I sprint toward the sound. Ash vaults the fence, crossing the distance so we reach it at nearly the same moment—a calf tangled in barbed wire—panicked and crying for its mother.
“Knew those coyotes were onto something,” he mutters, turquoise eyes darkening. “Hold him. Your hands are gentler than mine.”
I nod, setting down the journal and kneeling in the sunbaked clay. He smells of pine and oiled leather, the kind of scent that makes you think of danger and shelter in the same breath.
My cheeks heat, breath mingling with his as he leans closer.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
His hands work quickly and with precision, his voice calm as he croons gently to the baby.
No matter what this big, gruff cowboy might say, he’s got a tender side.
His forearm brushes mine, something sparking between us. I press my lips into a thin line, bent on ignoring it.
Ash’s jaw tightens until I can hear his teeth grinding, eyes narrow with concentration.
And that’s when I see it again, a metallic glimmer beneath the cuff of his sleeve.
“You’re glowing again,” I say drily, trying not to stare.
He grunts, frowning.
Thunder rolls distant.
Our arms brush again, barbed wire singing between us as he hesitates for one brief second, then pulls back like I’ve stung him.
In his haste, his shirt snags along a rusty barb, digging deep. Fabric tears, blood spills.
“Hold him,” he grunts testily, his other hand going to his upper arm as blood spills between fingers. A moment’s hesitation. Then, back to work.
The calf doesn’t bolt when the barbed wire snaps. It just crumples, sides heaving, one leg bleeding dark and quick.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ash mutters. He lifts it like it weighs nothing. “Thank you for your help.”
I scoop up my notebook and run beside him. The air smells like iron and sage, a storm close enough to taste. “I can help.”
He shakes his head, pausing at Winnie. Then, his shoulders bow with resignation.
“You’ll hold him in the saddle?” he asks, nodding toward his mare.
He doesn’t want me out here alone in the dark. It couldn’t be more obvious.
I grimace.
“Afraid of blood on your jeans?” he adds like a challenge.
“Of course not.” I climb into the saddle, journal tucked into his saddle bag, steadying the baby when he pitches him over the saddle.
He should ride the baby in himself. But I can tell by the stubborn cut of his jaw he won’t.
He leads the reins. So unnecessary.
Tension simmers thick between us. There’s more I want to say. About him following me today. About the current situation. But the calf is weak, weak enough that I count its breaths.
Inside the barn, the light is dull, amber slats filtered through boards. Dust motes float like prayers.
“You should go,” he warns.
