“You’re gonna wear yourself out before we even leave.”
Enya jumped and dropped the damn pitchfork, making it clatter against the stall wall. Rowan stood in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame with his arms crossed. His biceps flexed as he shifted, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling tight over the old scar that cut across his forearm. She’d noticed it last night, when his sleeves were pushed up, the jagged white line stark against his tan skin.
“Don’t do that, damn it,” she bent to scoop another load. Her back protested, but she ignored it. “I could have stabbed you with the fork.”
“I’d like to think I’m fast enough to avoid it.” His voice was low and rough again as he studied her. “You got that look.”
She stilled. “What look?”
“The one that says you’re trying to outrun your own head.”
How the hell does he know?
Her fingers clenched around the pitchfork’s handle. “Maybe I am.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Doesn’t work.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound almost a laugh. “Yeah? What does, then?”
His gaze flicked over her, dark and unreadable. “Wish I knew.”
The honesty in his voice made her chest ache. She turned away, tossing the soiled straw into the wheelbarrow with more force than necessary. “Well. Until you figure it out, I’ll stick with jumping when idiots sneak up on me, and using whatever is necessary to remind them to keep their distance.”
“Fair enough.” His boots thudded against the concrete as he moved away. “Hurry up. We leave in twenty.”
She didn’t watch him go.
The last stall was the worst. The horse inside—a big bay gelding with a scarred hip—pinned his ears as she approached, his nostrils flaring. She didn’t blame him. She probably looked like hell, her hair escaping its braid, and her clothes damp with sweat. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, sliding the door open. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m just scooping the poop, and giving you a comfy bed, so deal, or you and me are gonna have problems.”
The gelding snorted, sidestepping as she entered, but she ignored him, focusing on the task. The straw here was thick withmanure, the scent sharp and pungent. She worked quickly, her movements efficient despite the burn in her muscles.
Almost done. Almost?—
A hand closed around her upper arm, and she whirled around with the pitchfork raised instinctively, her heart hammering against her ribs. Gael stood behind her, his expression unreadable, his grip firm but not painful.
“Easy,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just me.”
She lowered the pitchfork, her breath coming too fast. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
His jaw tightened. “Wasn’t sneaking. You were just too busy trying to dig your way to China to notice.” He released her arm, stepping back. “Rowan sent me to check on you. Said you were taking too long.”
There are freaking two of them doing the sneaking crap.
What is it, scare-the-crap-out-of-me day?
She wiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing sweat and probably straw dust across her skin. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Gael nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. “Good. Go shower. You smell like a barn exploded on you.”
She shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. Because he wasn’t wrong about that, either.
The house was quiet when she slipped inside, the air conditioning cool, a shock after the barn’s humidity. She moved quickly, stripping off her filthy clothes in the laundry room and tossing them into the hamper before padding barefoot to the bathroom. The shower was a blessing, the hot water sluicingover her skin, washing away the grime and the sweat and the lingering scent of fear. She stood under the spray longer than she should have, her forehead pressed against the tile, her breath steadying.
One thing at a time.
By the time she turned off the water, her fingers were pruned, but her head was clearer. She wrapped the towel around herself and rushed out the bathroom door, then stumbled to a halt, when she bounced off an unmovable object.
“Shit.”
