“I’m sorry to hear that. How is she?”
“She’s a’right. That was, God, probably ‘bout ten, fifteen, years ago. The horses used to be hers. Minx and Colt here”—Patrick rubbed Colt’s neck, feelin’ the strong muscles flex beneath the palm of his hand—“were her babies, but the two bastards back at the stable are older than me.”
“I thought they looked a li’l gray. Y’all must take good care of ‘em to have ‘em live so long.”
“All Mama’s doin’. They only became my responsibility recently now that she can’t get around too good. But they don’t like me too much.”
“You don’t spend ‘nough time with ‘em.”
Patrick looked at Nash, eyebrows furrowed.
“You don’t. You avoid the stables like it’s the chicken pox. You’d rather be out in the fields with the cattle.”
“I grew up in these fields. Born at the same time as some of the cattle out here actually. My pa had one hell of a birthin’ season. Missed mine but about five calves were born without complications. That one over yonder.” Patrick pointed to one of the fully brown cows off in the distance. “That’s my first calf. Saw her birthin’ when I was probably about seven or eight. Bloodiest damn mess I ever laid my eyes on.” Patrick laughed dryly and shook his head. “Nearly threw up.”
“I’ve seen and handled plenty of calvings. They don’t get any easier.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth.”
They carried on for ages. Nash talked about his history in ranchin’ for a long while. How he stumbled into it after he married his wife, Natalie Natty Mae, who told him he was allowed to do whatever he wanted outside their hometown so long as he sent her ‘nough money to keep her comfortable. She knew what kind of man Nash was, knew he wouldn’t be a dotin’ husband or father. She didn’t care. She never wanted kids, and as long as she had a husband who took care of her, then her folks stayed off her back. Nash needed a warm place to sleep when work got dry and a wife to flaunt whenever he visited home. Marryin’ each other gave them exactly what they wanted: freedom and safety. Two things Patrick didn’t have.
His folks didn’t hound him ‘bout gettin’ married, but his father liked to point out that Patrick wasn’t gettin’ any younger and single women in Suncreek Ridge were few and far in between.He simply didn’t have luck with women. They found him handsome enough to flirt with, but he wasn’t what any of ‘em wanted out of a husband. His edges were too rough, and he had an awkward way with words. He either said too much or not enough—never really could find the right balance between the two. Though Nash didn’t seem to mind. He stayed quiet when Patrick started to ramble on about one thing or another, noddin’ along and catchin’ his eye from time to time in a silent I’m listenin’ type of way.
In those brief moments, when their eyes locked and Nash smiled all sweet like, Patrick’s stomach would twist up sort of funny. Kind of like it did when the first girl he dated in high school would touch his shoulder or kiss his cheek. He still remembered the smell of her sweet cherry perfume and the feel of her chapstick coated lips against his skin. Patrick wondered what Nash’s lips felt like. If they would be soft like hers or rough like his own.
“I say we stop here for a li’l and let the horses rest up for a minute. We’ve been ridin’ for a couple hours now,” Nash said, slowin’ to a stop. “What do you think?”
Patrick scanned the area. They weren’t that far from the ranch itself. If they backtracked around the corner they took, the ranch would be within hollerin’ distance. But with it hidden just out of sight, it felt like they were out in the open fields somewhere far away. Somewhere they couldn’t be touched. “Seems fine to me.”
Despite the high early-afternoon sun, a bitter chill clung to the air. Patrick tucked his hands in his coat pockets and hovered a few feet from where the horses grazed, tryin’ to look anywhere but at Nash. He made it hard not to stare though. He’d spread out a small fleece blanket and laid down with his hands tucked behind his head and his ankles crossed—all stretched out like the cold didn’t bother him a lick. Sunlight cut across his sharp jawline, highlightin’ the blond stubble across his face. He lookedlike he was pulled out of one of those old paintings from a museum that Patrick visited when he was younger. Those old paintings had a way of making sharpness look gentle, just like Nash did. There wasn’t a damn thing gentle about Nash though. He proved that last night.
The way Nash wrangled Patrick to the ground like he was a rodeo bull calf did somethin’ to him that he couldn’t shake, couldn’t ignore. He tried to convince himself that last night meant nothin’—that it was exhaustion that muddled his thoughts and made him sensitive. The lies he told himself didn’t bring him any sort of comfort, didn’t make stomachin’ the fact he might like another man the way he liked women any easier.
“You ain’t cold laid out like that?” Patrick asked, forcin’ himself out of his own head for a change.
“No colder than you standin’ over there by your lonesome.” An easy smile graced Nash’s lips. “Why don’t you come join me, cowboy?”
Patrick stilled. Every nerve buzzed. Heat flooded to his face. He wondered if this was how a startled animal felt when they were cornered, pulse jitterin’ in their veins but not willin’ to flee. Patrick opened his mouth, but the words caught on the lump in his throat.
“C’mon, cowboy,” Nash said, peekin’ at Patrick through long, dark lashes. “Don’t be shy now.”
“I think I’m a’right where I am.”
“Quit your heehawin’ and come over here.Now.”
Nash’s voice lassoed around Patrick’s very core, demandin’ him to move his ass before it got handed to him again. Without a second thought, Patrick walked over to the blanket and plopped down on the very edge.
“Don’t be like that.” Nash’s fingers grazed Patrick’s arm in a lazy attempt to grab him. “Lay down with me.”
Patrick didn’t fight the internal urge to comply. He awkwardly shuffled further onto the blanket then laid down, head restin’ mighty close to Nash’s. Nash scootched closer 'til they were pressed flush against one another then rolled over onto his side. His nose brushed Patrick’s temple, and warm breath that smelled like coffee fanned across his face.
“Was that so hard?” Nash murmured. “Now we can both be warm.” He rested a hand on Patrick’s chest, right where his bronco heart was. “Nervous, cowboy?”
“Ain’t you?”
“Of what?”
“Bein’ caught.”
