Page 23 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

T his is horse shit.

My goddamn overly helpful boss, Beau Heartford, was the first one to suggest I take time off to go and assist Kayce.

I’d hardly gotten the words out when I called him from the hospital—only because I needed to fill him in on where I was and why I wasn’t back at the ranch—and the guy told me to take as much time as I needed to look after my brother .

We’re not fucking brothers, and we’re certainly not fucking family.

Yet, I’ve been stuck here on top of Devil’s Peak running this ranch for Kayce because the guy can barely walk. He’s like a one man pity party, hobbling around the house either on crutches or favoring his busted knee, trying to be a hero and pretend it's not killing him.

Storm and Briar are holding things down at Sunset Skies—where I should be.

The two of them seem perfectly content to take on my job as a favor, and in the case of everyone in Crimson Ridge being one big happy circle jerk of helpfulness, they’re not at all concerned that I need to be here for at least another week until the date of Kayce’s follow-up scan.

It didn’t take much to learn the ropes of what was needed in order to get shit done around here.

Between their stable of horses and cattle, the place is already established to be run virtually single-handedly.

Colton Wilder has managed this ranch on his own for decades, so things run pretty smoothly.

The hardest part to all this... having to be in such close quarters with him .

I’m bitter as fuck that we’re once again thrown together in a way that is entirely unavoidable.

The fact that he’s always in that house, always only a few feet away whenever I’m there.

His scent and presence are forever just around the corner, along with the knowledge that he’s sleeping just down the hall.

There’s no avoiding the fact that I can’t just switch off at night, because every bump and noise catches my awareness, pricking my hearing. Did he just fall? Has his knee given out on him? Does he need help getting from room to room? Why the hell is he out of bed at three a.m. using the microwave?

This entire situation is endlessly goddamn frustrating because I don’t want to be so pinpoint aware of where he is at all times.

After a long day outside on the ranch, I’d love nothing more than to come back in, haul my ass through a shower, eat a hot meal, before collapsing into bed.

All I’m searching for is to snatch a peaceful night on a comfortable mattress in the spare room.

But I go through all those motions, only to end up lying there without a lick of sleep touching the corners of my awareness.

I’m constantly on edge, and it’s infuriating.

We’ve hardly spoken since I’ve been here. The kid is a black cloud of misery, moping around like the world is damn well ending. Tough shit. He assed off the back of a bronc, and now he’s paying the price for clearly not having his head in the game.

Other than covering the basics around what needs to be done here—going over what the horses and cattle require daily—we don’t need to cross paths. At least he’s made himself useful and defrosted some meals, leaving something out for me to heat up when I finally make it back to the house after dark.

Up here, things are more extreme. Weather conditions can turn easily.

Mountain life is less forgiving than down where I’ve been working for Beau on his property.

I spend about as much time planning my days around the weather updates coming in via their radio system as I do actually getting work done.

I couldn’t care less about shit like having no cell phone service or limited internet.

None of that crap bothers me in the slightest. Colt has a solid network for communication between the radios fitted in all the vehicles and at the main house.

It’s simple enough to put out a call to Sheriff Hayes if need be, and they have a team gearing up for the impending winter when they’ll work to keep the mountain roads passable as frequently as possible.

The very real risk at this time of year is that early snowfall could make an appearance. While down in Crimson Ridge it might not be a big deal, at this altitude it’s a different prospect altogether.

In the heart of winter here the roads can get cut off for weeks at a time. Thank fuck I’m not due to be here that long, because I have no interest in playing nurse to Kayce Wilder while stranded on this mountain, unable to leave the ranch unless by foot or on horseback.

Even then, you’d be taking your life into your own hands. There’s always a risk of rockfall, or trees coming down. The mountain rescue folks in this town are trained experts in what they do for a reason.

I’m just a cowboy who knows horses and cattle. One thing I certainly don’t need to be doing is messing around in survivalist mode, attempting to navigate a snowstorm.

Fuck that. People die of exposure all too easily in terrain like this.

Rather than have to look at his stupid face with fathoms of hurt lingering there, muting his blue eyes, I’m keeping my head and hands busy.

These horses put in a fuck load of work during summer while the ranch books guided rides, then get to enjoy a lengthy off-season through fall and winter.

Mostly being spoiled rotten and pampered by Layla from the look of it.

The herd of Angus cattle here is small. Enough to run without outside help for the most part, with the occasional round-up where extra hands are brought in as necessary. Colt has already planned for all of that to happen before and after his time away from the property.

So all I gotta do is keep an eye on them, and make sure they’re fed, watered, and healthy.

Of course, there’s plenty of other regular ranch maintenance and chores to do. Endless jobs keep me tied-up from dawn until dusk, and that suits me down to the ground.

Sure as hell beats having to be in that house.

Tonight, I’ve just finished taking a shower, in the process of toweling off my hair and face while standing in front of the mirror.

It’s reasonably late, I spent longer splitting wood after dark than was my original intention.

But the forecast is for a cold snap to come through, and I don’t want to be caught without plenty of wood within easy reach of the house.

Kayce is stuck in here all day, which means chewing through more logs and needing to keep the house warm.

After hanging my towel, I shrug into a t-shirt and make my way in the direction of the kitchen.

The kid usually isn’t around at this time of night, having disappeared off to his room, and leaves me the house to myself.

It’s peaceful inside, the place quiet other than the wind whipping around outside, forceful gusts swirling around the ranch.

Except tonight, I walk in, and he’s there. Kayce is seated at the kitchen island, with his back to me.

I’m damn near stopped dead in my tracks.

Seeing what he’s wearing pulled tight across his shoulders. The soft, heavily worn cotton clings to his muscles, highlighting the divot running down his spine.

A long line that draws focus to his narrow hips and the way his sweats sit low, showing off the slope of muscle descending below the waistband.

My eyes snap away.

Christ, what I don’t need to be doing is appreciating the way he looks in my clothes.

He’s wearing my t-shirt, the one I gave him that day at the hospital, and I hate the sensation it kicks up in my stomach.

I hate that my first thought that flutters in—unwanted and needing to fuck right off immediately—is that he looks good .

“You’re up late.” I cough into my fist and move into the kitchen, giving him plenty of warning that I’m here. He appears lost in his phone screen and hasn’t even registered my bare feet padding through the house.

He scrubs a hand over his face and blinks at me like an owl. Kayce’s brows pull together, and he seems genuinely confused for a second that I’m here. Guess he’s been so used to us not crossing paths; maybe he wasn’t expecting me to be still awake or some shit.

Fuck. The guy looks wrecked. His eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his stubble has grown longer than I think I’ve ever seen on him before.

“Waiting for the painkillers to knock me on my ass,” he grunts, and looks back down at his phone screen. Scrolling mindlessly from the look of it.

As I move around to the fridge, I see the foil packet and glass of water sitting in front of him. He remains slumped over the benchtop, weight on one elbow and that hand sunk into his hair as if he’s tugging it by the roots.

Keeping to myself, I go about heating up the stew waiting for me in the container. The kitchen is echoingly quiet, except for Kayce’s pain, which is loud as fuck. He doesn’t need to say anything, but the guy is obviously hurting on multiple levels.

The microwave whirs, and I shuffle around quietly. At first, I intend on reaching for a drink; Colt has beers and other liquor here, but then I think again. While I don’t exactly know what Kayce’s deal is with alcohol these days, I haven’t seen him drinking since we started running into each other.

I fetch myself a soda and wave a second one in his direction. Those blue eyes are bleary and hooded when he lifts them to take in the sight of my offering, before he gives a shake of his head. His attention drops back to whatever is so goddamn interesting on that phone.

Resting my ass against the basin, I take a long sip and roll my neck out. I’m no stranger to silence and doing my own thing. Hell, there have been plenty of ranches I’ve worked on where I’d have given my left nut for peace and quiet like this.

But something prickles up my nape at Kayce being in the kind of headspace he’s in.

Shrill beeping disrupts the quietness, and I push off the bench to open the microwave. As I move around the kitchen island, Kayce decides to leave for his room at the same time. Heaving his weight off the stool, he stands up just as I’m only a foot or so from where he’s been sitting .

He stumbles immediately. The act of standing and navigating the stool tips his center of balance too heavily onto his busted leg. His frame topples against mine, our chests smash together, and I catch him before he faceplants.

“ Fffuuuck . Fuck.” Kayce winces. His features transform, going ashen and tight.

I feel his fingers dig into my elbows where I’ve caught him by the forearms. It takes a moment for him to collect his bearings. Everything slips into slow-motion between us as we stand there chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin, with only a few inches of breath separating us.

My pulse thumps in the side of my neck at the sight of him virtually in my arms, and neither of us seems to be able to move. I don’t want him to hurt himself any more than he already has, so I just try to support his weight and let him do what he needs to do.

He smells faintly like peppermint and citrus.

A bright scent, the kind that, of course, a golden boy like him would carry around.

Having him this close is warm; his skin feels heated beneath my callused fingers.

I’m aware that we’re locked in this position—a very fucking intimately tight hold on one another—and Kayce’s hands aren’t on my arms anymore.

His palms have slid up, pressed firmly against my chest, as he steadies himself.

But my hold doesn’t ease on him. For some goddamn reason, I don’t trust letting him go. I feel like if I do, he’ll simply slump to the ground.

If I don’t hold him up, who else is gonna?

My pulse keeps shifting up through the gears, and I don’t fucking understand what on earth is happening right now.

Why do I feel like my blood is singing a tune that has no right to exist?

Why does the point of contact sizzle beneath his flattened hands?

It’s like the outline of his touch against my torso will be imprinted there, blistering through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.

I swallow heavily, my eyes tracing the length of his arms. Catching the way his muscles are highlighted by the soft overhead lighting above the kitchen island. And when I finally reach his face, there’s a tic pulsing wildly in the side of his unshaven jaw.

As I drag my gaze up to find his eyes, the ones I know are weary—filled with the rawness of pain and redness of insomnia—I hold him there for a moment. Trying to convey, wordlessly, in the only way I seem to know how to share that he’s gonna get through this.

He and I have been through our own versions of hell.

He’s survived shit before, and so have I.

Sensing his fingertips press a little harder over my chest, it’s as if he’s imploring me to back away, and in response, my grip flexes around his elbows. That’s when I see it. Kayce’s gaze wavers for the faintest moment; his eyes flicker down to my mouth, then back up, going wide real fucking fast.

That breaks the mesmerizing spell we’d been under.

He pushes against me, breaking us apart.

I release my hold on him, and we both clear our throats.

“Thanks.” His voice is thick, raspy. And he turns slowly, carefully, moving away with the awkward gait he has had to adopt to avoid bending his knee. He might not be able to get around easily, but Kayce damn near sprints away from the spot where he’d been only a second before.

Abandoning me to linger in the kitchen, alone, feeling incredibly fucking confused by what in the hell just happened.

All the while, my pulse has ratcheted up, thudding way goddamn faster than it has any right to.