintry chill.
“Don’t lean away,” I add. “You’ll throw him off.”
“I’m not leaning,” she snaps, adjusting to the horse’s rhythm.
By the time we leave the yard, she’s holding on because she has to and I’m counting sheep, because touching her any other way would mean breaking rules written in blood and land.
Tallon land stretches to the gray horizon. Fields give way to the old paths my grandfather rode long before fences mattered, before anyone thought they could take what wasn’t theirs.
Bran knows them as well as I do. He settles into a steady canter and eats up the ground without caring for the extra load he’s carrying.
Some days I come out this far just to let him gallop. Today, I keep the pace measured for the princess fixed to my back.
Miles from the yard, I slow him to a walk near the boundary by the heath. Clusters of trees stand together, and the ground slopes down toward the river.
Our fence cuts across the land at a crooked angle. Stone sections break it up where the soil refuses to hold posts for long.
“Off ya get,” I say. “We’re stopping here.”
She takes her arms away, shuffles behind me and slides off. Her boots hit the dirt after an agile dismount, and she inches away, removing the helmet.
I wait until she’s clear, then swing down, pull the reins over Bran’s head and loop the reins once over the fence rail.
Someone’s definitely been here.
Boot prints litter the mud, wires tangle, several posts tilt at the wrong angle, and someone’s moved the boundary markers.
Keira comes to my side and crouches, her fingers brushing the wire where it’s cut.
“There’s no way an animal did that,” she says.
“Sure didn’t.”
Her gaze drifts to mine for half a second, then she looks at the wire and reaches for it. I move without thinking, catching her wrist and yanking her back hard enough that she wobbles into me.
“Don’t,” I say, my grip firm. “That edge will slice off your fingers. And I’m not wasting time dealing with it.”
“I was trying to help,” she says, heat riding the words.
“Right.” I tug my gloves free and hold them out to her. “Use these if you’re gonna help.”
The wind agitates her hair, strands blowing across her pale complexion while she stares at them. Then she accepts them without a comment.
That acceptance unsettles me more than her brattiness ever did. Silence has weight to it, and this woman is handing it to me today.
“What about your fingers?” she asks, already stepping in, fingers twisting the bent wire.
“I’ll manage.”
I work with her, all too aware of her position, how her ass has rubbed my thigh four times now while she works, the way the silence fills with the frustrated sounds she makes when the wire resists.
“So, you like me wearing your girlfriend’s clothes,” she says, not looking at me. “Is that some sort of kink?”
I move before I think better of it—before I remember all the reasons I shouldn’t—catching her arm and pushing her against the nearest tree.
Her pupils blow wide, and she blinks wildly.
“If it was, Harrington,” I dip my face into hers, close enough to feel her breath hitch, “I wouldn’t involve ya.”
She shoves my chest. “Don’t worry. I know they’re your sister’s clothes. You wanted me to think she was your girlfriend, didn’t you?”
“You imagined that all by yourself,” I bite back.
“And you didn’t correct me.”
When she tries to push past me, I snatch her forearm and pin it above her head. “Why would I? It’s none of your business.”
Keira wrestles against my hold, her hips rutting and her chest bumping into me. It shouldn’t stir heat in my veins, but my body doesn’t care what I should stay away from or what wanting it would cost me.
And fuck, there’s an ache buried deep that’s trying to surface.
I won’t let it.
“Don’t worry.” She narrows her eyes. “You don’t need to hide behind a fake girlfriend. I have zero desire to be this close to you. Not every woman wants a piece of you.”
“Good,” I say, both of us taking deep, heavy breaths together. “Then we’re on the same page.”
“Then why am I still pinned to this tree?”
My nostrils flare as I stare down at her. Stepping away is taking more damn self-control than trapping her there, and I hate how I crave the spark.
I’m debating what happens next when an engine breaks the peace.
I let go and turn toward the roar, pinpointing a white van that’s pushing far too hard for a track that isn’t meant to carry speed.
And I sure as fuck didn’t give anyone permission to be out here.
The van tears into full view, thick tires chewing up stones, the front end bucking as it barrels straight toward us.
“Keira—”
The first shot rips bark from the tree trunk above her head. I’m on her in an instant, dragging her under me while Bran rears, the reins pulling free.
The horse bolts as I shove Keira sideways and draw my gun, pivoting to shoot.
“Keep low and run,” I order, already shoving her toward the tree line. “Take cover in the trees.”
She squeezes my arm, stares at me for a racing heartbeat, and then scrambles over the dirt behind me.
The van fishtails on the path as it skids, the driver more interested in speed than control. Probably because they know this is my land and I’ll fucking kill them.
I raise the gun as the window lowers and the muzzle flashes again, shots tearing into the pine tree.
I’m already firing back, my aim precise. Taking out the driver, the van jerks hard, swerves, and slams nose-first into the bank, the wheel arch busted up.
The passenger door flies open, and a second man climbs out, balaclava pulled tight, gun already up and pointed my way.
He’s sloppy, rushed, and dead before he understands who he’s fucked with.
I take him down and keep moving, eyes sweeping the track as my breathing steadies, waiting for anyone else to make themselves known.
When no one does, I glance back and catch sight of Keira breaking toward the river.
Catching her can wait.
I move to the van first and haul the rear doors open, finding it empty.
“Harrington,” I shout, already turning away and stuffing my Glock into the waistband of my jeans.
I cut toward the trees at a jog as the ground drops away and the river opens up ahead.
The old bridge comes into view with her on it, already across the first few boards my grandfather nailed together decades ago, boards I haven’t trusted in years.
“Harrington!” I shout. “Stop. Now.”
She turns at the sound of my voice, one hand flying out to the rope to steady herself. The planks sag under her boots, the rope fibers thinned by years of weather and neglect that won’t take much more weight.
The whole thing groans.
The ropes stretch, the boards wobble, and the structure gives way in a slow, ugly lurch before it breaks in two.
“Saint—”
Her scream dies as the bridge tears loose, and she drops out of sight into the river below.