“Sure thing. Make sure to take care of Miss Carter for me,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
Of course he’s already warmed up to her, which is both annoying and frustrating—especially when she does things like this that make me need to clean up her mess.
I rush out of the barn as Hank and Bullet head off toward his quarters. I run down the hill, my boots slipping in the mud. Rain buries into my eyes as I get soaked to the bone.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
As I get closer, I see the back wheels spinning hard, spraying mud as she tries to reverse out. She gets out—already drenched—and tries to push the truck herself, but her boots skid and her hand scrapes along the bumper.
I wince as she cries out, the sound swallowed by thunder and rain. She’s covered in mud, her hand smeared withblood and dirt, and she still tries again, climbing into the front seat.
“Don’t do that!” I shout through the storm. She whips around, startled. I hold out my hand, bracing myself in the mud. “The more you try, the deeper the truck sinks. Just forget it. We’ll get it in the morning,” I say—nicer than I normally would be, but she looks miserable as hell.
She cuts the engine and shuts the door before taking my hand with her good one. I put her in front of me and guide her up the hill. She slips twice, and both times I catch her by the waist and haul her back upright.
Once we make it to the ranch house, things get easier. We burst onto the porch just as lightning flashes, followed by a thunderclap so loud it rattles the siding. Sloane jumps, shivering.
“Boots off before you step inside,” I tell her, kicking mine off and peeling off my socks.
I head into the mud room, grab one of my flannels, and hand it to her.
“Get changed. I’ll take care of that scrape,” I say, not giving her room to argue. She’s unusually quiet—a miracle—and I take full advantage of it.
She disappears into the bathroom and reappears a few minutes later. And God help me—
She’s wearing only my flannel. Bare legs, bare thighs, the hem hanging just long enough to barely hide anything. She blushes, looking down.
“I didn’t want to get any mud on the furniture,” she says softly.
I swallow hard and look anywhere but at those legs.
I take her muddy clothes, toss them into the wash, and grab the first aid kit. The storm still rages as I bring it into the living room, where she’s curled up on the couch, a blanket covering her lap.
Thank God.
I sit beside her and lift her injured hand onto a pillow as I open the kit.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I glance up but don’t answer.
“I found a water main station and was trying to figure out how old it was,” she says as I start to clean the wound. She winces against the sting.
“Our water station is on the opposite side of the ranch. Always has been. We serviced it last year—since I know how much of a stickler you are for regulations,” I say.
Her eyes shoot up. Confused. Too confused.
“How long has this been in your family?” she asks.
I shrug. “A long time.”
“And there are no neighboring ranches near you?”
I narrow my eyes, spreading ointment across the cut with more pressure than necessary.
“There’s never been a soul setting up shop within three miles of Hollis Ranch,” I say firmly. “So why are you fishing for information?”
“I told you—I’m trying to help,” she replies, shivering as I finish wrapping her hand. My fingertips brush her skin, and her breath catches—not from pain this time.
