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I turn her over. “Darlin’.” My hands cradle her face. “Talk to me, Delilah.”

Face slack, she lies limp in my arms, and when I think my lungs will give out, when I think my heart will stop, she cracks an eye and smiles. “Fooled you.”

My lungs release in a great rush of relief.

“Not funny.” I eye her warily, undecided if she’s fucking with me or playing it off so I don’t worry. “Are you hurt?”

She winces as she sits up. The rain comes down in sheets, soaking us both. “I don’t think so. Those bulls make you move fast.” Her eyes are wide in the dark. “I don’t know how you do it, cowboy.”

“Lots and lots of practice.” I try to keep my voice even, try to keep my worry at bay even as it courses through my veins. Hurt. She could have been hurt.

She could have been fucking killed.

I scoop her up and stand. She’s featherlight, and I hold her in one arm as I swing us both up onto Pryor’s back. I grab the reins and nudge us into a gallop.

She lays her head back against my chest. “Where are we going?”

“My place.” I need to get her inside. Check her over.

“What about the bulls?”

“Wells has them.” Rather, he will after I call him.

We make it to the barn in record time. I stable Pryor, call Wells, then we make the five-minute trek to my ranch house in the rain. By the time we shove through the door, we’re both dripping wet and covered with mud.

I rip off my Stetson and drop it onto the table. Grab a blanket, toss it over Delilah’s shoulders, then I pick her up and settle her on my kitchen counter. Delilah gasps as I wedge a thigh between hers. My hands settle on her taut thighs. I squeeze. “What are you doing?” she breathes, eyes hooded as she stares at me.

“Checking you over.” I look at her. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

Her full lips part slightly. “Will do, cowboy.”

I plant my boots in front of her as I assess her body with a rough touch. Too rough. But I’m unable to stop. Seeing her lying there—it stirred something in me. Instinct to take care of her. Instinct to make her my responsibility.

My hands drift down her body as she trembles in the dim light of my kitchen. I squeeze her delicate calves. Slip off her shoes and rotate her ankles. When Delilah tries to tell me I’m fussing, I ignore her. I won’t be satisfied until I see for myself.

As I run my hands over her cold arms, that live wire of adrenaline in my body eases. My heartbeat comes back to normal. My jaw unclenches.

She’s here. Not broken, but okay. Alive. And so goddamn beautiful I can hardly stand it.

It’s impulse for my hands to frame her jaw, my gaze taking in her delicate face. Delilah’s whiskey-colored eyes shutter, lashes dark against the pallor of her face.

“Look at me,” I order, and she does.

I trace a thumb over the apple of her high cheekbone. Our breathing steadies, and I become painfully conscious of the heat between us. The erection straining the crotch of my jeans. I need to let go, step back, but I can’t. I ache for this girl.

Delilah trembles as she licks her lips. “If you’re lookin’ for an excuse to touch me, Cole, you don’t have to ask.” She shifts, and the blanket slips from her shoulders. Her white tank top’s plastered to her skin, her dusky nipples visible through the wet fabric.

The red-blooded male in me wants to haul her to my chest. Take those pouty lips and kiss her senseless.

She’s like the whiskey we make on this ranch. Addictive. Dangerous.

A smarter man would make her go. Instead, I wrap a hand around the nape of her neck. “You should shower. Get warm.”

“Here?”

“Here.” Not ready to let her out of my sight. Not yet.

Her eyes linger on me, then with a small sigh, she palms the counter. I step back as she slips off. “Just down the hall.”