“I know.”
“Then what’re you doing?”
She finally looked up. Rowan stood in the aisle, his arms crossed over his chest, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A smear of grease cut across his forearm, dark against his tan skin. His jaw was set, shadowed with stubble, and he looked both exhausted and dangerous. Her pulse jumped, her breath catching in her throat. “Just… loving him,” She knew the words were inadequate, but she had no others to give.
His gaze flicked between her and Rain, then he nodded. “Sometimes that’s all we have to give. That’s all they need us to give.”
The words stung, a direct hit, on how she’d locked herself away from the one who loved her most on the planet. She straightened, her spine stiffening. “I’m not sure I’m what he needs right now.”
“That’s not true.” Rowan’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes shifted and darkened, like storm clouds rolling in. “Maybe you are the only thing I—he—needs.”
Enya’s chest ached as he stumbled over the words. She wanted to ask what he meant. Wanted to demand answers for last night, for the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning too. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in fear and something worse—hope.
He jerked his chin toward the aisle. “Come on. Gael’s got the far ones; you take this side. When you’re done here, I have to run into town for feed, and you’re coming with me.”
“I-um-sure.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave The Stronghold. But what could she do? She was a guest here.
Guests don’t clean up horseshit.
She wasn’t on the payroll, so she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing on the ranch. But she was here, so pitching in was required.
It’s not safe out there.
Rowan will keep me safe.
Ugh.
Stop it.
Look up corny in the dictionary, and it’s got that thought beside it.
By the time she shook herself out of her head, she caught a glimpse of Rowan’s back as he disappeared out of the barn.
The pitchfork’s tines sank into the damp straw, the resistance familiar beneath Enya’s hands. She leaned into it, driving the prongs deep before lifting, the weight of the soiled bedding pulling at her shoulders. The scent of ammonia and old hay filled her nose, grounding her in the rhythm of the work. Lift. Toss. Repeat. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
Rain’s stall was first. She’d mucked it last, but the horse had spent the night pacing, his anxiety mirroring hers. The straw was trampled, the remnants of his breakfast scattered as if he’d barely touched it. Her chest tightened.
He’s losing weight.
She could see it in the hollows above his eyes, the way his hips jutted just a little too sharply beneath his coat.
Like me.
She refused to allow herself to think about it and slowly managed to lose herself in the monotony of mucking out stalls. The wheelbarrow groaned as she dumped another load, sweat prickled at her hairline, trickling down her temple. The barn was stuffy, the air thick with the heat of the horses and the damp of the morning. Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, the rain from last night having left everything slick and heavy. The storm had passed, but the world still felt waterlogged, like it was holding its breath.
She shook her head and, with a final pat to Rain, moved to the next stall.
No. Work. Just work.
One thing at a time.
By the time she reached the third stall, her arms ached, her muscles trembling with the effort. But the burn was good. It was real.It drowned out the noise in her head—the echoes of screams, the phantom touch of ropes, the way Maria’s glassy eyes had?—
No.
Stop it.
She gritted her teeth and drove the pitchfork in harder.
