Page 11 of Mountain Rancher

“I was tired. My ankle hurt.”

“And this morning when I came by to check on you?”

“I was on a conference call with work.”

He chuckles. “Like I said. Avoiding me.”

I shift to try and put a few inches between us, but my treacherous ankle sends a sharp twinge of pain up my leg. I wince, and immediately his hand is on my knee, warm and heavy.

“Easy.” His voice drops to that low register that makes something tighten low in my belly. “Come on. Let’s get you more ice for that ankle.”

Before I can protest, he’s standing and offering his hand. I hesitate a beat too long, and his eyes narrow slightly.

“I don’t bite, Abby.” Then, with the smallest curl of his lip, he adds, “Unless you want me to.”

Heat floods my face.

“Very funny.” I take his hand and let him pull me up. The motion brings me close—too close—and for a moment we just stand there, my hand in his, our bodies a breath apart.

He leads me across the barn to where a larger cooler sits near the back wall. Each step makes me acutely aware of the pressure of his hand around mine, the heat of him beside me. I try to focus on the limp in my step, the dull throb of my ankle, anything but the way my entire body seems to spark with awareness of him.

Hunter releases my hand to open the cooler, and I lean against the nearby wall and watch the stretch of his back as he bends, the way his jeans pull taut across his thighs. He pulls out more ice and wraps it in a clean shop towel with careful, efficient movements.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to an old wooden bench against the wall.

I comply, suddenly too tired to argue. He kneels in front of me and gently lifts my injured ankle onto his thigh. The position puts him between my knees, his face level with my chest. I focus on a point over his shoulder and try to ignore the intimacy of the position.

He presses the ice pack to my ankle and carefully adjusts its position.

“How’s the city life treating you?” he asks.

The question feels loaded somehow.

“Good. Busy.”

“Hmm.” His thumb traces a small circle just above my ankle bone. “Still seeing that investment banker? What was his name?”

“David. And no. That ended months ago.”

He nods, still not looking up. “What happened?”

“Why do you care?”

Hunter chuckles again. “Just making conversation.”

I roll my eyes. “You never ‘just make conversation.’”

His lips quirk. “Maybe I’m trying something new. Tell me about David.”

I sigh.

“David was boring. And he hated that I came from a ranching family. Made jokes about it. Called me his ‘little cowgirl’ in front of his friends.” I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “We wanted different things.”

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“He was.”

“And what did you want?” Hunter’s eyes flick up to meet mine. “That David couldn’t give you?”

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