13
ROWAN
Dust hung in the late afternoon air as I led the last horse back toward the barn.
“Easy, girl,” I murmured, patting the mare’s neck as she walked beside me.
The training session had gone well. Better than I expected after the fire and everything that had happened in the past few days. The horses were calmer now, the routine grounding them the same way it grounded me.
Still, my mind kept drifting.
Mostly to Tex.
I could still picture the way he’d leaned against the fence watching me ride earlier, arms folded, cigarette hanging between his lips, eyes sharp and focused like he was studying my every move.
I slid the stall door shut and latched it.
That’s when I heard it—music.
Soft at first. A few low chords drifting out from the open kitchen window of the house. I frowned slightly and stepped out of the barn, brushing dust from my jeans. The sound became clearer as I crossed the yard.
A guitar, and someone singing.
I slowed as I reached the porch. Tex’s voice was rough around the edges, deep and a little gravelly, but the melody flowed easily, the notes warm and steady. It was kind of beautiful.
I leaned against the doorframe quietly so he wouldn’t notice me, watching and listening, though mostly I was just trying to figure out this man.
Inside, Tex sat on the couch with the old guitar resting against his thigh. His head was tilted down, dark hair falling slightly across his forehead as his fingers moved easily over the strings.
For being a big, intimidating biker, the scene was surreal.
This was the same man who looked like he could break someone in half with his bare hands. He was sitting there playing music like it was the most natural thing in the world to him. Like he didn’t live in a world of half-naked women and violence.
He was an oxymoron if I’d ever seen one.
I must’ve shifted my weight or breathed too loudly, because Tex’s head lifted abruptly and he spotted me in the doorway and stopped playing.
“How long you been standin’ there, sweetheart?”
“Long enough.” I stepped inside, smiling slightly. “You should’ve been a singer instead of a biker.”
He laughed, a low, easy sound, and set the guitar across his lap. “Trust me, the world’s better off with me riding a bike instead.”
“I don’t know,” I said, walking closer. “That sounded pretty good to me.”
He shrugged.
“I bet if I were a couple of years younger, and you were a singer, I would have been screaming your name and throwingmy underwear at you on stage.” I laughed, and he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You could still throw your underwear at me. I wouldn’t mind. Stage or no stage.”
I snorted. “Oh shut up.” But something unfurled in my belly, like a cat waking up from a long sleep and stretching itself out in the sun. How long had it been since I’d had sex? A year or more. God, did I even remember what to do?
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, and I felt my face flush with heat. “And what’s this shit about ‘being younger’?” He frowned and I rolled my eyes.
“I just mean I’m not a kid anymore. I have responsibilities and bills to pay. I don’t have time to scream at sexy men on stage and throw my good underwear at them!”
He chuckled at that, and I found myself laughing along with him. “You think I’m sexy?”
