Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
KAEL
“You look like you could fall asleep,” the woman across from me croons.
The words slide beneath my skin. Not used to being noticed. Not used to caring when I am.
I pat my stomach, leaning back in the chair. “Can’t recall the last time I ate that well.”
A pleased smile captures her thick, pink lips. God, I can’t look at them, my ruin.
The throb pulses through me again, skin heated, fire threading through the veins of light. It’s enough to put a man in his grave. Maybe that’s what makes me want to stay.
Or maybe it’s the way the sunlight through the curtains casts a faint, golden glow across her cheeks, making her freckles dance.
Our eyes meet, hers dark and warm like molasses. That’s when I realize she’s caught me staring.
Again.
Truth is, I could never get enough of looking at her. Which is exactly why I must go.
But something else pulls deeper. A vein I wasn’t counting on. The one that has me asking what will happen to her if I’m not here? If I don’t protect her?
She clears her throat, cheeks glowing. “This could be every meal, you know.”
I shake my head, looking away. Kindness doesn’t sit right with me.
Too easy. Too one-sided. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, I need you, Kael. At least for a little while.”
Those words hit me like a punch between the shoulder blades.
“You need help. Not me.”
She blinks slowly twice, her mouth working, though she says nothing. “You said Mags sent you. Think she’d be okay with you staying a little while longer?”
“You don’t take no for an answer.”
“Right now,” she sighs. “I can’t.”
Another throb hits me. Lower now. Down to the core of me where murky thoughts and dark deeds begin.
“I’ll sleep in the pasture,” I grumble. “Now show me how to earn my keep.”
Three days pass, and we fall into a begrudging rhythm. She’s up before dawn. That part of the day I can count on to catch my breath, keeping the only kind of distance that feels safe.
The first day, when she returns, I have the cattle out in the farthest pasture. The toughest ride from the main house, hoping she won’t find me.
She does anyway. Tough as nails. More stubborn.
Wherever I take the herd, she finds me. As if she’s got some kind of homing beacon on me. Like she feels the same pull.
Maybe she does.
Lord knows a shiver passes down my spine each time she gets close. Even when she so much as thinks my way. And the hum beneath my skin takes on a life of its own, like a horse’s back quivering and spasming when flies land on it.
The sun drives toward us in slanted rays, softer now but still insistent. Heat radiates from stone and soil, the roar of cicadas persistent, unending.
Tempest dances beneath me as we push cows secure behind the fence we’ve spent the afternoon mending.
“You’re not bad on a horse,” Eliza says, side-eyeing me.
Slept in the saddle. Ate in it. Lived and died by it. Only home I’ve ever known.
I don’t say that, though. Bragging’s never been my thing.
Instead, I grunt, nodding toward another place we need to patch. We dismount, and I secure the gate. Then, I strain against the barbed wire tightener as she drives fresh staples into the post with pliers.
I finish with the wire twister, ramping up the tension until the line sings when I snag it. “That’ll hold.”
She frowns. I know what’s coming before she says it. “Not against whatever got the bull.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Seen plenty of chickens drained of blood, too.”
“Yeah, from weasels or minks… maybe the occasional raccoon. But a whole bull? Would have to see it with my own eyes to believe it.”
Plenty she doesn’t believe staring right at it.
“I’ll stay out with the cattle again tonight. Keep watch just in case,” I offer.
“You can’t keep doing that.”
“Comes with cow punching, don’t it?”
Have things changed this much since my youth?
“Yeah, but—”
“But what, Miss Wakefield?”
“You’re allowed to call me Eliza.”
“You’re my employer. It’s a sign of respect. A necessary line to draw.”
Her cheeks glow, a smirk tilting the corners of her mouth. “A necessary line,” she repeats. “My mama warned me about your type long ago. Only line I need.”
That grabs my attention. I shift in the saddle, the leather creaking. “My type?”
“The rambling type.”
“That all?” I challenge, not sure I’m ready for this discussion if that’s where it’s headed.
“Mama said there were a different sort of folk in Raven’s Ridge. Not to be judged. Not to be called out. But to stick to their own the way we stick to ours.”
Wakefield philosophy.
Benign on first hearing. Deadly in practice.
Another spasm throbs through me. Low, heated, desperate.
I eye the distant mountains. Don’t worry. I’ll keep on the way I have. Leave this gal alone.
But the ache doubles back, and I have to fight through it, gripping the saddle horn to steady myself.
Thankfully, Eliza doesn’t notice, nudging her Palomino forward to push a cow back into line. The new distance isn’t enough. I need more breathing room.
A bed of prairie and a pillow of stars should do it. Give me time to regain myself, figure out what the hell these new sensations are.
This wanting without end. No relief. No escape.
“What else did she tell you?” I ask between clenched teeth.
She glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “That your people are older than ours. Been here since before… well, before.”
I huff a laugh. Too tense. Too tight. “Old wives’ tales.”
“That’s what I’ve always said.”
“Where are your parents now?” I ask. The obvious question. No reason she should be running this place alone.
“Retired to Florida. A little beach house on the coast. No horses, no cows, nothing to make life any harder than it has to be.”
“What’s life without hardship?” I ask.
“Easier.”
I shrug, not wanting to fight. Or to talk for that matter.
I nod toward another loose spot in the wire, squeeze my legs, sending Tempest in that direction. We work in silence now, so close I can feel the heat of her skin.
The pulse point at her neck quivers, breath coming faster as I work the tightener to give her more traction. She drives another staple into the post. “Tighter.”
I oblige, pulling until the post shifts but still holding back. The last thing she needs is to know my strength. The full force of it.
“No offense, but when’s the last time you had a cut and shave?” She eyes me, her pupils blown.
My gaze drops to her lips. Can’t help myself. Another hum vibrates through me, turning flesh to tone. “Hard to find a good barber around here.”
She cocks her head to the side, surveying me slowly. “I could maybe help with that.”
My forehead furrows. “A shave and a cut? Are you out of your mind?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“It’s not that. It’s just I have a particular way I like things done. With a straight razor blade. Think you can handle that?”
“Well, I do shave my legs,” she says.
Her words nudge me back into the right century. Yes, leg shaving. I try, but my mind still wanders…. to rough palms, soft flesh, and the kind of curves you could build a temple around.
I look away, swallowing hard. “Am I that scruffy? That you need to clean me up like a stray dog.”
A mischievous smile captures her lips. “Bring you into the present century is all.”
Makes me wonder how much Mags has told her.
Her eyes snag on the collar of my shirt. “Hand stitched. Wow.”
“There a dress code here I don’t know about?” I lean closer. Can’t help myself.
Another pulse rips through me, somehow softer, easier to bear at this proximity. Though I know she’s the spark to my affliction.
Her hot breath is on my cheek, her eyes dancing to mine. “No. Just trying to figure you out.”
She drives in another staple, and I step back. Twice.
Can’t do this.
Can’t stay so close. Even if it feels like finding water after a day in full sun.
“First and last mistake,” I murmur, heart still thumping somewhere in my throat. God, the mountain makes my blood sing today. I refuse to entertain the alternative.
That it’s her. That it’s this proximity.
I pace toward Tempest, trying to push the need from my mind. But it gnaws at the edges of my logic. Sharp. Persistent. “Gonna sleep under the stars tonight. Only way to solve your mystery with the bull… and the crops.”
“Been doing that for three nights. Any closer to answers?”
I grunt.
“Maybe one of these nights I’ll camp out with you.”
“God, no.”
Her eyes round, her forehead twisting. “Why not? It’s my land. My herd.”
“Some things women aren’t built for.” It’s not what I believe. Not remotely, but I’m out of other explanations.
Her eyes cast to the side. “Tell that to Mags.” Knowledge edges her words, and our eyes lock. “You’re just as stubborn as she is, you know.”
Older, too. But I catch myself before speaking out of turn. “Set in my ways is all. And why you keep pairing Mags and me together in sentences, I’ll never figure out.”
“Because you’re friends,” she says, face impassive. “Like-minded, like-tempered—”
“Like-bred?”
She lets out a little sigh, looking away as if she’s not interested. But I know she is. Curiosity seeps from her bones.
After a long pause, she asks. “Can I offer you a shower and clean clothes? A home-cooked meal?”
“Part of the deal,” I grunt. “The meal, I mean.”
“All of it, really. Every part that goes with lodging.”
“You saying I should clean up, boss?”
She crinkles her nose. “I’m saying your clothes could make a scarecrow without a broom. Stiff enough to stand alone. And smell? No offense, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to drive me away.”
The last remark hits too close.
“Can barely think ahead to the next meal, let alone next day. But if it’s part of the job, I’ll do it,” I excuse.
“It is,” she says like her word is final. “And you don’t need to call me boss.”
“What do I call you, then?”
“Eliza’s still fine.”