“You’re extra quiet this morning,” she observes, not looking at me as she rehangs a bucket a few feet away.
“Still half asleep.”
“You’d probably be less grumpy if you got up in time to get a coffee.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “That why you keep flinging open stall doors like the horses owe you money?”
“I’m not?—”
She laughs softly, the sweet sound silencingandsurprising me. I spin to find her chin tucked to her chest and a broad smile creeping across her face, fighting to hold back a giggle. Her bright emerald eyes peer up at me through her lashes, sparkling mischievously at the victory of getting a rise out of me.
Warmth creeps up the back of my neck, flaming along my jawline. For a second, I think it’s just my usual irritation from her teasing, but it lingers too long to ignore. It’s not her witty repartee. It’s the way she’s looking at me.And… the fact I like it.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. Almost as heavy as the guilt that takes a seat with it. Since I met Rosie, no other woman’s attention has affected me like this. The very idea of reveling in the interest of another woman—even over something this small and harmless—feels impossibly wrong.
Needing to step outside, I push the full barrow out to the manure pile behind the barn, my breath fogging in the cool air. The cold should help. It should cut through whatever this is, dull the warmth still lingering under my skin, but it does nothing. I stand there far longer than it takes to emptythe wheelbarrow, my hands resting on the handles as I stare out over the pasture. The guilt doesn’t loosen its grip. If anything, it settles deeper, taking up nest right beside the emptiness Rosie left behind, like I’ve done something wrong.
I drag in a slow, deep breath and force myself to head back to the barn. The air feels thicker as soon as I step inside, and the previously vast space is now nearly claustrophobic.
Teagan is at the wash station with her back to me, focused on her task. She doesn’t look up or acknowledge my return, which I’m grateful for. I keep my head down and grab the pitchfork, walking straight to the next stall without a word.
I focus on the work—scoop, lift, toss, repeat—and the ache building between my already sore shoulders, needing to quiet my mind and keep my distance from her. I suddenly don’t trust myself not to push our conversation or lean into something I have no right in wanting.
By mid-morning, the stalls are stripped and re-bedded, water buckets are filled, and the tack room has been swept clean. The barn smells fresh, hay, wood shavings, and a faint sweet hint of grain filling the air.
I grab a fresh bale of hay from the stack near the door, and when I turn, I collide with Teagan. The impact is solid, my shoulder catching hers, knocking her off balance, and the hale bale slips from my grasp. Her hand shoots out on instinct, grabbing my forearm to steady herself.
I react without thinking. My other hand catches her waist before she can fall. Instead of falling to the floor, she comes to a stop, her body pressed against mine, with my hand curved around her side, the warmth of her skin seepingthrough her shirt. This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose, and the gold flecks shimmering against the green of her irises.
“Sorry,” I mutter automatically. For the first time since I’ve met her, Teagan is at a loss for words. Her only response is a small bob of her throat when she swallows. I ease her upright carefully, my hand lingering on her hip a fraction too long before she steps back.
She leans against the open barn door of the stable. “We’re goin’ into town tonight,” she shares.
“Yeah? What for?”
“The Dew Drop.” She hooks her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans and gives them a nervous shove, her shoulders hunching inward slightly. “Knox insists it’s necessary to unwind after a long week.”
The Dew Drop.
The name alone conjures images of sticky floors, dim lighting, and clinking glasses, much like the bars I found myself in before I checked myself into rehab.
“Deacon will be there. His wife, too, sometimes,” she adds as the wind picks up and blows the loose strands of her ponytail across her face.
“I appreciate the invite…”
Her head tilts as she tucks the stray locks of hair behind her ear. “But?”
“I’m gonna pass.” There’s a slight disappointment in her eyes. It mirrors my own. I can’t deny the temptation—not for the bar, but for the idea of being included in a night oflistening to stories and company.Teagan’s company.But I know that’s not where I should be, and not just because of the alcohol. “Maybe another time.”
“All right, city boy,” she murmurs softly with a nod. “Another time.”
As she heads back into the barn, golden braid swinging behind her, the conflicting weight of my decision settles over me.
The sun sinks slowly behind the mountains, dragging streaks of orange and violet across the Montana sky, reluctant to set. The peaks hold on to the last of the light stubbornly, their jagged edges glowing like embers before finally burning out.
The house still smells of beef stew and fresh bread as I stand at the kitchen sink, sleeves pushed to my elbows, scrubbing the last of the dinner plates. The hot water scalds my knuckles, burning through a scrape from yesterday’s fencing. Knox stands beside me, drying each dish while yapping about some girl he met at the feed store the other day. The faucet squeaks when I turn it off. Eager to head out, Knox bolts from the kitchen for a shower before I’ve even dried my hands after the last dish.
