Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
ELIZA
Apile of dirty clothes greets me at the mudroom door. A black button-down shirt, dusty and caked with sweat. My thumb rubs over the collar, marveling at the tiny hand-stitched seams.
Like something from a museum—about as threadbare. I find a black thermal, too. Not as old, but still well past its prime, and a pair of jeans that look like they barely made it into this century.
No socks. No underwear.
No sound of the shower upstairs, either.
After the wash churns, I head upstairs, knocking lightly on his door.
“I can get you a towel or a bathrobe if you need it?”
Nothing.
Not a squeaky floorboard. Not a shift of weight on the bed.
I turn the knob, inch the door open and find what I expected—no signs of settling in.
I cross to the window, pulling back the sheer white curtains just enough. Outside, behind bubbly old glass, I make out a fleshy form.
My throat tightens, pulse jumping. At the old watering hole by the willow tree with its green branches bent low, I see him up to his chest in the water, a bar of soap in hand, scrubbing a sock.
Despite the heat of the day, it’s still got to be frigid.
“What is he doing?” I whisper to myself, chest heavy as I keep watching. His head bobs, and I pull back from the curtain for a second. Then he stands, and my eyes bug out of my head.
A wall of muscle, covered in tattoos across the left side of his chest and down one arm. Water dribbles from his beard, washing over his chest. My eyes descend lower before I pull them away.
“For God’s sake, Eliza. You can’t be peeping on him.”
He turns his back to me now, and I can’t stop myself. Broad shoulders, muscular back. Angry scars peppering his torso. Some round like bullet-hole scars, others great angry puckers that tell a story I can’t read.
His back tapers into a solid waist, thick, rippling thighs, and an ass… An ass I shouldn’t see but won’t soon forget. He scans the house again, and I duck back, mortified at the thought of being caught.
When I have the nerve to crane my head again, his beard’s white with soap and so is his hair. Then, he dives beneath the water, coming up floating on his back. Mouth working, like he’s singing something to himself.
I let the curtain fall, scolding myself. “You’re objectifying your employee, Eliza.”
The accusation doesn’t help. My thoughts are already racing to slippery, soapy flesh pressed against mine. Rock hard and unyielding like the granite teeth of the Starborn Range.
Mama’s advice rushes back over me, wrapped in guilt. Have to stay away from his type. Far away.
But I also need to pay him back in some unknown way. Like a concession for spying on him.
That’s when I head for the top shelf of my bedroom closet, balancing precariously on a stepping stool. In a box worn well past its years, I find my great-great-grandfather’s old straight razor with the ivory-carved handle.
My thumb swipes over the warm, slick white surface engraved with the name Alistair Wakefield. In my bathroom, I find pink shaving cream. More for legs, not beards. It’ll have to do.
At the pantry, I pull out a stack of fluffy pink towels, stacking them outside on the back porch swing where, hopefully, he’ll see them. I leave a white guest robe there, too. The biggest I can find.
Penance for peeping.
When the door swings wide and the big man walks through, a towel wrapped around his waist—just barely—my breath catches in my throat. The tattoos shift over his flesh. Glowing. Moving. I must be losing my mind.
“Robe’s for you, too,” I manage between breaths, averting my eyes.
“Wasn’t sure.” His cheeks darken, but he stands there too long, taking me in.
Finally, when he turns and heads back onto the porch, I let out a huff, realizing I’ve been holding my breath.
The cowboy re-enters, nearly busting out of the fabric. Arms peeking out half a foot beyond each cuff. The bottom hem almost above his knees. I press my hand to my mouth, fighting a giggle.
He frowns, wholly uncomfortable.
I motion him toward a chair set apart in the living room. The tattoos lay buried beneath white. Where they need to stay.
Because what I saw a few moments ago? The glowing?
Like the bull. Like the field. I don’t need to see it ever again.
He scrutinizes me, blue eyes flashing.
“Have a seat,” I invite. “I’ll give you a shave and a cut.”
I’m no hairstylist, let alone a barber. But I’ve cut enough of the ranch hands’ and my dad’s hair over the years to know I can make him look semi-decent. At least presentable.
Don’t need rumors going around that I’m letting my employees look sloppy.
The curtains rustle, a hint of a breeze. But it’s not enough. I cross to the back window and turn on the square fan permanently housed there come summer. I should have a swamp cooler. Just never got around to it.
Kael sits transfixed, turning the antique razor in his hand when I return.
“Found that in my dad’s old stuff. Figured we could give it a try.”
“No,” he says too firmly, slamming it down on the table top. “It don’t touch me.”
I startle at the words, hand going to my chest.
“Sorry,” he grunts. “You ever use that before?”
I shake my head. “But how hard can it be?”
The curtains sway, fan blades kicking up a soft breeze.
“You’ll have me bled out like a stuck pig before supper,” he says, still glaring at the razor.
“That’s not my intention—”
“Then, what is your intention, Miss Wakefield?”
“Eliza.”
Our eyes meet, and the air leaves my lungs. Again.
“I don’t hire hippies,” I mutter, working to steady my voice.
“That what I look like to you?” His brows furrow.
“Like you hitchhiked straight out of the Haight-Ashbury… by way of Tombstone.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, in that case…” he mutters, sitting back. “But the beard stays. Too many scars to have it any other way.”
That sticks with me.
Most men can’t grow beards because of scars. Not the other way around.
I step forward, resting my palms on his shoulders. He stiffens, like a puma poised to pounce.
“I’ll be gentle.”
He huffs a laugh. “Barber never was.” His hand comes up, tracing a jagged line along his neck, buried in beard.
“A professional did that to you?” I gasp.
His turquoise eyes roil. “Extenuating circumstances.”
“No wonder you don’t want me to use the blade.”
“It’s the name, not the steel.”
“Alistair? My great-great-grandfather?”
His face goes stony. “Let’s not talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m about two seconds away from walking out that door and never looking back.”
I grimace, putting a hand on my hip. “This isn’t gonna work if you keep threatening to go.”
“Not a threat. The truth.”
My fingers sink into his shoulder then, working rock-hard muscles through the thick fabric. Thank God for terrycloth. I don’t know what I’d do if his flesh met mine.
“Relax,” I command, digging my fingers deeper.
He groans, eyes rolling back. Then a second time, softer but longer, almost like a purr.
“So, you like that?”
He doesn’t have to answer, ecstasy written across his face. “You shouldn’t.” But he doesn’t stop me.
“And why shouldn’t I? I need a ranch hand ready to work. That means clean-cut and well-rested.”
“Still gonna sleep in the field tonight,” he murmurs between squeezes of my fingers.
“And ruin everything we’re doing today,” I say, leaning closer, breathing in the smell of pine and charcoal from his soap.
“Only one way to guard a herd, boss.” But the angry edge dissolves as I dig deeper, sinking an elbow into his taut trapezius.
“You really should—”
“Stop? In a minute. Can you tell I’m trying to entice you into staying?”
He opens one eye, staring up lazily at me. “That how this works?”
“Small town. Everyone knows everyone. And Frank was it for ranch hands available to work… until you showed up.”
“I always ride out, Miss Wakefield—”
“Eliza.”
He clears his throat, his voice low and grumpy, “Eliza.”
Three syllables. Heat curls low. I squeeze my legs together, trying not to give in to the pulse pounding behind my temples.
I stop massaging, and he stiffens. Like he already misses the attention. But he says nothing.
“Now, for decision time. Straight razor out. Clippers in?” I hold up the shaver with various attachments.
He regards it suspiciously, like it could bite him. “That really necessary?”
“Only if you want a buzzed head or very short hair.”
He eyes the scissors, then me. “Only take off what makes me look like… a hippie. The rest keep. Just don’t touch me.”
Don’t touch me?
“I’ll do my best.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “Thank you kindly, Miss.”
“Still Eliza.”
He growls.
My fingers slide tentatively through his hair, and his eyes close again. Hands fisted in his lap. Like he’s enduring this.
I work carefully with the scissors not to touch his scalp, cheek, neck, though I can still feel his skin’s warmth.
“When’s the last time you had a cut?” I ask softly, fingers dancing carefully, scissors snipping.
“Too long to remember. Never a woman, though.”
I stop, hands dropping back to his shoulders. “Wait, what? You’ve never had your hair cut by a woman before?”
“No, ma’am… I mean, Eliza.” The carefully spoken name wrecks me all over again.
“Well, I hope I do okay in that case. Represent the fairer sex well.”
“You’re already doing too good,” he admits, voice softer than I’ve heard since his arrival.
The fan whirs from the window, the screens straining and curtains swooshing. I work in silence, the only sound the metallic snip-snip of the scissors and his soft groans.
They make my knees weak, like two columns of jelly. “Next, the beard. I’ll try not to… uh, touch you.”
He nods softly as my fingers thread into his facial hair. I lean forward, biting my lip in concentration. Inches fall until the growth is tight and trim. It takes a good two decades off his look.
He could pass for late twenties if I didn’t know better. Though what I know is up for debate.
I step back, eyeing the finished product. Stunning. Masculine. Still rugged but cared for.
Our eyes lock, and I can’t think. Can’t breathe.
My hands tremble as his gaze digs into me. Penetrating.
I set the scissors on the table, sliding behind him once more. My hands grip his shoulders, squeezing one more time.
He melts against my touch.
“You’re a new man.” I’m surprised my voice even works.
My nerves spike, pulse climbing. My fingers slip, grazing his neck.
Heat and need surge. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
And then I feel it. A pulse rocks through him. Dark and dangerous.
He jumps to his feet so fast that he jerks my arms with him. “Don’t.” He eyes me wildly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He paces away, then turns, scowling. “No more… touching.” Barely contained anger simmers beneath his voice.
My stomach drops, absorbing his rejection. He must hate me. Find me disgusting.
He rubs a hand over his beard absentmindedly. “Done show ponying me, Wakefield?”
He says the last part with extra emphasis. But there’s a heat behind his eyes that looks like regret.