Beneath his hat, he waggles his eyebrows. “Otis told me to give you a heads-up that there’s a pretty woman at the house right now. Sure looks like she’s gonna be here for a while too.”
Diesel shifts beneath me like he feels the immediate tension prodding at my insides. I run his reins through my fingers, gripping them a bit tighter.
“Is that right?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Yup. Heard Sawyer over the radio blabbing about going to check her out when he gets back from the arena.”
I guide Diesel away from Tanner and try to stifle the need to tell him to make sure that doesn’t happen. With my throat tighter than if I’d let this kid slip a noose around it, I snip, “Get back to work.”
“You got it,” he calls with a full-on belly laugh.
I dig my heels into Diesel, and he takes off toward the house. It’s not too far from here, and right now, I wish it were. My life has become a never-ending mess of “I should have’s” instead of “I did’s” over the last few weeks, which is why I’m riding toward Tilly and not away from her. She’s the last person I need to see today, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to make me turn around.
Diesel slows on his own when we approach the house. I can feel his excitement damn near vibrating from him the closer we get, and that has unease rippling through me. A soft rumble of a nicker slips from his chest. It’s not a warning or a call for food . . . but recognition.
I don’t know what I expect to see when we get to the front of the house. A honey-blonde spitfire with a shotgun slung over her shoulder, maybe. Something different than what’s actually there.
The woman is the same, but instead of a shotgun, she’s got a bag drooping from her elbow and a black suitcase, wheels deep in the dirt. Her light brown hat droops low enough to hide her eyes from me as I stare, my palms sweating in my gloves.
Those tiny shorts are long gone, replaced with a pair of straight-leg jeans hiding the calves of her boots. The buckle at her middle is a big oval with turquoise stones throughout it. Her boots have the same-coloured details on the toes, like she’s matched them on purpose. I eye the quote scrawled across her tits and grit my jaw, adjusting my position in the saddle.
Cowboy Pillows.
“What are you doing here?” she asks roughly.
I lean forward, digging the horn of my saddle into my forearm. “On my property?”
“No, smartass.Here. Creeping on me.”
“You’re standing in front of my parents’ house, looking like a lost foal.”
She throws her braid behind her shoulder, digging her heel into the ground. “Yeah, well. Your dad was supposed to be here to take me to my trailer half an hour ago.”
“Your trailer?”
“Yes. The one I don’t want but have to take, anyway.”
I roll my jaw. “Why the hell do you get a trailer here?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Tilly,” I snap impatiently.
“Say hello to the new Painted Sky groomer, Rowe.”
My laugh is instant. The cold front of it could freeze a bucket of water as I pull Diesel back, prepared to turn around.
“I’m not joking. You can thank my brother for this. I sure did,” she bites out, sarcasm thick in the final sentence.
I freeze, and Diesel follows suit. Glancing over my shoulder, I take a long look at her, searching for the lie. It’s not there. All I find is the same smugness that I saw the other night in the parking lot. My agitation skyrockets.
She cocks her head, reading me to filth. “What? Did nobody tell you about me? I wonder why.”
“You’re not working here.”
“Too late. You have as little say in it as I do.”
“Why the hell can’t you live off property?”
