Page 37 of Dirty Cowboy

“Oh my goodness, girl. You’ve grown so much.”

Emma reaches out, fingers grazing Shadow’s muzzle.

“You remember me, don’t you, girl?” she murmurs.

Shadow’s ears flick forward, her posture shifting as she leans into Emma’s touch. I watch, unable to look away. There’s something raw and unguarded about her in this moment—something as natural as the open fields stretching beyond the barn. Shadow, usually skittish, lowers her head, inviting more. Within seconds, Emma’s palms are cradling the mare’s face, her touch gentle, reverent.

I’ve seen this horse throw men twice Emma’s size. Hell, she nearly took my shoulder out once. But right now? She’s melting under Emma like they share some unspoken secret.

Something tightens in my chest—something foreign and unsettling. She’s not just Julian and Tristan’s little sister anymore. She’s becoming something more. Something dangerous.

Something I don’t want to let go of.

“She’s never let a stranger near her,” I say, half expecting Shadow to snap out of whatever spell Emma has her under.

Emma turns, eyes twinkling. “Obviously, we’re not strangers, are we, girl?”

She strokes Shadow’s cheek again, breathing in the moment before reluctantly pulling away. “I can’t wait to ride you again.”

“That’s not happening,” I tell her flatly.

She scoffs. “She won’t throw me.”

“She threw me. She threw Blake. Derek ended up in a cast. And my father barely walked away the last time we tried to breed her.”

Emma just smiles, scratching behind Shadow’s ears like she has the inside scoop on some divine equine mystery. “She’s just waiting for the right stallion. Totally understandable.”

I blink. Hard.

The hell am I supposed to do with that?

Emma lets go of the horse, strolling deeper into the barn like she owns the place. I shake my head and follow.

“This place has changed since I was here last.”

She’s not wrong. The barn’s a different beast now—six new stalls at the far end, the once-cluttered back area cleaned and reorganized. No more chaos. Just efficiency.

“That was eight or nine years ago.”

“Ten,” she corrects.

I do the math. She’s right. We expanded the barn the summer Caroline was in town. The same summer I made a colossal mistake, showed her a new horse and ended up between her legs.

“That’s the year you beat Wyoming Jack’s record on the mechanical bull, right?” I ask.

It must have been the year Caroline tangled me into trekking through the woods, and then we ended up in the barn.

“That’s the one. I remember because I cried all night, afraid I lost my virginity to a mechanical bull,” she admits, her voice teasing, but there’s something vulnerable in the way she says it.

I laugh, shaking my head as I heft another square of alfalfa and stack it inside the feeding grate. “That’s a hell of a way to go.”

She chuckles, but then a shiver runs through her, and she rubs her hands along her arms. Without thinking, I strip off my sweatshirt and drape it over her shoulders, my hands lingering on the collar. I pull her in, just a little, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body.

“Evenings get cool this time of year,” I murmur.

She tilts her chin up, eyes meeting mine in the dim barn light. “Thank you.”

I draw my thumb along her lower lip, slow and deliberate, committing the softness to memory. “You’re a firecracker, Emma Silver.”

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