Page 25 of Colt

It’s like the ranch hands—horse whisperers? whatever you call the people who work inside—heard my clogs hit the floorboards and immediately knew it was someone who doesn’t belong.

A dozen men and women look up from their tasks to stare at me with unabashed curiosity. Even the horses stick their heads out of their stalls. They peer at me with enormous, soulful eyes that gleam in the sunlight that streams through the open doors.

I can only describe the smell inside the barn as warm. Warm animals. Warm hay. Warm sunshine.

It’s actually really nice, soothing in a strange way.

It’s not nice being the center of attention. I manage a horrendous little wave, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “Hi. Hey, y’all.”

Everyone waves back, but no one says a word. They keep staring.

Maybe this was a mistake. Colton may be an idiot, but he did make some interesting points. I’d never admit that out loud, of course. Still made me think.

He hit on a very old, very familiar sore spot. The one that tells me I don’t matter and that the things I do and care about are stupid.

Colton, being the self-important son of a bitch he is, just strides right past me. No introduction. No, “Oh, hey, here’s where we keep the horses. It’s called a stable. This is what we do here.” Definitely no, “Everybody, this is Lainey. She’s here to help us level up our marketing game.”

Instead, he disappears into a room to our left. I take the opportunity to ogle the state-of-the-art stables Dale told me they built five years ago. I’ve never been inside a barn before, so I had no idea what to expect.

This barn is an architectural wonder. It’s built of rough limestone and timber painted a deep shade of brown. The sloped ceiling soars two, maybe three stories overhead, culminating in a large cupola with windows on all sides.

On the ground level, the wood grain of the stalls and central aisle gleams. Whoever takes care of this building does their job exceedingly well.

A few horses are tied to rubber ropes in the wide aisle that divides the space in two. Others continue to look at me from their stalls. They are beautiful animals, showing off their glossy coats and long manes when they shake their heads or bend their necks.

There are people everywhere. In the stalls, brushing down horses, slinging bags of what I assume to be feed over their shoulders. When I pictured ranch life, I thought there’d be plenty of animals but that people would be few and far between. Definitely got that wrong.

Grabbing my pen, I start to scribble more notes. When I look up, I see Colton emerge from the room.

My breath dies in my throat.

Oh God.

Oh dear God.

Chaps.

The man is wearing chaps. They’re brown leather, a little beat-up looking, and they cover his legs all the way down to his boots.

I didn’t know cowboys actually wore these things. I thought they were for Prince and male strippers who perform in Australian-themed shows in Vegas.

The chaps are held together by a thin length of leather that is fastened directly over the man’s crotch.

I’m staring. I’m burning up.

He’s pulling a pair of worn gloves onto his hands when he looks up and smirks. “You all right there, Dallas?”

I swallow. Hard. “Fort Worth.”

“Close enough.”

“Not really. Why”—I lick my lips—“do y’all wear those?”

“Gloves?” He holds up his hands. “It’s always better to use protection.”

One of the cowboys lets out a bark of laughter.

Randolph may have propositioned me, but I can’t imagine him ever being outright indecent like this.