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He shrugged, putting one foot into the stirrup and sliding easily into the saddle. It creaked beneath his weight. “I feel dangerous,” he said bluntly. “So you’d be smart to stay out of my way.”
With him on horseback, they sat eye to eye. Heat shimmered in the air between them, despite the chilly Wyoming night. The emotions that had consumed him…anger…disbelief…disillusionment…all receded, leaving in their wake a sexual hunger so intense he had to grip the reins and clench his teeth to keep from letting her see.
Bryn held out her hand. “Take me with you.”
Bryn was done with denying the inevitable. She wanted Trent. She needed him. She’d deal with the fallout later. His big body vibrated with something…anger…desire. He had every right to be furious with her. She’d run hot and cold like the worst kind of tease.
Was he still angry? Did she care? She ached with missing him.
For long, quivering seconds, he didn’t move. Then with a noise that was part exasperation, part muffled laugh, he edged the animal closer to the rail and extended his arm. “Why not,” he muttered, helping her sling a leg across the horse’s back and settle between his arms.
She felt the warmth of his body against her back and was excruciatingly aware that his big, hard thighs bracketed hers. Her bottom pressed intimately to the area where he was most male. She tried to scoot forward a few inches, but he dragged her back, letting her feel the imprint of his erection.
Her breath seemed caught in her chest, her lungs starved for air. All around them, mysterious night sounds broke the silence, but Bryn could hear little over the pounding of her own heart in her ears.
Trent held the reins easily, his body one with the horse. Bryn had ridden since she was four, but she had no illusions about her horsemanship. Without Trent, she would never dare attempt a night ride.
They started out slowly, picking their way out of the yard toward the road. It would be the only safe place for what Trent had in mind.
He bent his head. She felt his breath, warm and intimate, against her ear. “Forget about everything,” he murmured. “Forget Jesse, my dad, your son. Let’s outrun our demons while we can.”
She nodded slowly. He was right. They both needed this. In the house, they were always tiptoeing, literally and metaphorically, Mac’s welfare foremost in their minds.
Tonight, in the scented darkness, nothing existed but the two of them.
Trent urged the horse to a trot and then a gallop. The powerful animal complied eagerly, his hooves pounding the hard-packed earth, kicking up tiny clouds of dust. The speed should have frightened Bryn, but with Trent’s arms around her, she felt invincible.
The horse ran for miles. The air grew colder as the night waned. Bryn’s nose and fingers were chilled, but everywhere else she was toasty warm. Her head lolled against Trent’s shoulder. She could swear she felt his lips on the side of her neck from time to time.
Finally, the horse tired. They were miles from home when Trent reined the stallion in and lifted Bryn to set her on the ground. Moments later, he joined her.
For a few seconds, she was confused, but then her eyes cut through the darkness. They had stumbled across a cabin far out on the property. The ranch hands used it mostly in the summers, either for work or when they wanted to cut loose and have some fun.
Had this been Trent’s destination all along? Or had he come here subconsciously?
She swallowed hard. Trent was right. Danger cloaked them, locked them in a vacuum that allowed nothing in, nothing out. Her heart beat in her throat like a frightened bird’s. She wanted him. Even if it led to heartbreak later. Tonight was all that mattered.
A narrow stream, much of the year nonexistent, flowed beside the cabin. Trent tied the animal with access to grass and water, and then turned to face Bryn. He was little more than a phantom in the dark night. Only his white shirt glowed. When he held out his hand, she stepped forward to take it. Their fingers linked…comfortably, naturally.
Once inside, Bryn waited impatiently as Trent lit a kerosene lantern and began building a fire. He squatted in front of the fireplace, his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his starched cotton button-down. His jeans were ancient, but the shirt was one of a dozen just like it. The Trent uniform, as she liked to think of it.
