Page 34 of Cowboy in Colorado
I glance at the walls. “So the logs in the walls, they’re from, what, two hundred years ago?”
He snorts. “Try more like four hundred, if not more. My family has been on this land since the early eighteen hundreds, and the cabin was on this ridge then. The locals and natives of the time said nobody living knew anyone who’d been around when it was built, and there were some old,oldmen in these parts who had great-grandfathers who’d fled out here from the Revolutionary War, andthoseold great-grandfathers had no idea who’d built it.”
I frown. “This cabin predates the Revolutionary War?”
“This structure itself, yes, and by quite a lot, we think. The walls and the chimney are the only original parts left, though. I reroofed it, put in a new subfloor and floor, insulation, re-caulked and sealed the walls, put in a new door and windows, ran electrical and plumbing, put in the shower and totally redid the kitchen.” He gestures at the bench, the table and chairs. “I made those, and the door, and built the stable.”
“You yourself did everything?”
He nods. “Yep. Grandpa—my mom’s dad—was a carpenter and builder, and I used to spend my summers as a kid out in Cape Cod, learning woodworking and building.”
I shiver, wrap the blanket more tightly around me, the fire and the blanket can’t seem to banish the chill in my bones. “I th-thought you were born and bred here, on this ranch?”
He nods, shifting his weight from squatting on one heel to the other. “I was. But as a kid, Mom always thought it was important I get at least a little exposure to life beyond the ranch, so they sent me to live with Grandma and Grandpa out in Cape Cod, where Mom is from.”
I shift forward on the bearskin, trying to get closer to the fire, shivering and shaking uncontrollably, teeth chattering. My brain feels foggy. “How d-did a woman from C-Cape Cod end up married to a r-r-rancher from C-Color-r-rado?”
Will pivots on his heel and glances at me, hearing the chatter. “The blanket and the fire, and you’re still chattering?”
“I j-j-just c-c-can’t g-g-get w-w-warm.”
His eyes flick over me, less salacious and more scrutinizing. “Gotta get you out of those wet clothes.” He sighs, standing up, rubbing his forehead. “Your soft city girl system ain’t used to this, I guess.”
He does seem utterly unfazed, even though he’s as wet as I am.
“Well, I’m s-s-sorry I wasn’t r-r-raised on a r-r-ranch like you. I didn’t ch-choose the life I was b-b-born into, you know.”
He grimaces. “That ridiculous outfit you’re wearing isn’t doing you any favors either.”
“S-silk dries faster than c-c-cotton, I’ll have you know.” I glare up at him, hating being beholden to him, dependent on him.
Hating his resentment of me but most of all, hating how he can look so incredibly ruggedly beautiful while being so damned cranky.
He glares back at me, his eyes hesitating on mine, searching, flicking from my eyes to my wet hair sticking to my cheeks and forehead in thick hanks pasted against clammy skin, down to my neck, as if he can see my pulse hammering in my throat—and speaking of pulse, why the hell is my pulse going so hard? Why do I feel so hot in my gut and between my legs while the rest of me is shaking with cold and wet? His eyes slide down to the opening of the blanket where I have it tugged together—to the sliver of skin and the hint of white blouse sticking, see-through, to my flesh showing the blood orange lace of my bra.
His jaw clenches, his hand knots into a fist, and he turns away, his spine ramrod stiff, shoulders back, head high, arms swinging loosely as he marches across the cabin from fireplace to shower. He growls under his breath, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. He angrily yanks open the shower door, reaches in and twists on the water. Pipes knock and clang, water spurts and stops, and then falls from the ceiling in a steady spray. Closing the door, Will moves away from the shower and that’s when I realize there’s a back door cleverly disguised to look like the rest of the door. The handle is matte black metal, hidden within a dark whorled knot in the wood, there’s no hint of hinges, and the seams and cracks line up exactly with the cracks between logs. Pressing the latch down, Will nudges the door and it swings open silently; he leans into the darkened interior—which is another room—reaches in, flips a switch of some kind, and I hear the chug and snarl of a diesel generator grumbling to life. He closes the hidden door, and the sound of the generator is almost completely muffled. This done, Will goes back to the shower and adjusts the knobs, and within a minute or so, I see steam writhing toward the ceiling. He flips another switch near the wall by the shower stall, and a vent fan hidden in the ceiling surrounding the showerhead kicks on, sucking up the steam.
I didn’t think I could be more impressed with the way this cabin is built, but I am quickly discovering how wrong I was.
Will faces me, jutting his chin at me. “Get in.”
I stare at him. “I…the sh-shower?”
He frowns at the stupidly obvious statement. “Um, yes. The shower.” He flicks a hand at the secret room. “The hot water tank is small, and there ain’t much fuel in the generator this time of year, so if you want a hot shower, you best get to gettin’.”
I throw off the blanket and stand up, the lure of a hot shower far too tempting to resist. I get to the shower stall, throw off my blazer, but Will’s eyes fix immediately on the intense blood orange of my bra showing clearly through the now-sheer white of my blouse.
“Are you going to stand there watching?” I snap. “I realize this is a one-room cabin so I don’t expect complete privacy, but the least you could do is turn around.”
“Wrong—the least I could do is provide shelter from the storm, a hot fire, a hot shower, and hot food—to an unwelcome guest I distinctly remember telling to go home.” His tone is hard. He does turn around however, and mumbles under his breath—this time, he’s close enough that I can make out his words. “Nothing to fuckin’ see anyway.”
For some reason, that kicks my ire into turbo. “Excuse you?” Fire crackles through my veins, replacing logic and sense with unreasoning fury. “Nothing to see?”
I have zero control over my actions. After the day I’ve had, the number of times I’ve nearly died today—which is more than the total number of times I’ve nearly died in my entire life—the fear I’ve endured and worked through, the embarrassment, the unfamiliarity of literally everything…and now this primal beast of a man has the raw unmitigated gall to say there’snothing to see?
Oh, hell no.
At long last, I kick my heels off—truly kick them, at him, one and then the other, with unerring accuracy, each one slamming into his gut. He grunts, catching the shoes one by one, and tosses them aside, eyes locked on mine, boiling with fury and conflict and—unmistakable desire.