He pulls me up slowly, watching for signs I might pass out. When I stay upright, he nods once.
"Don't move," he orders. Then he turns to the colt, and I witness something unexpected.
"Easy, boy. Nobody's going to hurt you." His shoulders drop, and he approaches the terrified animal like he has all the time in the world. "That noise scared you, didn't it? Scared all of us."
He doesn't try to force the horse to settle. He just stands there, breathing slowly, letting his calm energy spread. Gradually, the colt mirrors him. And so do I.
He's a natural. Nothing to do with training and everything to do with an invisible connection between him and the animal.
"There you go," Wyatt murmurs as the colt steps toward him. "Nothing to worry about."
The horse's head lowers as fear drains away. Within minutes, Wyatt has him calm and steady.
Horses don't lie about people. They can't. This young, frightened animal trusts Wyatt completely.
Which means Wyatt Halloway is a good man.
Maybe, like Brook said, he's a good guy who makes stupid decisions.
There’s something to think about before I fall asleep at night.
"Better?" Wyatt asks the colt, running his hand down the animal's neck. After putting him in a stall, he returns to me. "Your turn. Let me see that head."
"It's just a scratch," I protest.
"Humor me." He kneels beside me.
I turn my head so he can examine the wound and find our faces inches apart. Close enough to see the silver flecks in his gray eyes and the curve of his mouth. Not that I'm staring at his mouth. It's just so close, and once I look, I can't stop. He has good lips.
"Your legs okay?" he asks, his voice rougher. "Nothing twisted or sprained?"
I flex my ankles, test my knees. "Legs are fine."
"Yeah, they are." His gaze travels up my body in a way that makes heat pool in my stomach.
This man—this gentle, patient, totally confusing man—is looking at me like I'm something completely desirable.
"Stay put," Wyatt says, rising. "I'll get the first aid kit."
I watch him go and think: the back of his jeans should have a warning label. I close my eyes. "Head injury," I rasp. "I'm not myself right now."
When he returns, he settles beside me. "This might sting," he warns.
The antiseptic makes me hiss, but it's nothing compared to how my pulse jumps when his fingers brush my skin.
"When I asked if you were looking for a good time," he says, voice dropping to that rough register that does things to my nervous system, "this isn't what I had in mind."
Despite everything, I smile. "What did you have in mind?"
"Something with less blood." His thumb traces carefully around the cut. "And more fun."
"I thought a med tent was your kind of party," I tease, trying to keep my mind off the pain. I didn't miss the bandages on his shoulder in Brittney's post.
"Nah, Doc's too old for me," he jokes with a straight face.
I snort a laugh, and it echoes in my brain—promising a headache. I moan and press my fingers to my head.
"Hold still," he murmurs, leaning closer to add another bandage. His face is inches from mine. He glances at my lips and I stop breathing.
