Page 9 of Revelry (Cowgirls Do It Better #2)

Tate looked away, his jaw doing that hilarious clenching thing again before he turned back. “Fine, just hurry up. I’m late.”

“I know, sugar. You said.”

I moved out of the way and over to Sunshine’s stall, rummaging in a hessian bag hanging from a nail that I knew contained carrots and holding one out to her.

Tate greeted Chester, running a wide palm over the horse’s back and down his flank.

Murmuring to him and bonding with him in a way that had me feeling all uncomfortable and a little thirsty.

Why was this so hot?

“It’s those damn chaps,” I muttered, squirming.

“Excuse me?” Tate called over his shoulder.

“Nice chaps!”

I heard him suck his teeth again and grinned to myself, he was too easy to mess with. All starchy and rigid.

When he turned to face Chester, I got the glorious view of his back.

Wide, muscled with an intriguing dip between his shoulder blades that would be perfect to rest my head on.

I shook said head now, commanding myself to stop sexualizing Tate.

Which I would do the second I’d gotten a good look at his ass.

Like the heavens had heard me, Tate bent down, his jeans molding to his skin and I swear I had a hot flash. That ass was high, round and tight.

“Oh mama,” I moaned quietly. He glanced over his shoulder again and I coughed to cover up my exclamation.

Right now, staring at this man, I wasn’t exactly sure why I’d sworn off them.

But there were men and then there was Tate Wilder.

His biceps flexed as he picked up each of Chester’s hooves, inspecting them, his brow pinching above the rim of his glasses. When he pushed them higher up his nose, I swear my lady parts screamed and held up placards that all read 10 .

I found an old steel bucket and upended it, dropping my ass down ready to watch the show.

Tate grabbed some tools from his bag and then came back to Chester, standing in front of him and pulling a hoof between his legs, his thighs clenching around it holding it in place.

Tate murmured to Chester and then began scraping out his hoof with an aggressiveness that shocked me.

I’d never watched a farrier change shoes before and it looked brutal as hell.

“Does that hurt him?” I called.

“No,” came Tate’s clipped response.

Oookay. Something about Tate’s short reply made me want more.

I rocked my knees. “What ya doing?”

“Cleaning the hoof.”

“Why?”

Tate sighed. “Can you be quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.”

I rolled my lips inwards, not that Tate could see me. Chester dipped his head, waffling in Tate’s hair and nibbling his t-shirt and I stifled a giggle. Tate continued to dig out the hoof, chunks of dirt and grass flying out and I waited for Chester to whinny or pull away but he didn’t.

I stood up, bored of sitting still and came over to the soft leather tool bag sitting on a stool. I picked up an instrument, examining it. “What’s this one do?”

Tate glanced up, letting Chester’s hoof drop and huffed. “Put that back.”

“But what’s it do?” I could practically see the steam coming out of Tate’s ears, but I was enjoying his company far too much.

“It’s a nail cutter,” Tate said, making a grab for it.

I pulled it out of reach. “Okay but what does it do ?”

“The job description is in the name,” he said through clenched teeth, reaching again and just as he had it, I dropped it back into the bag.

“It doesn’t go there,” he grumbled, tidying it away back in the slot I’d taken it from.

“What about this one?” I asked, picking up another tool.

“Gertrude,” he sighed.

“ Gertie ,” I corrected.

“Please stop touching my things.”

“Do you not like it when someone touches your things ?” I know, I’m a dick but I’m having fun seeing what will make his wooden facade crack and I hadn’t had fun in what felt like forever.

“No.” He tidied the bag then went back to Chester with some plier-looking things.

“What are those?”

“Hoof nipper,” he grunted, not looking my way. “And before you ask—”

“Let me guess, nips hooves?” I replied, raising a sassy brow and he tilted his head back, glaring at the roof of the stables. I left him to calm down, just watching as he scraped at the hooves, then filed them down and round.

“So if it doesn’t hurt, what does it feel like?”

“Sweet Jesus,” he grumbled, the ginormous nail file he was holding clattering to the ground.

“You dropped your nail file.”

He spun to me. “It’s not a nail fi— you know what, can I help you with something? Because I think this teaching moment is over.”

I furrowed my brow and tapped my lip. “Was I meant to be learning?”

“If you’re not learning, why are you asking questions, sugar ?” He popped a hip all sassy, mimicking me but my mind was stuck on the way the word sugar dripped from his lips. I wanted to hear that when he was over me, sweating and grunting and pounding his flesh into mine.

I blinked him back into focus, shocked at the way I was panting from the image of the two of us. He must have seen something on my face because he cleared his throat and abruptly turned back to Chester, clicking his tongue and Chester presented his hoof again.

“I don’t know what it feels like,” he said quietly.

The air seemed to go out of the stables and it was like we weren’t talking about the same thing anymore, but I honestly didn’t know what we were talking about.

I sat down on a stool, my elbows on my knees and rested my chin on my hands. “Guess.”

He snorted, clicking his fingers three times. “You done yanking my chain yet?”

Never . “No, I’m serious. Tell me, Tate.”

He was silent for a while, filing the hoof round and lifting it, inspecting it before dropping it.

He went over to the oven thingy he had and opened it, pulling out a red-hot horseshoe.

He took it to the anvil and start banging it with a hammer, the force rippling up his arm and making me squirm on my stool.

Tate took the shoe over to Chester, lifted his hoof and placed it to the bottom. Steam sizzled off it and I flinched before Tate pulled it away, brushing off the charred residue.

“I don’t know what it feels like for him. But it’s like us getting our nails cut. Like you getting a manicure. There’s no feeling there. It’s just maintenance,” he spoke softly, no frustration or anger.

I didn’t reply, just watched fascinated as Tate fit the shoe and hammered three nails into each side. It was so violent, so brutal and yet the horse didn’t react at all.

Maybe Tate and his leather chaps had the magic touch.

I stayed quiet as he did all four hooves and then packed up his tools, rearranging the ones I’d played with, huffing and clicking his fingers three times again. He headed towards the stable doors.

“You forgot your oven,” I called.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “It’s a forge,” he replied, and I could have sworn there was a small smirk on his lips that was gone immediately. But it made me desperate for more. I was strangely intrigued by our interaction.

I will make him smile.