“I was, but Grief?—” Brighton caught sight of the beast darting behind the cabin. And she wasn’t sure, but it seemed to be chasing a six-two shadow.
“Boss has a workshop back there. Bet Grief found him.”
“Well, I guess I should make sure he’s okay.” She cringed. “I mean Grief. Not Stone?—the boss.”
His knowing gaze skimmed over her, then he shrugged. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to test his temper these days?—either of them.”
What did that mean? She hobbled a few steps, then threw over her shoulder, “Thanks for the bandage.” Making her way up the hill, she wished sprained ankles were like muscles?—the more you exercised them, the better they felt. Instead, she could feel it swelling and stretching the bandage with each step.
Rounding the corner, she slowed at the light spilling across the gravel path from an open door. Repetitive clanging from within warned that Rowe had been right about what?—who Grief sought. Stone was in there. And from the sound of it, taking out his frustration on something with a vengeance.
This is stupid. Go back. You don’t need him?—or any man.
Brighton closed her eyes. She didn’t need him. But she did want him?—to understand. To know she wasn’t the wretch he believed her to be.
But … wasn’t she? Chewing the inside of her cheek, she sagged against the side of the building. Took the weight off her leg. This was an impossible situation. He’d wouldn’t accept her explanation. Because he was right?—she had made a choice. To protect her brother. Not him. And that galled him. He’d never forgive her.
Frustration coiled through her. Tightened her chest. Gritting her teeth, she stemmed the dark emptiness that had swallowed her life. It’d been so unfair. All of it. She didn’t ask for this. Made one mistake …
Something wet flopped her hand.
She started and looked down. The black beast was there. “Grief,” she said, his name swallowed by the clanging inside. She slid down the wall and wrapped her arms around the dog who’d settled onto his haunches, his back to her as he squinted contentedly out over the terrain and panted a steady rhythm.
“Thanks,” she whispered, as glad as he was for the company.
Hammering out the kink from where a tree had taken down the large swing gate that led to the trails, Stone swung and landed blow after blow against the iron. Every time reforging it. Exhaustion weighted his limbs, but he continued hammering until the bend was unnoticeable, so the gate could shut and lock. Satisfied, he turned and laid it across the worktable. Set down the hammer and gripped the edge of the worktable. Used his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his brow and closed his eyes.
God, why …?
Mixed up a dozen ways from Sunday by her story, he couldn’t decipher if she was blaming him for what happened to her or to himself, or both. Then there was the heaping pile of dung that smelled a lot like guilt—he’d known his actions with her weren’t above reproach. If he’d behaved more in line with honor and godly values, they wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here. She’d be …
Yeah, he didn’t like where that line could end.
But shoving her back into his life, when he’d moved to the lodge to get himself straightened out, back on the straight and narrow?—doing a fair job of it, too?—it just …
Grief brushed against his left leg.
With a smirk, Stone dangled his hand, waiting for Grief to nudge it, and when he felt the cold snout, he rewarded him with some lovin’.
“What is it?”
Had lightning shot through him, the reaction wouldn’t have been as shocking as hearing Brighton’s voice in his workshop. He braced himself. Flinched inwardly. Squeezed his eyes.
“I remember you telling me you liked to work with iron.” Her voice was soft. Uncertain. Scared.
He wanted to answer her, but hot dang, he didn’t trust himself to move, to speak. He clenched his jaw tight and opened his eyes to the piece on the table.
In his periphery, she stood next to him. Facing him. Touching the iron gate. Quiet and delicate, her presence was a dichotomy in this workshop of sweat and iron. She shifted and hobbled, throwing in his face that his silence cost her time on a sprained ankle.
“Shouldn’t be here,” he ground out.
Brighton dipped her head, hobbled to shift and then lost her balance.
Stone reached out to steady her. Reflexively, he hoisted her up and set her on the table. Which was a mistake. Because now she was right in front of him. Eye to eye?—hers wide. Her lips parted. Hands on his shoulders.
And that was too familiar. Weirdly intimate.
Yeah, didn’t think that one through … Gripping the worktable on either side of her, Stone snapped his head down. Willed himself to … not. Not move. Not touch her. Not breathe.
