“I always did chores,” she told him, shrugging as she laid out gauze and bandages. “Most of my friends did too. You’re supposed to say you hate them. And no one likes to get up super early, especially in high school. But I guess it was okay.”
“You were a real part of this farm,” he said, shaking his head. “That didn’t mean anything to you?”
“Not at the time,” she admitted. “Now it’s different. I appreciate it more. Let’s unwrap those hands.”
She braced herself for what she was about to see, but nothing could have prepared her for the open wounds all over his fingers and palms.
“Dalton,” she murmured.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not fine,” she said firmly. “And you’re going to be in real pain in a minute because we have to wash these thoroughly.”
“It’s fine,” he told her.
“Rinse first, then we’ll wash with soap,” she told him, starting the water. “It’ll be extra cold, but maybe that will numb your hands a little.”
She doubted that was actually true, but it was a nice idea.
He stuck his hands into the icy cold water and didn’t make a sound. But she could tell that it hurt from the ripple of tension in his jaw.
She handed him the bar of soap and watched carefully as he applied it to his ruined hands and then rinsed again.
“Good,” she said, handing him a piece of clean gauze. “Dab them dry as best you can.”
The big man did as he was told, and when he was finished, he turned his hands over for her to examine again.
They looked awful, but at least they didn’t look infected. The next part, she would have to do herself.
“Sit,” she told him, pointing to the wooden stool by the sink. “I’m just going to take care of the rest of this for you.”
He sat down and she realized that this brought them practically eye-to-eye, and the glow of the bulb above put a halo of light around Dalton’s head.
Suddenly, the tack room felt small.
His hair was slightly damp with sweat and she breathed in the masculine scent of him without meaning to.
His icy blue eyes burned into hers until she dropped her gaze, only to find herself noticing the way his flannel shirt strained around his biceps, like those thick muscles could hardly be contained by the soft cotton.
She sucked in a breath and felt her pulse pounding as she forced her addled mind to focus on the task at hand.
“This will hurt,” she told him, tearing open an alcohol wipe. “But we have to make sure they don’t get infected.”
He nodded and held his left hand out to her.
She took it automatically, and almost pulled back at the heat of his skin. She had forgotten what it was like to touch a man, and her mind helplessly catalogued his long, thick fingers, the rasp of hair, the tiny seam of a scar on the back of his index finger, markers of raw masculinity that made her heart thunder in her chest.
Stop that,she scolded herself.
She was supposed to be helping him, easing his pain and keeping him from hurting himself even more, not drooling over him like some lovesick schoolgirl.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He nodded once, so she gently dabbed the little cloth on a deep cut on his thumb.
He swallowed, but didn’t make a sound. There was only their breathing and the shudder of the single window from the wind outside.
It was too dark out there to see it, but she could just picture those spooky branches writhing in the moonlight. Here inside the tack room, it was cozy and safe.
