Chapter 12
Ripplan
The briefing with Brylan had taken longer than I'd expected. By the time I finished going over the cattle rotation schedules and the repairs needed on the high pasture cabin, the sun had set and the first rumbles of thunder were rolling in from the west.
Thurlee had supper waiting when I walked into the main house. Steak, roasted vegetables, and a basket of biscuits that looked like clouds. Light and fluffy and perfect.
"Tammy taught me," Thurlee said proudly when she caught me staring. "Said it was all about not overworking the dough. And using cold butter."
I picked one up. Still warm. The texture was exactly right, tender and flaky, the way biscuits were supposed to be. I took a bite.
"They're good," I said.
"They're perfect." Thurlee beamed. "That girl's a treasure, Ripplan. Don't you dare let her get away."
Brylan smirked from across the table. "I don't think that's going to be a problem."
I ignored him. Ate the biscuit. Tried to focus on the food, the conversation, the sound of rain starting to patter against the windows.
But I couldn't.
Because there was something on my tongue. Something sweet that lingered no matter how much water I drank or how many bites of steak I took.
Sweetness and spice.
It had been there when I woke this morning. Faint but persistent, like the ghost of a taste I couldn't quite place. I'd brushed my teeth twice. It didn't help.
"You're distracted," Brylan said.
"I'm fine."
"You've been staring at that biscuit for five minutes."
I set it down. "Just tired."
"Uh-huh." He didn't believe me. I didn't care.
I finished eating quickly, thanked Thurlee, and headed upstairs to my room. A shower. A good night's sleep. Maybe then I'd be able to think clearly.
The hot water felt good against my shoulders, washing away the dust and sweat. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, trying to relax. Trying to ignore the nagging sensation that I was forgetting something important.
That taste. Still there. Stronger now, somehow.
Sweetness and spice.
I dried off and pulled on sleep pants, then stood at my window, toweling my hair. The storm was building—dark clouds rolling in from the west, lightning flickering in the distance. The lights at the clinic were still on, half a mile away. Small and warm against the gathering darkness.
She was still awake.
Thunder rumbled. Low and distant.
And something flickered at the edge of my memory.
Thunder. Rain. Pain.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass, frowning. The snake bite. That's what I was remembering. The fever. The pain radiating up my leg like fire.
But there was something else. Something just out of reach.
Another rumble of thunder, closer now.
Her hands. Cool against my burning skin.
I could almost feel it. The way she'd touched my face, my chest. Gentle. Worried.
"You're burning up."
Her voice. Soft and frightened.
The memory was hazy, fragmented. Like trying to see through fog.
I sat on the edge of my bed, watching the clouds approach. A flash illuminated the mountains in stark white relief.
And with it came another fragment.
Her scent. Filling the tent. So strong it cut through everything else.
My pulse quickened.
Sweetness and spice.
That's what I was tasting. That's what had been haunting me all day.
But why? Why would her scent linger on my tongue like this?
Thunder cracked. Loud enough to rattle the windows.
Her mouth.
The memory slammed into me. Visceral, undeniable, utterly real.
Soft. Warm. Opening under mine.
I stood abruptly, my heart hammering. No. That couldn't be right. I'd been sick. Delirious with fever. I wouldn't have done that.
Another flash.
Her breath hitching when I touched her.
The way she'd said my name. "Ripplan." Like a prayer and a plea all rolled together.
Another crack of thunder, and the memories came faster now. Sharper. More vivid.
Kissing her. Tasting her. My hands sliding under her shirt.
"I need this," I'd told her. "I can't die without tasting you."
And she'd let me. Welcomed me.
The rain started in earnest, drumming against the roof. I stood frozen in the middle of my room, my chest tight, my breathing harsh.
I'd gone down on her. Made her come apart under my tongue while the weather raged outside and the fever burned through my veins.
I'd told her that tasting her was worth dying for.
And she'd been there. Real and warm and wanting.
It hadn't been a fever dream.
It had been real.
A flash illuminated my room in white light, and the final piece clicked into place.
That's why she'd been so awkward the last couple of days. Why she wouldn't quite meet my eyes. Why she'd blushed every time I got too close.
She remembered every moment of what had happened in that tent.
And she hadn't said a word.
Why?
Did she think I didn't remember? Did she think I'd been too sick to know what I was doing?
Or did she think it had been a mistake?
Thunder boomed, shaking the house, and fury surged through me. Hot and sharp and demanding.
She'd let me think I'd dreamed it. Let me walk around for days not knowing, not understanding why I couldn't stop thinking about her, why her scent drove me to distraction, why I wanted to tear apart anyone who looked at her too long.
She'd known, and she'd kept it from me.
I needed answers.
I needed to see her face when I asked her why.
I needed to know if she'd felt what I'd felt. That consuming need that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with her.
I was on my feet before I'd fully made the decision. Grabbed my jeans off the chair. Pulled them on. Shoved my feet into my boots. Didn't bother with a shirt.
The rain hit me the moment I stepped outside. Cold and hard, soaking through my hair, running down my chest. Wind whipped through the trees, thunder rolling across the mountains like a living thing.
I didn't care.
I ran.
Half a mile felt like nothing. My boots splashed through puddles. My breath came hard and fast. Lightning lit up the path ahead of me, and I didn't slow down.
By the time I reached her cabin, I was drenched. Water dripped from my hair, ran down my face. My jeans clung to my legs.
I didn't hesitate. Climbed the steps. Knocked on her door.
Firm. Deliberate.
I heard movement inside. Footsteps. A pause.
Then the door opened.
And there she was.
Tammy stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a thick robe, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Her eyes went wide when she saw me. Surprise and something else. Something that made my chest tighten.
Recognition.
"Ripplan." Her voice was breathless. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk." I stepped inside at the sweep of her hand.
The door clicked shut behind me, and suddenly the weather outside seemed distant. Muffled. All I could hear was the sound of our breathing and the steady drip of water from my hair onto her floor.
We stood there.
Just looking at each other.
Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. The robe had slipped a little at her shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.
I watched her pulse jump there. Fast. Frantic.
My chest rose and fell, water streaming down my skin. I should have been cold, soaked to the bone, standing in her warm cabin. But I wasn't. I was burning. The same way I'd burned in that tent, except this time there was no fever to blame it on.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A flash through the window illuminated her face for a split second. Those wide eyes, that flush, the way her teeth caught her bottom lip.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I said.
She blinked. "Tell you what?"
"What happened. In the tent."
Her face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." I stepped closer, and she backed up instinctively. "Don't lie to me, Tammy. I remember."
"You were sick," she said quickly, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. "You had a fever. You weren't thinking clearly. I should have stopped you, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. It was unprofessional and I crossed a line I shouldn't have crossed."
"I was thinking clearly enough to know what I wanted." I took another step toward her. "And I wanted you."
"Ripplan, you were delirious. Your temperature was over a hundred and three. You were hallucinating. You didn't know what you were doing."
"You remember too. I can see it on your face."
She looked away. "It shouldn't have happened. I'm a professional. You were my patient. I shouldn't have let you touch me like that."
"Shouldn't have what? Let me kiss you? Let me taste you?" I was close enough now to smell her. That intoxicating scent that had been driving me insane for days. "You wanted it too."
"That's not the point."
"That's exactly the point." I reached out, caught her chin, made her look at me. "We're attracted to each other. You can't deny that."
"We don't even like each other," she said, but her voice was shaking.
"We like each other enough."
"Ripplan, this is a bad idea. You're my employer. I work for your family. If this goes wrong, I'll have to leave, and I don't want to leave. I like it here. I like the ranch and the work and your family and I don't want to mess that up because we can't keep our hands off each other."
I studied her face. The fear there. The vulnerability. She wasn't just worried about professionalism. She was worried about getting hurt.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said quietly.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
"Ripplan—"
I kissed her.
Hard. Demanding. My mouth claiming hers with all the pent-up frustration and need that had been building for days. She made a small sound, surprise or surrender, I couldn't tell. Then her lips parted under mine.
Gods, the taste of her. Sweet and warm, with a hint of mint toothpaste. I angled my head, deepening the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers. She tasted like everything I'd been craving without knowing it. Like home and hunger all at once.
For a heartbeat, she was still. Frozen.
Then she melted into me with a soft gasp.