A soft creak at the far end of the barn announced another person entering.
He hoped they weren’t the chatty type.
Even his inner Little, although sociable, preferred his human interactions to be interspersed with quiet alone time. When adulting, he only could deal with a few idle chats before his energy was running low, and that was on a good day. Today, wasn’t great. He’d slept okay, but not long or deep, and he was worrying about therapy already.
Maybe it was Travis returning or Wren looking for something. But the footsteps that followed weren’t the easy lope of a ranch hand or the energetic stomp of a Little rushing in for pony time.
These were heavy, measured and confident.
A boot scraped lightly on the floor, and the soft jingle of tack from a curious horse leaning out of a stall followed. The whisper of a coat sleeve brushing wood.
“Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow.”
Darian’s breath hitched, and a shiver ran over his body. That voice was deep and resonant and so assertive.
He knew that voice. Not in the way you knew a friend or a lover, but in the way you remembered your favorite bedtime story, the one your Daddy read every night without fail. The cadence sank into your bones. It lived there, even if you hadn’t heard it in years.
Starling nudged him again, sensing the tension before he could even shift.
Darian resumed brushing, blindly, his hand moving without thought as his vision blurred.
No. No. It can’t be. It can’t behim.
He focused on the soft rasp of the bristles, the warmth of Starling’s flank under his palm, the scent of hay and horse.
A few feet away, the man spoke again. This time, he’d reached Snickers in the neighboring pen. “Look at you, pretty girl. Bet you give the boys a run for their oats.”
Darian’s chest clenched so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. His knees wobbled. His thoughts scrambled like panicked birds.
He’s short. Potbellied. Bald. Married with four kids. He is not who I think he is.
But his ears refused to listen to reason. The voice wasn’t just familiar. It was imprinted. The sound was as warm andcomforting as hot cocoa and cinnamon and made his Little melt like marshmallows on top.
Tears welled. They were unwelcome and inconvenient.
He bit the inside of his cheek.
Don’t turn around. Don’t look. He’ll see what you’ve become. How much it still hurts.
He burrowed his face in Starling’s neck.
Footsteps announced the man approaching. He inwardly willed the man to move along. No such luck. The footsteps paused.
He would look.
He wouldn’t.
He did. Despite himself, he turned his head just enough to catch the silhouette.
The man stood tall and straight. Devastatingly handsome with salt-and-pepper hair, ruffled from the wind. A dark coat dusted with snow, and a dark patch where a curious muzzle had butted against his shoulder.
Easton Emmerson.
A man who used to make his belly flutter for reasons he couldn’t explain.
Now it just made him ache.
“Danny.” His name hung in the air like a held note.
