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She tips the brim of her hat with a little curl of her lip. One bright, glowing blue eye rakes over me.
“Did you come to walk the grounds or wrangle cattle?” she mocks as soon as I draw into earshot.
I grin.
“I mean, if you need a little help around the ranch…”
“I don’t.”
She goes cold on me in an instant.
It’s not hard to see she’s got an independent streak a yard wide.
Lucky I’m not here to fuss with her today.
I’m trying to play nice.
So I hold my tongue while she turns away, swinging up onto one of the horses—a gorgeous Gypsy Vanner with a solid, graceful build.
The other horse is larger. I can’t quite tell the breed but the coat’s a glossy shade of brownish black that shines almost purple under the sun. The meat in the legs tells me there’s some Arab lines in there somewhere, maybe Barbary.
She settles on the Vanner with an easy grace. The horse’s broad body stretches her thighs apart and draws my eye instantly.
Straight down to where the denim molds up into the creases where her thighs meet her hips.
Goddamn, I think I’m helpless around this woman.
Everything about her has this hot, feral magnetism that makes me painfully aware of her, of her body, of her raw aggression that could turn into a roaring passion if a man pushed the right buttons.
Maybe I can’t keep my eyes off her.
But I’ll damn sure keep my hands to myself.
No matter what my reputation says about me, I’m over it.
So I drag my eyes back to her face—and find her watching me with her face set stone-cold, unreadable.
I smile anyway.
“Well,” I say, leaning against the fence and holding out my hand to the darker horse to let her have a sniff and get a feel for me. “Since this girl’s already saddled up, I’m guessing she’s my transportation?”
“Unless you think your Benz can handle the dirt,” she says sweetly, even if her expression never changes. “I’d hate to see your poor engine get caked up with all that crud, though.”
“You’d be surprised what a Benz is built to handle.”
Honestly, I’ve been pondering selling it soon.
I need something for utility in this town, not show.
But I’m distracted now, and I smile as the dark mare lowers her nose to my palm.
It’s warm and velvety, breaths soft against my skin. I stifle a grin. This brings back memories of other summers, back when me and Blake were just kids and we’d borrow Mr. Potter’s horses to go galloping along the trails.
I give her a slow look. “What books did he name these two after?”
Libby blinks, actually jerking up in the saddle to make her Vanner prance with a little whinny before settling down. “Books? You know about that?”
“Damn right. Back before Blake and I got into our shit-fight, back when we were barely big as foals ourselves, your old man would let us ride. Sierra was just a little thing back then, and you were practically a toddler, so you wouldn’t remember us.” I grin, stroking my fingers over the mare’s nose. “Two knock-kneed little boys clambering up on these horses that were like mountains to us. My favorite was War. Blake always rode Peace.”
Some things never change considering he married a Peace, too. I chuckle quietly to myself.
Then Libby lets out a choked, soft sound I’m not expecting, rough with hurt.
She looks away sharply, covering her mouth.
I lift my head, looking at her intensely, but she’s avoiding my eyes. Just staring out over the ranch with her gaze narrowed and that hand hiding most of her expression.
“You okay?” I ask softly. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m fine,” she says thickly. “It’s fine, I just—” She takes a shaky breath. “I forget how much this town loved him and how many people he knew. So for someone else to remember how Dad went through his Tolstoy phase naming horses…”
I smile faintly and reach out to rest my hand against the Vanner’s muscular shoulder, near her knee.
“I didn’t know Mark that well, Libby, but he was always good to me and Blake. A real kind guy. He’d give us fresh lemonade when we’d come in all hot and sweaty from the trails. And he’d always tell us weird shit, too.” I laugh. “Like the molecular composition of silver, and how it’s extracted from…from fuck, I can’t remember.”
“Galena,” she fills in. “Yeah. He always knew the weirdest stuff, and he never hesitated to tell anyone. A big nerd to his dying day.”
It’s almost ridiculous how hard it hits me when she swipes a finger at her eye, trying not to cry.
The urge to pull her down off that horse and hug the fuck out of her.
Until she can enjoy the good memories of Mark Potter without the pain.
“Sorry,” I say softly, restraining that impulse to offer some physical comfort when I don’t want to upset her, and she might just take my hand off for trying. “I know it hasn’t been that long since it happened.”
