Page 12 of Ride Me Cowboy

“He was my dad’s,” Cole says, his voice deepening, raw. Like the loss of his father still cuts. “Rowdy misses him.” I don’t expect the admission, or the hint of vulnerability Cole shows.

I glance up at Cole. “When did he die?” It’s hard for me to ask that. Hard for me to ask anything about death and loss because it reminds me of what I’ve run away from. What I’ll probably always be running from.

“A bit over a year ago,” he says, continuing to regard the horse right in the eyes for a bit before glancing at me. “Here. He’s gentle.” He reaches down then, surprising me by putting his hand over mine and lifting it toward Rowdy’s nose. His hand is just like I remember.

Strong and roughened by physical labor. The opposite to Christopher’s. I shiver as I remember his waxen, slender fingers, the buffed nails.

Rowdy’s fur is short and bristly, and as I stroke him, guided by Cole, his nostrils flare as he lets out a deep breath. I startle and pull my hand away.

Cole’s look is sharp and assessing. I hate how he seems to see every minute reaction of mine. I feel so exposed when I’m with him.

“That means he likes it,” he says.

“Oh.” I lift my hand back up, a little tentatively, and run it over Rowdy’s nose. He stomps his front foot, but I don’t pull away now. I smile. I can feel that the horse is relaxing into me; I like it. “He’s beautiful,” I murmur.

Cole laughs. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He thinks he’s a big tough guy.”

“I’m sure he’s that, too.” And then, I dip my head forward to press my brow to Rowdy’s nose. He lets out another deep breath and I smile, but at the same time, wariness creeps through me. I’m not here to make friends, even with a horse. I’m not here to get to know anyone. To get attached. This is my escape hatch, my bolt hole. I’m here temporarily, to run from the reality of my life, and I refuse to make connections at Coyote Creek Ranch that hurt to leave behind.

I drop my hand and take a step, turning toward the house. “I’d better get back,” I say.

Cole’s eyes pierce me, curiosity in that gaze, before he nods. But as I start to walk toward the house, he falls into step with me, Rowdy beside him.

“You’re a runner?” he says, and for a moment I misunderstand and think he somehow knows that I’ve run away from my life, before realizing he must have seen me earlier.

“I used to be,” I nod. “I’m out of shape now though.”

“Hard to run in jeans and boots,” he points out.

“Yep.”

“There’s a store in town that’d probably have exercise gear. I can take you in later today, if you want.”

“No need, I can drive,” I say, quickly shutting down the idea of any kind of shared mission.

He accepts that without argument. “You don’t have to keep paying for your rental,” he says, after a beat. “You aren’t exactly using it often.”

A flush creeps up my skin. The cost of the car is neither here nor there. The life insurance policy on Christopher was immense, besides which, he had a massive trust fund that I’ve inherited. Not that I plan to touch a cent of his money, but I’m not exactly stressed about the cost of the car. Only, I don’t really want Cole to know where my finances are at, or what my life in New York is like, so I just lift a shoulder.

“You can use my pickup anytime.”

I wrinkle my nose, imagining driving that beast of a thing. “Thanks,” I say, though.

We walk in silence for a while, and each step makes me more and more aware of him. His size, the length of his stride, his masculine scent, the ease with which he commands the horse. Each stride makes my nerves stretch, tighter and tighter, until they’re almost at breaking point.

“So,” I say, because the silence is triggering some kind of Christopher PTSD in my mind. Or maybe it’s nothing to do with Christopher and everything to do with being way too aware of this guy on a male slash female level, on a level I seriously want to avoid. Either way, I can’t take another minute of neither of us talking. “You run this place, huh?”

He keeps his eyes on the house, his Adam’s apple shifting slightly as he nods.

“Is that what you always wanted to do? Or is it just since?—,”

He flicks his gaze to me. “It’s always been my plan,” he says. “From when I was a kid, I loved life out here. I still do.”

My lips flatten and for a moment, jealousy twists in my gut. I can’t imagine what it would be like to know with such certainty how you want to spend your days. Once upon a time, I had dreams, ambitions, but they were the sort of dreams kids have—pie in the sky stuff, not based on anything other than childish hope. Then Christopher happened and I lost my way, because every part of me was, and had to be, focused solely on survival.

“When dad died, it just made sense for me to step into his shoes.”

“Because you’re the oldest?”

---