20. Sage #2
I manage to swing my right leg over the saddle.
Then his arms are around me, helping me slide down to solid ground.
On instinct, I turn and press myself against the solid bulk of his body, unsure whether the drumming sound in my ears is the blood rushing through my veins or the hard beat of his heart.
“You need to get inside,” he tells me. “I’ll take the horses.”
With a nod, I make a beeline for the entrance. Holden follows behind me, leading Cozy and Whiskey, whose ribs are heaving after running for so long. The barn smells of wet wood, straw, and dust, and the constant roar of the wind and rain eases.
A few feet inside, I stop and wrap my arms around myself, blinking the water from my eyes while Holden pulls the heavy door shut behind us.
It’s dark, though a few windows on either side of the building let in enough murky light for me to make out the interior.
Small stalls line one wall, while the back is lined with uneven stacks of straw bales, dented buckets, and feed tins.
What looks like horse blankets hang from a few hooks along the back, faded but dry.
At first, I thought this place was abandoned, but it’s well-kept and relatively clean.
The horses settle for the most part, though their ears flick with anxiety every time thunder rattles the walls.
Holden moves automatically, loosening Whiskey’s cinch and pulling his saddle off. Shaking off my inertia, I go to Cozy so I can do the same for her.
She’s as saturated as I am. I stroke her wet neck, hot from exertion, and murmur to her as I strip off her tack, thanking her for working so hard to get us to safety.
When I turn in search of a place to set her saddle, I catch Holden watching me. The intensity of his stare sends warmth seeping beneath my chilled skin.
I try to smile, but my lips quiver instead. “I guess I’m bad luck when it comes to storms.”
With a shake of his head, he closes the gap between us and takes Cozy’s saddle from me. “Not your fault,” he says as he hangs it over a stall door. “I knew bad weather was coming. I shouldn’t have brought you out with me.”
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. “Would you have made it back to the ranch if I weren’t with you?”
“Maybe. Then again, I might not have gotten the heifer free as easily if you hadn’t been there. Would’ve had a harder time patching the fence without your help too. I shouldn’t have brought you out, but that doesn’t mean I regret it.”
Now that the fear and adrenaline of the ride are fading, my brain comes back online and the weight of the bag on my back registers. “Oh, shit.” I unstrap my camera bag, noting the darker patches near the zipper seams and the way water beads across the canvas exterior.
“Is it bad?” Holden asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
Chest tight, I drop to a crouch near the straw bales. My fingers are clumsy as I unzip the bag and check inside. When I find my camera dry, I sag a little. “Looks like the bag held up well,” I say, checking the lens carefully. “I think it’s okay.”
“You think?” He steps closer, pulling one of the horse blankets from a nearby hook. “Here.”
I blink up at him. “You want me to wrap my camera in that?”
“No. I want you to stop kneeling on the dirty floor while you check it.”
Only then do I realize that my wet jeans are turning the dirt beneath my knees to mud.
Holden spreads the blanket over one of the straw bales. “Sit here.”
“Thank you.” I take a seat, checking the lens first, then the battery compartment and memory card. All dry. I power it on, and as the screen lights up, relief overtakes me. “It survived.”
“Glad to hear it. Now you need to get out of those clothes.”
“What?” I whip my head up, finding him holding out a brown canvas jacket.
He exhales through his nose. “You’re soaked, and seeing as how we’re going to be stuck here for the night, it’s only going to get colder. You need to get out of those wet clothes before you freeze.”
Now that my concern about my camera has passed, I can’t ignore the chill of my clothes clinging to my skin. So, standing, I take the jacket. It’s heavy in my hands, wet on the outside but dry inside.
“Do you always carry spare jackets around?”
“Colorado,” he says simply. “You learn fast.”
As if to emphasize his point, thunder rattles the roof overhead, the sound even closer than before.
“What about you?” I ask.
His blue shirt, darkened by the rain, is plastered to his broad chest, and his wet hair curls against his nape as water trickles down his neck. His jeans, like mine, are soaked, clinging to the long lines of his thighs.
My attention lingers there a second too long before I force myself to look away. Now is not the time to be indulging in my attraction.
“I’ll be fine. The cold will affect you more than it does me.” He gestures toward the stalls. “Change over there. I’ll finish with the horses.”
I hesitate a moment longer, considering him, even as a shiver racks me.
Brows drawn together, he steps in close and catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How about you don’t argue with me for once?”