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A low rumble of thunder in the distance was probably a warning they should both be heeding. Instead, it felt like a drumroll overture for whatever madness was about to take place between them next.
She licked her dry lips as he resettled her hair behind her back. And then his hand was there, on her shoulder.
A warm, anchoring weight.
“Drake.“ His name left her lips in wonder. A plea.
And when another roll of thunder sounded, she felt the static in the air, the charged pull of the night and the man.
Except the thunder sounded different. Nearer. Like charging hooves galloping closer.
At the same moment the thought formed, Drake sprang from the bench. Breaking into a run, he called over his shoulder, “The goats are loose.”
Eight
“Nimue, don’t you want your dinner?” Fleur coaxed the small black-and-white goat, the only one they hadn’t been able to capture.
Drake watched Fleur swing a bright blue pail to tempt the escapee, while the other two does inside the pen bleated and called, the yard partially lit by a couple of outdoor fixtures mounted to the barn. The brown-and-white Nubian—Morgan le Fay, he’d been informed—had returned to the enclosure as soon as Drake had herded her toward it. The larger of the black-and-white animals—Guinevere—had romped around the yard with more enthusiasm until she’d gotten distracted by a tasty patch of grass, and Fleur had been able to slip a lead around its neck.
Now only one holdout remained. He worked on securing the pen where a board along the top of the woven mesh fencing had given way, while Fleur pleaded with the last jail breaker. Considering how his evening had progressed with Fleur before the animals escaped, Drake was ready to tie up the goat adventure. He could have sworn they’d been moments away from locking lips when a blur of horns and fur had streaked past them.
“I’m surprised it never came to my attention that Antonia named her goats after Arthurian legends,” he observed as he hammered in a nail to fasten a replacement board into place. He’d been fortunate to find a stack of precut lumber inside the big barn and had made quick work of the job.
Another flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating Fleur’s face as she cooed at the unrepentant animal. Drake set aside the hammer and turned his attention to helping her since a storm was imminent. He knew he should leave considering how badly he wanted to stay and find out if that kiss would still happen. Yet how could he have left her to deal with the broken fence alone when she already thought poorly of him? With good reason.
He’d misjudged this woman more than once, and now he wanted to offer an olive branch of his own. He would help her tonight, and offer whatever advice she needed to help her settle the land management citations.
Now Nimue looked ready to play, her floppy ears swinging as she trotted around the birdbath in the center of the lawn. He retrieved the lead rope Fleur had used with Guinevere and moved closer to the goat as the thunder sounded more and more ominous.
The air smelled like rain.
“Gran didn’t have them for long. She rescued them two years ago from a shelter near Grand Junction.” Fleur took a handful of grain and extended it, her hair whipping around her head as the wind picked up force. “She texted me a photo of them later that week, telling me she liked the idea of names that were regal and magical for the spindly little trio, convinced it would give them something to aspire to.”
When the lightning lit up the sky again, Drake could see her smiling to herself at the memory. He only had a moment to enjoy the vision she made, wind wreaking havoc with her skirt, her natural beauty drawing his eye more than the days of spangles and big hair.
He was almost close enough to drop the lead rope over Nimue’s head when the downpour started.
Fleur squealed at the same time the goat bleated, a chorus of feminine surprise. He was drenched instantly, the rainfall hard and cold. Time was running out, and he didn’t want to chase the beast in the rain. Drake dropped the rope over the little runaway’s head.
Thank God.
He raised his voice to be heard over the racket of the deluge sluicing over them. “I’ve got her. Go inside, and I’ll make sure she’s secure.”
Fleur must have understood, because she bolted toward the abandoned picnic table, wet skirt clinging to her legs as she ran. Before he could lose himself in staring at her, he turned the opposite way, leading a humbled doe back to the pen, where she would have access to a warm barn and dry hay. Inside the enclosure, Drake tugged off the rope so the animal could take refuge with her friends. He closed and locked the gate before doing a visual sweep of the yard.
No sign of Fleur.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, not sure if he should head straight for his truck or go inside to say good-night, but Fleur solved that dilemma by calling to him from a back door.
“Come in!” she called.
He only had an instant to note the white tank top hugging her body before he wrenched his gaze up to her eyes.
An instant that sent his pulse pounding.
Jogging toward the door, he paused under the narrow overhang outside the threshold.
“Are you sure—?” The unfinished question lingered for a split second, a world of meanings filling in the blank as they stared at one another, clothes dripping.
