Page 7 of Wicked Cowboy

The smirk he gives me is slow and devastating. “You talk enough for both of us.”

“Someone has to.”

We move through the barn together, checking displays and sweeping the floor. It’s comfortable, easy. He’s still guarded, but there’s humor in the corners now, like he’s remembering how.

When I reach for a crate and nearly slip, his hand shoots out, gripping my waist. His fingers are firm and warm through the flannel.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my pulse disagrees.

He doesn’t move right away, eyes locked on mine. The air seems to thicken, the distance between us narrowing until the only thing I can hear is the sound of our breathing and the steady thrum of rain dripping from the eaves.

Then he steps back, clears his throat. “Another storm is going to blow through this afternoon. It’s make the roads more dangerous. You should probably just stay here another night.”

I nod, pretending my heart isn’t trying to climb out of my chest. “Right. Safety first.”

“Always.”

We finish the work in silence. But every time his hand brushes mine, or his arm moves close as we stack crates, something sparks low and persistent.

When we finally walk back to the house, Martha’s waiting on the porch, a knowing smile tucked into the corner of her mouth.

“How was the barn?” she asks.

“Productive,” Rhett says too quickly.

“Hmm.” She looks between us, eyes twinkling. “Storm’s gone, but it looks like another one’s brewing.”

Rhett groans. “Grandma—”

She waves him off. “Don’t ‘Grandma’ me. You just make sure that nice girl doesn’t trip on the porch steps again. Wouldn’t want her falling…harder.”

I bite back a laugh as Rhett mutters something under his breath, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as he holds the door open for me.

Chapter four

Rhett

By dusk, another storm is starting. The last of the daylight drifts across the fields, low and gold, catching on the sludge and ice left from the storm the day before. The festival lights are still off, the generators silent, and for once the ranch feels still. There’s no laughter, no tractors running, just the soft sound of the creek rolling somewhere behind the barn.

I’ve spent most of the afternoon fixing what the storm tore loose and trying not to think about the woman who’s turned my quiet life upside down in less than twenty-four hours.

It doesn’t work. Every time I close my eyes, I see her smile, hear that laugh, feel the ghost of her waist under my hand when she slipped on the barn floor.

I tell myself it’s nothing. I like lying to myself.

When I head toward the house, the porch light is already on. Frankie sits on the top step wrapped in one of Grandma’s quilts, a mug cupped in both hands. Her hair’s still damp from her shower, curling around her face. She looks comfortable here, like she belongs.

She looks up. “You move quiet for a big guy.”

“Old habits.” I ease onto the step beside her. “You’re gonna freeze sitting out here.”

“I like the cold. Makes the stars brighter.”

She gestures toward the horizon where a few have already started to blink through the clearing clouds. The scent of rain and wood smoke hangs between us.

“Grandma’s turning in early,” she adds. “Said you’d be out finishing chores. Luke’s gone into town. Guess that leaves you and me.”