Page 15 of Tough Love

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he turns back and hands me a scooping rake. For horse shit.

“With all due respect, Monty Roberts, how are you supposed to get me back on a horse without an actual horse?”

I mean, I had to psych myself up for the past three days to have the nerve to do this, and now he is telling me I can’t. What the hell is his problem?

“When you’re done there, the water troughs need draining and scrubbing. All six of them. We break at lunch.”

My mouth gapes as he turns to walk away. “Hey!”

He stops and looks back. “What?”

“How the hell do you know what I’m not ready for without even assessing me around or on a horse?”

He closes the space between us in a heartbeat. He is a solid four inches taller than me. With him this close to me, my breath disappears, and I grapple a swallow. I meet his gaze. But it’s not angry, only searching.

He tilts his head. “I saw the way you reacted when Harry brought it up the other day. That’s all I need to know. You’re not ready.” He pushes the rake toward me, still in my grip. “Chores.”

I grunt in annoyance and turn back to the barn, assuming the shit shoveling happens in here. Making short work of the firststall, I’m starting on the next when I hear the rumble of a big engine. I stand and stretch my back, sinking my hands into my lower back to ease the ache. A silver semi loaded with hay bales pulls up outside.

The other side of the barn is empty, but the remnants of old hay litter the ground. That’s a lot of hay. Hudson appears a moment later, talking to the driver. The older man shuts off the engine and gets down, heading to the house. Reed jogs over to the semi and helps his brother remove the tie-down straps.

I move to the next stall and start raking the piles into the rubber tub outside the door. Hudson climbs onto the top of the load of hay and starts tossing the bales down. They hit the ground with a hiss and Reed carries them into the barn, stacking them neatly against the wall. After an hour of the same, both men are sweaty, and Hudson pulls his shirt over his head.

I finish the last stall and move to the first water trough. It has a float. Crap, how do these things work, again? I forget how to shut it off. Which sweaty, muscle-bound guy shall I ask for help? I snort out loud at my stupid thoughts. Guessing Reed is a safer bet, I wander into the barn hoping to find him stacking the bales.

Hudson is busy stacking bale upon bale as I stop in the center of the barn. His arms flex, his back works as he tosses the bales on top of each other and straightens them. His light brown hair that I haven’t even seen in full until now is messy, with bits of hay sticking out of it. I chuckle and he spins back.

He stands, chest heaving, arms at his side, his hard stomach tight. The jeans and boots he is wearing are also covered in bits of hay. My heart rate quickens as butterflies take flight, filling my stomach. Holy shit.

His blue eyes narrow. “Done already?”

“I—” I clear my throat and huff a strangled laugh. “Ah no, how do I disable the float? I couldn’t remember.”

He walks to where I stand. He smells hot and sweaty and goddamn amazing. A mix of hay and sandalwood. And that face. His jaw. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling out a few short lengths of hay, flicking them to the ground. “Flip the small metal clasp at the joint where it meets the rest of the mechanism. Then pull the stopper at the end of the tub.”

“Thanks,” I say, but the word is weak.

“Anytime, Dr. Howard.” He doesn’t move, staring at me as I stare at him. At his very well-toned chest. Fuck.

I force a small, weak smile and turn back, heading back to the trough and said float, internally berating myself the entire way. How can someone so frustrating be so goddamn hot?

Life is utterly unfair.

Utterly.

I do as he directed and drain the trough. I have no idea why I am cleaning it; it’s one of the cleanest I have seen. I shift my focus up from scrubbing when Hudson walks past, leading a colt. The chestnut yearling is high-stepping, most likely anticipating what is coming. They enter the round yard, and Hudson adjusts his hat before removing the lead from the halter.

I stand and wander to the rail to watch. He clicks his tongue, and the horse trots around the pen. The communication between man and horse is invisible and mesmerizing. He flicks the rope behind him, and the colt breaks into a lope.

He is stunning. The horse, that is.

Watching the two of them makes me miss the bond between horse and rider.

“Woah boy, woah.” Hudson holds a hand up, and the yearling slows. This time, the man waits in the center until the colt comes to him. He rubs a hand over his forehead and eyes before clipping the lead back on. They walk past the rail I lean on, heading for the gate. I pop through and open it for them. Hudson tips his hat as he walks past, but after a few steps, hestops and the horse halts behind him. He finds my gaze and I straighten, waiting for his next annoyance-laced words.

“Now, that look right there on your face,thatis the reaction you should have around a horse, Dr. Howard.”

My eyes widen as I realize my mouth is gaping and my heart rate has peaked. And he’s right. This is the feeling that I once had with horses. I thought I had lost it forever. But somehow, this grump of a man knew where to find it.

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