“You think you can do this?”
I puff out my cheeks. “Yes, sure.”
He takes off his gloves and hands them to me. They’re warm from his hands, and softer than Iexpected, and I make a little sound of surprise as my fingers sink into the leather.
“I’ll find another pair in the barn,” he mutters.
I mimic his stance and hook the stiff rope over the post. Pulling is harder than it looks, because the rope resists, but I can feel how the fibres start to crack as I work at it.
When he returns, he watches me for a moment, then steps behind me. “Can I show you?”
I nod.
"Dig in.” He pats my hip, and I try to ignore how nice his hand feels there. "Lean back. Use your weight."
I plant my feet. Lean. The rope bites into my palms.
"Better. That’s it. You want to feel that fight, that’s what makes the rope really give in. And once you show it who’s boss, then you can do anything you want with it.”
He grabs another coil and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he snaps it around the next post over. He works faster than me, breaking in four coils in the length of time it takes me to do two, and he started the first one. But it doesn’t take long before all six are hanging on the fence posts.
“What next?” I ask as I pretend my arms aren’t burning from that effort.
“Whenever you’ve got time over the next few days, you can keep working this rope in. Going in the opposite direction, pulling against different things. We’ve got a roping dummy that’s fun to play with, too. But let’s go inside and I’ll show you some knots with softer rope.”
I follow him into the barn.
At the other end, closer to the greenhouses, there’s a tack room. Or it might be better describedas a rope room, because the wall iscoveredin loops of colourful ropes. Nothing like what we just were working with.
He goes to a shelf on the wall and grabs a soft hank of cotton rope. “This is good for lesson number two.”
“What are all those?” I ask, my attention split between his hands, what he’s doing with the rope he’s holding, and the loops of various sizes on the wall.
“Those are for ropin’,” he says. “That’s an advanced lesson. But I like your curiosity.”
“Not beating the city girl rumours, I guess.”
He grins and steps closer, handing me the rope he’s already tied. “This is a bowline. See that poster on the wall?”
As I look for the diagram he’s referring to, he catches my hand and tugs the glove off those fingers.
“Easier with bare hands,” he murmurs.
He takes off his gloves, too, then demonstrates the knot again.
We pass the rope back and forth, electricity arcing every time our fingers brush. Neither of us comment on it, or even outwardly react, but every time we touch, his throat works up and down.
I shouldn’t notice that as keenly as I do.
I should focus on the knots, that are harder than they look.
But he’s patient, and just shows me again and again. He moves my fingers against the rope, showing me how to do what he’s doing. His hands cover mine. They’re rough with callouses, but gentle, and something about the way his touch starts to linger makes my belly pull low and warm.
"Rabbit," he says, and guides my fingers. Slow. "Tree. Hole."
The knot forms perfectly under our joined hands.
"There you go." His voice has dropped, gone a little rough. “Do it yourself while I watch.”
