I snort. “Only thing I’ve ever burned faster than my life.”
He finally lets out a real laugh, warm and rough around the edges, and for a second, the air between us doesn’t feel so thick.
But then he ruins it.
“Bee careful,” he says, dropping his voice again as he looks over the stall wall like someone might be listening. “I told John to keep an eye out because something’s off lately. Fence line was cut this morning. Someone was testing our perimeter. Could be nothing. But out here? Nothing usually means someone lying.”
I blink. “Testing the perimeter?”
He nods once. “And you, city girl, happen to show up right before it starts happening. Lucky timing… or not.”
I freeze, pitchfork halfway to the ground.
“You saying you think I had something to do with it?”
He looks at me, hard. “I’m saying I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Silence.
I feel the burn in my arms again, in my face, too, but it’s not from work this time. It’s the heat of being exposed, accused, however gently. I don’t like it.
Colter sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did,” I snap. “You wanted to see how I’d react.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t move. He simply stands there, holding that damn pitchfork like he’s waiting for me to crack.
But I don’t.
Instead, I turn, jam the tool into the pile and walk past him, close enough my shoulder brushes his.
I don’t stop when I say, “Next time you come out here tohelp, maybe keep the accusations to yourself.”
“Next time,” he says behind me, voice flat, “try not to look so damn guilty when I’m not even accusing.”
I don’t turn back.
Because if I do, I’m not sure if I’ll scream at him—or admit he’s right.
And I’m not ready for either.
8
It’s longpast midday by the time I finish in the barn. If the swaggering cowboy hadn’t shown up, I might have been done earlier, but it took me nearly half an hour to calm my temper, my work slowed by the hurt lancing through my chest at his accusation.
It’s stupid really. Colter is a stranger. Someone I barely know and yet, his subtle accusation feels as if he speared me with the very pitchfork he held in his hands.
“About time.” Pace leans against the barn wall and smirks as he watches me putting away the wheelbarrow and the shovel. “The men had bets on how long it would take the city princess to finish her only chore for the day.”
Clenching my jaw to keep from biting back at him, I choose to shoot him a scowl, which only seems to deepen his smirk.
“Don’t take it personally, sis,” he jibes, his eyes lit up with mischief. “We don’t get much new entertainment these days.
“Glad I could amuse you all,” I mutter, brushing straw off my jeans. My muscles ache, my palms are blistered, and I’ve got dirt smeared on my cheek. But I stand up straighter and meet his grin with a glare. “Hope the show was worth it.”
Pace pushes off the barn wall, walking toward me with the same easy, lazy gait all the men around here seem to be born with. “Don’t be so grumpy. I’m here to reward you.”
I narrow my eyes. “With what? Another chore?”
