"She wasn't too impressed," Wyatt adds. "Couldn't tell if it was with the bull riding or with me."
Heat floods my face. "Both," I quip.
Sarah laughs. "Is that so?" Her smile sharpens with interest. "I'm curious what Kinsley thinks about roughies?"
"Mom," Wyatt warns, his voice making him even more attractive.
"I don't, I'm not—" I stammer.
"Oh, she's definitely not into roughies," Sarah says sweetly, winking at Wyatt.
The mortification is complete. Wyatt's face is beet red too, which is my only consolation.
"I need to give this to Rebel." I hold up the grain bucket like a white flag and turn toward my mare's stall. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely twist off the lid or fish out the scoop. Behind me, I can feel both Sarah and Wyatt watching.
The way Wyatt Halloway makes me feel is one thing, but to have his mom witness it, is a whole other level of embarrassment.
"I'll catch up with you later." Sarah grins at her son as she walks out of the barn. "Kinsley, I'll see you at one."
“Yep.” I nod and say goodbye then focus on the task of measuring the grain. I reach over the stall door and dump some into the feeder. Pour, level, pour again.
The colt shifts restlessly at the end of Wyatt's lead rope, picking up on the scent and the sound of the poured grain.
"Easy," Wyatt murmurs to him, as he shortens his handle on the rope. I wish he’d put the horse away, tie him off somewhere, or do anything else but stare at me. His attention is too much to handle.
A gust of wind tears through the barn. The massive door slams shut with a crash like a gunshot. I flinch. The colt rears straight up, front hooves pawing the air, the lead rope burning through Wyatt's hands.
I'm standing directly in the path of those striking hooves, frozen.
"Move!"
Wyatt's shout penetrates my panic. I throw myself backward, boots slipping on the concrete, and go down hard. My head cracks against Rebel's stall, stars exploding behind my eyes.
The world tilts sideways. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear the colt's hooves hit the ground. Then hands are on me—strong, impossibly gentle. The scent of leather and soap surrounds me as Wyatt leans in.
"Don't move." His fingers brush against my head where something warm is flowing, and his touch is so tender I lean into it. "Are you okay?" Wyatt's voice is rough with panic. "Kinsley, talk to me."
The genuine fear in his voice does something to my chest I don't want to examine. This isn't the cocky bull rider from the rodeo. This is a man who's scared—really scared—and trying not to show it.
"I'm fine," I lie, though my head is pounding. "The horse—"
"He's fine." Wyatt's fingers gently check my scalp. "You're bleeding."
I try to sit up and regret it as the barn tilts.
Wyatt's hand lands on my shoulder. "Easy," he murmurs, the same voice I heard him use with the colt.
"I said I'm fine." But even I hear how shaky I sound. "He's keyed up. You need to—"
"He can wait."
"No." I force myself to focus, meeting his steel-grey eyes. "He's terrified. He could hurt himself or someone else if you don't calm him down."
Wyatt's gaze moves between me and the horse, who's stretched his lead rope taut.
"I'm not leaving you bleeding," he says finally.
"Then help me sit up." I reach for his hand, and his fingers close around mine. Adrenaline races from my fingertips through my body.
