Tuesday evening, Grace let herself into the living quarters of Tori’s trailer, tossed her school bag on the couch, and rushed to change clothes before Hank came knocking.
And no, she would not grab the jeans that made her butt look the best. This wasn’t a date. She and Hank had never had a date. Just a baby, and Grace couldn’t let herself forget either of those things, even for a second.
She yanked on an already dusty long-sleeved thermal and sweatshirt, traded her khakis for her least attractive jeans and pulled on her boots. There. She was dressed. And feeling ridiculous because Seriously, Grace? Did she think he was gonna come charging in here to ravage her?
Nope, nope, huge nope. Just because they’d stumbled over a few embers glowing under the pile of ashes didn’t mean they should go poking at them.
Grace plucked a banana from the bunch on the counter, a Dr Pepper from the fridge and headed for the barn. She’d turned the horses out into the pasture on Sunday, since they hadn’t planned to rope for a few days. The other two—Fudge and Shawnee’s bay—were standing at the fence, waiting for their grain. Betsy was clear out in the far corner.
Aw, crap. It was gonna be one of those nights.
Grace let the geldings into their runs on the off chance that seeing them go inside might inspire Betsy to come running. Horses were supposed to be herd animals. The mare remained stubbornly planted in the pasture. Grace leaned against a post and sighed, considering her options. She could take a bucket of grain and halter out there as bait, or she could chase the mare into the open gate of her run. Or she could say the hell with roping because it would be long past her bedtime before Betsy fell for either of those—which was why Grace didn’t turn her out on the days she intended to practice.
Peering down from the hayloft, Muella made a noise that sounded suspiciously like Hah!
A vehicle rumbled into the yard. Hank, right on schedule. Grace folded her arms and waited. Sure enough, he came in the barn looking for her, Spider attempting to hog-tie him with her leash and Mabel trotting behind. At the sight of them, the cat gave an unearthly yowl, followed by a stream of spitting and hissing that could only be interpreted as feline profanity.
Hank and the dogs scrambled backward. From a safe distance outside the door he called, “Are you almost ready?”
“No.”
A pause, then he asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Just Betsy.”
His footsteps crunched in the gravel, and he appeared alongside the first run. It only took one look for him to see the problem. “Now what?”
“Normally? Shawnee gets on a horse, goes out, and ropes her, but I’m not quite that handy.”
“You want me to do it?”
“Can you?”
He all but rolled his eyes. “I’ve roped a few broncs, Grace. When you hang around the Jacobs ranch, you learn these things.”
“Oh. Well, if you want to give it a shot…” It would be fun to watch him try, if nothing else.
He locked the dogs in his pickup while she caught Tori’s horse, Fudge, and within a few minutes he was riding out, building the extra-large loop required for horse-roping. Between Tori’s security lights and spillover from the two houses just across the fence, the small pasture was lit well enough for safety.
The mare knew the routine. When she saw Hank coming, she revved for takeoff, head swiveling in search of the best escape route. Hank approached at an angle that left her a slightly larger gap on his right. As he began to swing the rope, Fudge chomped at the bit, also primed and ready for the game. Betsy made the first move, throwing up chunks of sod as she blasted down the fence. Hank’s loop sailed through the air, wide and flat as a fisherman’s net, and dropped over her head. He ripped out the slack, and it came snug deep around her chest and shoulders.
Hank didn’t try to stop her, just kept pressure on the rope and let Fudge track the mare as she made one more circle before slowing to a trot, then a walk, ears pinned in irritation.
Grace did a slow clap as she walked over to take the rope. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you.” He bowed from the waist, then patted Fudge on the neck. “This is a super-nice horse.”
Grace reeled Betsy in and, once she had the mare on a short leash, started for the barn. “Tori’s family raises some of the best Quarter Horses in the country. Why would she own some old plug?”
“Good point.” He rode ahead of her, giving Grace ample opportunity to admire the lean, supple lines of his body under his heavy flannel shirt. He already seemed less gaunt—and some of that was from her cooking. It was dangerously appealing to think that food she’d created had become a part of him, settling into his muscles and bones, making him happy and—
“Ouch! Would you get off of me?” She drove her fist into Betsy’s side as the mare smashed her into the fence, then danced away to snort and squeal with Shawnee’s bay.
“And that”—Hank jabbed a finger at Betsy—“is the opposite of nice.”
But it was worth it to see the laughter in his eyes…and know she’d help put that inside him, too.
* * *
When Grace had finished roping, Hank jogged down the arena, his muscles twitching at the feel of plowed dirt beneath his feet, and his system revving in anticipation of the pop of adrenaline he only got from taking on a ton of bull. He wiped that thought from his mind and concentrated on his dogs. Instead of chasing the calves up the return lane to the chute, he opened the gate into the catch pen wide and sent Mabel to bring them out into the arena. When Spider tried to follow, he gave the rope leash a sharp tug. “Down!”
She dropped to her belly, trembling with the effort of being still. He’d kept her on a leash everywhere they’d gone for the past two days, practicing the Down! constantly. During his latest stop at the auto parts store—the woman at the counter had given him a smile and a couple of mini Hershey’s—he’d bought fifty feet of light nylon rope for tonight’s session.
Hank scratched Spider’s ears, then stood. “Come on.”
Spider shot toward the calves, but was brought up several feet short when she hit the end of the rope. She strained at the leash, feet scrabbling in the loose dirt.
“Down!” Hank commanded. She stopped, eyeing him as if to see if he really meant it. He gave her a fierce stare. “Down,” he repeated.
Her ears drooped…but she sank to her belly.
“Good dog!” Grace said, pausing to watch as she coiled her rope.
Hank smiled like a proud papa. “We’re making progress.”
He’d expected to feel awkward tonight, but the sense of well-being from last night’s dinner had carried over into today, boosted when he’d finally located those two strays and managed to get them home. He hadn’t seen any more hogs, and only one area of the torn-up grass that was a prime reason they were considered a scourge. They destroyed acres of prairie that would likely never recover, taken over by weeds and shrubs instead of native sod. But that was a problem for the Parks and Wildlife folks. Hank wouldn’t be hanging around long enough to deal with what promised to be a huge headache.
Grace hung her rope on one of a row of hooks on the fence. “I’m going to unsaddle Betsy and finish the chores.”
“I’ll put the calves up when I’m done.”
She stood for a moment, shifting uncomfortably. Now that the roping was done, it was all too obvious that they were alone in the quiet arena, and all the reasons they couldn’t fall back into their old, comfortable ways came rushing in to fill the void.
“I saw the lights were on in Tori’s trailer,” Hank said to break the stiff silence. “Are you staying here while they’re in Mexico?”
“Yeah. With all the animals, it’s good to have someone here at night.” Grace darted a look at the door. “I’ll just, um, go then.”
He gave her an awkward half wave, half salute. Geezus. What was that? And asking her about staying in the trailer…Christ, did it sound like he was angling for an invitation to join her? Not that he’d mind the company, but knowing who’d rocked that trailer in the past, it was damn near the only place he couldn’t imagine getting Grace naked.
Spider yanked on the leash, her patience at an end.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Okay, girls. Come by!”
They all took off at a sprint, Mabel leading the way and Spider dragging Hank along as they circled around the calves to the left and pushed them to the end of the arena. Then Hank called, “Away to me!” and they all raced around the right side of the bunch. He worked the dogs back and forth, throwing in an occasional “Down!” After three passes up and down the arena, Spider was getting a clue and Hank had to stop, hands on knees, doubled over and sucking air. Geezus, he was out of shape. If Joe Cassidy could see him now, he’d never let him hear the end of it.
Fast isn’t enough. It’s a long damn season, and you’ve gotta have stamina if you’re gonna survive.
Hank actually missed the pain. The aches and bruises from shots he’d taken for a cowboy or to protect one of his partners, each one a badge of honor. He squatted to give Spider a congratulatory rub, burying his face in her neck to obliterate the images of all that he couldn’t let himself have. Mabel rooted at his other arm, and he gave her chest a scratch. There was nothing like a dog to make you like yourself a little better.
When the calves were penned, Hank headed for his pickup but hesitated when he saw the barn door was open and the light on. Was it rude to leave without saying good night, or would he be making a pest of himself? But his feet had already steered him that direction. Inside, the horses were all munching hay, but there was no sign of Grace until the scuff of a footstep sent hay dust showering from between the boards of the loft, and her legs appeared on the ladder.
Hank cleared his throat, intending to warn her of his presence, but at the sound, a pile of hissing fury launched itself from beneath one of the mangers. Spider yelped as the cat raked claws across her nose, then streaked up the ladder…right across Grace’s hand.
Startled, she lost her grip and her foot slipped. Hank leapt forward, and stars burst in his head as her flailing elbow cracked him square in the eyebrow. Somehow he managed to hold on to her, stumbling backward until he slammed up against the front of the nearest stall and slid down, plopping onto his butt with Grace in his lap—again.
Hooves clattered as the horses stampeded out into their runs. Grace clutched his shoulders, her breathing ragged and her hair tickling his chin and smelling of hay and arena dirt and something like sugar cookies. His arms tightened in reflex.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice wobbling as a nightmare vision flashed behind his eyes of Grace falling, her head cracking against the floor, her neck…
God. She could have literally broken her neck, and it would have been his fault, bringing his dogs into what he knew was that hellcat’s territory.
“I’m fine. Just a little…you know.” She pushed out another breath that played warm across his cheek, then pulled back to brush aside his hair and gingerly touch his throbbing eyebrow.
“Ouch.”
She scrunched up her freckled nose. “That might leave a mark.”
“Not the first one.” His gaze drifted down to her soft mouth. Would she taste like a sugar cookie, too? There was a reason he shouldn’t try to find out—several, he was sure—but he was having trouble remembering what they were with his head spinning and Grace all warm and soft against him.
His fingers came up to trace the faint remnant of the scratch on her cheek. There was one. “Every time you get close to me, I end up hurting you.”
“You never mean to.”
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “And that makes it better?”
She hesitated for few painful thuds of his agitated heart, then her mouth curved ever so slightly. “Yeah. It does.”
He flattened his palm against her cheek, intending only to touch. God, her skin was so soft. She tensed but didn’t pull away. He should stop. She should stop him. But she didn’t—just stared at him with those wide hazel eyes as he lowered his head to press his mouth to hers.
For a moment, he thought it would be just that. A gentle press of lips on lips before she pushed him away. Instead, her fingers laced behind his neck as she opened up and let him in.
Oh yeah. Definitely delicious, but not like a cookie at all. More like sliding into a pool of warm honey, the intense sweetness of the kiss flowing over and through him as her tongue stroked his. Slow. Easy. He tilted her head for a deeper taste.
“Well, this is awkward.”
Hank broke the kiss so fast, the back of his skull smacked against the stall gate. He blinked. Stared. Blinked again. The woman who’d spoken was still there.
“Bing?”
“In the flesh.” Her eyebrows arched as her dark, inscrutable gaze took in the scene. “And here I thought you were gonna get a surprise.”