This time, she didn’t need anyone to tell her she stank because she could smell it herself. Enya scrubbed harder, her nails digging into her scalp. The soap lathered pink-tinged suds down the drain. She washed until her skin burned, until the water ran clear, and until the ghost of Maria’s blood faded just a little.
The towel was rough but clean. She dried off, wrapping it around herself like armor before limping to the sink. The cabinet beneath held a plastic bin of travel-sized toiletries—mini shampoos, a sealed toothbrush, a comb still in its package. She used them all. She brushed her teeth until her gums ached. Combed the tangles from her hair with fingers first, then the comb, wincing as it snagged.
Her clothes were still filthy, and she grimaced at the thought of putting them back on now that she was finally clean. She hesitated, then dug deeper into the cabinet. Behind a stack of washcloths, she found a faded Stronghold Ranch T-shirt,soft from too many washes, and a pair of gym shorts with a drawstring. They’d swallow her whole, but they were clean.
She dressed quickly, the fabric overwhelmingly not hers, then rolled the waistband of the shorts until they stayed up. The mirror showed a pale, too-thin stranger, but the wildness in her eyes had dulled a little. Maybe here she could figure out how to exchange the feral thing she’d become for the woman who she was supposed to be. One who might actually belong next to a man who saved horses and carried rifles like they were part of him.
Enya took a breath and blew it out slowly, then repeated the process twice more before she was ready to face Rowan Salieri. The man who kept saving her was the only person who made her feel like she was safe.
She followed the scent of frying bacon down the hall. The rich, greasy aroma, when combined with the bitter whiff of coffee from the percolator, made her stomach growl. It wasn’t lost on her that today everything seemed just a little bit brighter when sunlight pooled in uneven patches across the kitchen floor, warming the wood beneath her bare feet.
Rowan stood at the stove, his movements unhurried as he minded the cast-iron skillet that hissed under his control. His gaze flicked toward her, lingering just long enough to raise an eyebrow at the oversized clothes swallowing her frame, before his expression smoothed into something unreadable. “Find what you were looking for?”
She swallowed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Good.” He slid the bacon onto a plate beside scrambled eggs and toast, and placed it in front of a chair at the table where a mug of coffee waited. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
She wasn’t sure if she was or not. Or if she’d be able to keep it down, but she perched on the chair anyway, holding her body rigid. Her eyes darted to the food before she gave in to temptation and picked up a slice of bacon. The first bite cracked between her teeth, salt and fat flooding her senses. She couldn’t remember the last time food had a taste that wasn’t sawdust.
Across from her, Rowan leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. His stance was easy but his attention was fixed on her. “Good?” The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
She chewed, swallowed. “Really good.”
He lifted his own mug, took a slow sip, and exhaled a slow breath. His gaze held hers over the rim, steady, deciding if he should insist she leave immediately. “Here’s how it works. We don’t allow guests here at the ranch.” His tone was firm. “If you’re staying at Stronghold, you work like the rest of us.”
Her fork froze mid-way to her mouth, and she set it down before she dropped food all over herself. “What does that mean?”
He placed his mug on the counter with a quiet thud. “We don’t do no handouts here. Everyone here pulls their weight. Could be shoveling manure, could be feeding the horses. Doesn’t matter what, just that you do something to earn your keep.”
The food in front of her blurred for a second as an awkward silence filled the space between them. Then, deep in her chest, something shifted and flickered, like a match striking in the dark. It kind of felt like the ghost of hope. Enya grabbed onto it with both hands, and she met his eyes. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He pushed off the counter, a single nod sealing it. “Then eat while I find you something warmer to wear, and finish that breakfast by the time I get back. Tack’s not gonna muck itself.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but stalked out of the kitchen.
Tack. I can clean Tack.
***
Rowan stoodat the back of his closet, rummaging through a stack of clothes until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pair of navy-blue sweats, the word “Navy” emblazoned in yellow down one leg. They were well-worn and softened with age. He’d put on a lot of bulk since the last time he’d worn these at boot camp.
Seeing Enya wearing his brother’s clothes had caught him off guard and brought a foreign pang of annoyance. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but it did. Joel and Gael wore each other’s clothes all the time. There was no need for Enya to join that party when he had plenty to share with her right here.
His fingers brushed the soft fabric as he considered the size of one of his hoodies. He decided it might swallow her whole, but at least it was warm and suitable for sitting in the tack room cleaning shit for the day.
He made a mental note to himself to ask Camden to send some of Enya’s clothes over when they spoke later. She couldn’t live in his old hand-me-downs forever. Armed with the bundle of clothes, he headed back to the kitchen. When he re-entered, she’d made short work of half the food he’d left her and finished the coffee.
That will do for the first day, I suppose.
Enya looked up, a hint of apprehension softening into something like relief when she saw the clothes in his hands. He dropped them onto the table with an air of casual disregard, but he watched her reaction closely. “These will fit better.”
Her fingers brushed against the fabric, brows knitting in curiosity. “Thanks.”
“Just don’t lose the hoodie,” he said, trying for stern, though his voice came out more teasing than he intended. “I’ll need it back.”
A small, genuine smile curved her lips, a gesture so rare and unexpected it almost knocked the breath from him. “Promise,” she said. Her voice was tentative, yet it held the barest hint of something of a spark that hadn’t entirely been dimmed by whatever hell she’d gone through.
Rowan cleared his throat, shifting his gaze toward the field visible through the window’s dusty pane. “Good,” he said again, pushing down the unfamiliar stirrings within. “Go change. We’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
