Page 36 of Saving the Rain
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 timeplanning 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 andchores 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 inmyclothes. 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 looksgood.
“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 secondthat 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.