Sabrina
Over the next couple of weeks, Damian makes what actually seems like a genuine effort to convince me I didn’t make a huge mistake coming here.
He buys me a pair of work gloves that fit my hands better than the oversized pair of his I’d been borrowing.
He finally learns how I take my coffee, though not without giving me grief about how much cream I use.
He notices me rubbing my temples after dinner one evening and quietly sets aspirin and a glass of water beside my plate, then casually asks a couple of hours later if the aspirin helped.
One afternoon I discover he’s replaced the old bath towels with thick, fluffy new ones. Two days later, I step into the hallway wrapped in one of them and nearly walk straight into him. He mutters something under his breath and disappears outside before I can stop blushing.
Then he comes home from the grocery store with a fresh bouquet of flowers. The old bouquet quietly disappears, replaced by a bunch of daisies and pink carnations arranged in the same pickle jar on the kitchen table.
I make an effort, too. I mend his favorite work shirt before the tear gets any worse.
I bake a pecan pie and pretend not to be pleased when he reaches for a second slice.
When he’s been outside working in the heat for too long, I carry him a cold glass of lemonade.
He’s shirtless and sun-bronzed. He catches me staring, and the smug grin that follows makes me want to throw the lemonade at him almost as much as I want to kiss him.
We still argue. Constantly. About ranch work. About chores. About who forgot to latch a gate or whether there are right and wrong ways to fold towels.
Somehow, though, it starts feeling less like a sign that this marriage is doomed and more like…us.
Day twenty-two begins with Damian telling me I’m holding the rope wrong.
“I’m holding it exactly the way you showed me,” I say, keeping both hands around the thick line as I follow him across the pasture.
“No, you’re holding it the way you decided was better five minutes after I showed you.”
“Because your way was uncomfortable.”
“My way keeps you from losing skin when the horse pulls.”
The horse in question, a young gelding named Rio, stands near the far side of the training pen with his ears shifting uneasily. Damian has been working with him for several weeks, trying to teach him not to panic around ropes. Today, apparently, I’m supposed to help.
Damian stops and turns toward me, the morning sun catching along the edge of his hat. “Wrap it across your palm like that again and you’ll regret it.”
I glare at him while he steps closer. Instead of continuing the argument, he takes my hands and adjusts my grip, his rough fingers sliding over mine. The contact is practical, but my body has apparently lost the ability to distinguish practical from indecent where Damian is concerned.
“Keep the slack loose. If he jerks, let it slide. Don’t fight him.”
“I thought you liked fighting.”
His mouth moves near my temple. “With you? Sure.”
I look up and find him watching me instead of the rope. The air between us changes, tightening around the hunger we’ve been trying to ignore.
Then Rio stamps, and Damian steps away.
“Pay attention,” he scolds me.
“You’re the one distracting me.”
“Can’t help how good I look.”
I mutter something impolite, earning a laugh from Damian before he returns his attention to the horse.
For the next half hour, everything goes smoothly. Damian moves Rio through the pen while I help manage the long training rope. The gelding is nervous but responsive, circling us at a controlled pace while Damian speaks to him in a low, steady voice I’ve never heard him use before.
It’s strange seeing this side of him. Patient. Focused. Gentle. Every time Rio startles, Damian gives him space to settle rather than forcing him forward.
“He’s doing better,” I say.
“He is.” Damian wipes his forearm across his forehead. “We’ll finish after one more pass.”
Rio circles again. A truck rattles along the county road beyond the pasture, too distant to matter, but a sharp metallic bang sounds from its bed as it hits a rut.
The gelding explodes.
One second, he’s moving at an easy trot. The next, he rears with a terrified scream and bolts toward the opposite side of the pen. The rope whips through my hands.
I release it, just as Damian taught me, but the loose end catches beneath the heel of my boot.
The force knocks me backward.
My shoulder hits the ground, driving the breath from my lungs, and then I’m moving. Dirt tears beneath me as the rope drags me across the pen. I twist, trying to free my foot, but the line has cinched tight around my ankle.
“Sabrina!”
Damian’s shout cuts through the thunder of hooves. I claw at the ground, reaching for anything that might stop me, but my fingers close on loose dirt. The fence rushes closer. Rio is veering toward the narrow opening beside the gate, and if he gets through it, he’ll drag me straight into the posts.
Damian runs beside me.
He catches my wrist, but the pull nearly jerks him off his feet. His grip slips to my forearm, his fingers locking hard while his boots skid through the dirt.
“Let go!” I shout, terror ripping the words from me. “Damian, let go!”
“Not happening!”
He plants one foot, muscles straining through his shirt, but Rio’s momentum drags us both forward. The gate is only yards away now. Damian looks toward it, makes a decision, and releases me.
For one horrible second, I think he’s listened.
Then he lunges past me.
He throws himself onto the rope between my ankle and the horse, wrapping both arms around it and driving his weight sideways. The line snaps tight across his body. He’s ripped from his feet and slammed onto the ground, but the angle changes enough to pull Rio off course.
The gelding swerves.
Damian is dragged several feet before he gets one boot beneath him. He rises halfway, hauling backward with everything he has while the rope bites across his forearm. Rio fights the pressure, tossing his head and scrambling in the dirt, but Damian keeps pulling.
“Easy!” he bellows. “Easy, boy!”
The horse slows for half a second. It’s enough. Damian yanks the rope from beneath his arm, surges toward me, and drops to his knees beside my legs. His hands work at the knot around my ankle while Rio circles wildly behind him.
“Hurry,” I gasp.
“I’m trying.”
The rope tightens again.
Damian shoves my trapped leg flat and curls over me just as the line snaps forward. It tears across his back instead of catching me. His body jerks, and a harsh sound leaves him, but his fingers remain locked around the loop.
Then it loosens.
He rips the rope from my ankle and throws it aside. Before I can move, he scoops me from the dirt and carries me toward the fence as Rio bolts across the pen behind us.
Damian reaches the gate, shoulders through it, and lowers me outside the pen. Only then does he turn back and slam it shut.
Rio races along the fence, kicking up clouds of dust, while Damian stands between me and the gate, chest heaving. Blood runs from his forearm. His shirt is torn across one shoulder, and an angry red mark disappears beneath the fabric along his back.
“You’re hurt.” My voice shakes so badly I barely recognize it.
“I’m fine.”
“You were dragged.”
“So were you.” He drops into a crouch in front of me, his hands moving over my arms, shoulders, and face. “Where does it hurt?”
“Damian.”
“Tell me.”
“My ankle. A little. I think I’m okay.”
His jaw tightens. His eyes search for an injury I might have missed. The concern in his eyes undoes me more than the accident itself.
“You could’ve been killed,” he says.
“So could you.”
“I had it handled.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t mean you had it handled!”
My voice breaks. All the terror I’ve been holding back rushes through me at once, leaving me shaking beneath his hands. I cling to him despite the dirt, the blood, and the way his breath catches when my arms close around his back. His heart pounds beneath my cheek.
He’s alive. He’s here.
He put himself between me and that rope without hesitating.
I pull back and kiss him.
Damian freezes for a heartbeat before his hand closes around the back of my head and his mouth takes mine.
He hauls me closer, and I press myself against him while his tongue sweeps into my mouth.
Every nerve in my body ignites. I clutch his shirt, needing him nearer even though there’s already no space between us.
Then he flinches.
I pull away. “Your back.”
“It’s fine.”
“You made a sound.”
“I was enjoying myself.”
“That wasn’t an enjoying-yourself sound.”
“I’ve got several. You haven’t heard most of them yet.”
I glare at him. “We’re going inside.”
His thumb drags over my swollen lower lip. “You gonna kiss me again?”
“After I make sure you aren’t bleeding to death.”
He mutters about unreasonable women as I help him stand, though he keeps one arm around my waist all the way to the house.
Inside, I make him sit on a kitchen chair and peel the torn shirt away from his shoulders. The rope has left an ugly burn across his back, but the skin is only broken in a few places. His forearm is worse, scraped up where the line caught him.
I wet a clean cloth and begin washing away the dirt.
Damian hisses. “Gentle.”
“You threw yourself onto a moving rope, but this is too much?”
“The rope wasn’t poking at me.”
“I’m cleaning it.”
He catches me around the waist, pulling me between his knees. Before I can object, he kisses the exposed skin above my waistband.
“Damian.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“You are helping.”
“Sit still.”
He looks up with a shameless grin. His hands slide along my hips, drawing me closer until my knees touch the chair. He kisses my skin again, slower this time, and I almost forget about the bandage.
Almost.
I press it against his chest. “I’m not finished.”
“You’re taking too long.”
“You’ve been sitting for three minutes.”
“Longest three minutes of my life.”