“She’s not my girl.”
“Sure she’s not.” River grinned. “That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”
He turned back to Red, tried to focus on the gelding’s hoof. But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Red shifted, getting antsy.
“Come on,” Jax said, pushing off the stall door. “Let’s get you cleaned up before she gets here.”
He shook his head. “Need to finish Red.”
“Red’s done enough for today. And you need to wash. Maybe change your shirt.” Jax’s tone left no room for argument. “You want to meet her smelling like a barn?”
He didn’t want to meet her at all.
Anson pushed through the bunkhouse door with Bramble at his heels, his chest tight and hands still trembling. Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes to erase the smell of horse and sweat, to find clothes that didn’t look like he’d slept in them for a week, to figure out what the hell he was going to say to a woman who’d read six years of his thoughts but had never seen his face. He headed for his room, but he’d barely made it three steps before X’s voice stopped him cold.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” X lounged against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand. A shit-eating grin spread across his face, and he set the mug down with a thunk. “Wait, is it happening?”
The back door slammed, and River’s boots clomped across the wooden floor as he trailed Anson in, bringing the smell of the barn with him. “It’s happening,” he confirmed. “Nessie called Jax after Maggie stopped at the cafe. She’s really coming.”
X whooped, and his dog, Kavik, joined in with a howl. The husky never needed an excuse to “sing,” and Bramble gave him a disgruntled look as he loped by.
“Holy shit, man,” X said. “Your pen pal’s actually real.”
Anson kept walking.
“What, you thought we wouldn’t find out?” X followed him down the hall, Kavik trailing behind them. “The mysterious letter-writing woman is on her way to our humble abode, and you weren’t gonna tell us?”
Jonah stepped out of his room, blocking X’s path. “Back off, X. Let him breathe.”
“I’m helping!” X protested. “This is a big moment. Man needs moral support.”
Anson ignored them. He grabbed a clean towel from the stack in the hallway closet and tried to step around River, who leaned against the wall, blocking his path.
“You gonna wear your nice flannel?” River asked. “Or stick with the torn, faded one that should be in a landfill somewhere?”
“Move.”
“He needs something better than flannel,” X said, peering over Jonah’s shoulder. “Something that says, ‘I’m a rugged mountain man, but I also know what soap is.’”
River snorted. “Do you even own anything that isn’t flannel or Henley shirts?”
Anson closed his eyes and counted to five. Ten minutes gone already. Ten minutes he could’ve spent in the shower. “I need to get cleaned up.”
“You should use some cologne,” X offered, as if Anson hadn’t spoken. “Nothing too strong. Just enough to cover up the eau de barn.”
“That’s overkill,” Jonah said. “She knows he’s a farrier. She’s not expecting him to smell like a department store.”
River’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, does Anson even own cologne?”
“No way,” X shook his head. “But he can use some of mine?—”
“I’m not using your cologne.” Anson shouldered past them all and stalked toward the bathroom. Bramble followed, slipping through the door before Anson shut it firmly behind them both.
The bathroom lock clicked into place, and he leaned against the door, exhaling slow and steady. The mirror reflected a man with worry lines etched between his brows, dark hair curling against his neck from too many weeks without a cut, and barn dust streaking his worn flannel shirt. He looked exactly like what he was—a working man who spent more time with horses than people.
He stripped quickly and stepped into the shower. The hot water beat against his shoulders, easing some of the tension there as he scrubbed every trace of horse and sweat from his skin. His mind raced with all the things he should’ve done. He should’ve gotten a haircut. Should’ve bought new clothes. Should’ve planned what to say.
A knock at the door made him flinch.
