The colt flicked an ear toward her. Danced once—then settled just enough for Grant to get him into the end stall and slam the latch.
The only sound was the rain pounding the tin roof.
Grant braced both hands on the stall door and dropped his head, his breathing rough and uneven.
Izzy stood a few feet away, soaked to the bone and shivering.
Then he turned.
He looked like he’d been carved out of the storm.
Hair plastered to his forehead. Water running down his face, over the hard line of his throat. His shirt clung to him, dark and soaked, outlining every broad inch of him.
His eyes found her.
Stayed there.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He held her gaze one more second—then jerked his head toward the tack room.
“Come here.”
The tack room was warmer, sealed off from the storm, but the rain on the roof sounded even louder in there—a hard, steady drumming that cut them off from the rest of the world.
Grant shut the door behind them.
He turned.
They were standing too close.
“You shouldn’t have come out there,” he said, voice rough.
“You were losing him.”
“I had him.”
“You didn’t.”
He dragged a hand through his wet hair.
“You could’ve gotten hurt. You had a thousand pounds of stupid slamming into that door, and you were right there.”
“So could you.”
For a stretched-out second, neither of them moved.
Then his gaze dropped.
Her clothes were soaked through. Completely.
The thin tee clung to her skin like it had been painted on. Her bra showed beneath it. So did the hard points of her nipples from the cold.
