I keep spraying.
“Mornin’,” I say sweetly.
He finally manages to get his bearings, throwing an arm up to shield his face. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
I shut off the hose.
“That,” I tell him calmly, “is what happens to trespassers around here.”
He drags a hand down his face, water streaming from his hair, his clothes plastered to him. He looks furious. And soaked. And honestly? Hot as ever.
Dammit.
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not trespassing, sweetheart. My family owns this place.”
That does it.
Something snaps in my chest.
Sweetheart.
Second man in as many days to call me that.
I step closer, jabbing a finger toward him. “First of all, I’m not your sweetheart. Second, your family doesn’t own a damn thing on this ranch. Mine does.”
He blinks.
Actually blinks.
Then he looks around—really looks. The stalls. The tack room. The faded Wildhaven Storm Ranch brand burned into the doors.
He wrinkles his nose. “This isn’t Ironhorse?”
“Nope.”
I point past the paddock, toward the dark stretch of pasture beyond. “Ironhorse is about two miles that way.”
He scrubs his face again. “Shit.”
Then he laughs. A low, rough sound. “I guess all smelly, old barns look the same in the dark.”
I lean in and sniff him deliberately.
His smile falters.
“I don’t think it’s the barn that’s smelly.”
That gets a bark of laughter out of him. The horses seem to agree, snorting softly.
“Wait. Wildhaven Storm Ranch,” he mutters as recognition dawns on him.
“Ding, ding.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “Caison drove out here last night.”
I stand and wait for him to work it out.
“We were out. He got a text from Matty,” he continues, squinting like the memory hurts. “She needed something from the pharmacy. I was supposed to wait in the truck. Guess I didn’t.”
