Page 4 of Grit
“I’m fine!” She took the roll of barbed wire and walked across the road to the run-down wagon that served as a storage spot. She carefully placed the wire under the old green tarp covering the wagon and walked back to the horses.
Cary was waiting for her, his eyes narrowed.
“What?” she asked. “Do you want to leave the posthole digger here?”
“Do you need it back at the ranch?”
She shrugged, trying to be casual and not look at his jaw. Or his hair, the thick black-and-silver falling across his cheek. Why the fuck was she suddenly noticing all the attractive things about Cary? “We might need it. I can carry it.”
“No big deal. It’s already on my saddle.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Was it her imagination, or did he look her up and down? Was that alooklook? Or was he wondering if there was something wrong with her?
Oh God, this is not okay.
Melissa mounted her mare, Moxie, and nudged her down the muddy road.
She wasn’t in high school anymore. She wasn’t even in college anymore. She was a thirty-one-year-old widow and mother of a seven-year-old who still believed in dragons and had a goat obsession. The kid did. Not Melissa. She had a ranch she could barely handle and a new grove of mandarin trees that was eating up all her savings.
She did not have time to notice that Cary Nakamura was sexy as hell.
Not now. Not ever.
Three years later…
“Missy?”
She was at the hospital. She hated the hospital. Disinfectant stung her nose, reminding her of death. Calvin’s death. Her grandfather’s death. Her own traumatic miscarriage. Melissa’s eyes scanned the room and she saw him.
He was standing. He wasn’t on a gurney.
Thank you, God.
Her knees nearly gave out with relief. Wait, there was blood all over his shirt. Why was there blood?
“Cary?” Her pulse was pounding; adrenaline coursed through her. “Why are you covered in blood? What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Jeremy is the one who got hurt. He has a compound fracture in his right arm—that’s why there’s blood.”
The rest of his words washed over her.
Jeremy. His rock climbing partner had been hurt, not him. “You’re fine? The blood…?”
“Not mine.”
Not his.
He was fine. He was whole and healthy. She saw his golden-brown arms held out to her, swirling ink covering his skin. Drying blood stained his shirt, but his arms were the same.
Strong arms.
Steady shoulders.
Strong hands.
