Page 18 of Dirty Cowboys
Fuck. This was supposed to be about teaching her, not fucking torturing myself with how good she feels.
“Good,” I say. “Now let’s see you do it on your own.”
I step back and watch as she attempts to nail a shingle into place. Her first few attempts are terrible, but after five attempts, she hits and doesn’t miss.
“This is harder than it looks,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
“Most worthwhile things are.”
“Can I ask you something?” she says, setting the hammer down and turning to face me fully.
“Shoot.”
“Why do you do this? Ranch work, I mean. You could probably make more money in the city doing... I don’t know, construction or something.”
I consider her question, as it’s not something I think about often. “That type of work has bosses breathing down your neck and makes you deal with bullshit that has nothing to do with getting the job done,” I say. “Out here, you work hard, and you see results. Take care of the land and the animals, and they take care of you. It’s honest work.”
“And Duke and Nash?” Something shifts in her tone, like she’s digging for information.
I study her face, looking for clues about how much she knows. “They’re good men to work with,” I say honestly. “We understand each other.”
“Right.” She picks up the hammer again, but I can tell her mind’s not on the roofing anymore. “It’s just you’re all so different. I would have thought?—”
“That we would drive each other crazy?” I fill in, cutting her off. “Sometimes we do, but different doesn’t mean incompatible.”
She nods like she understands, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. Smart girl. Too smart for her own good. We work in silence. I handle thetechnical things while she helps with the simpler tasks, like holding shingles in place and handing me tools. She wipes the sweat from her face, so I take off my hat, reach over, and drop it on her head.
“Thanks,” she says, a smile beaming on her face. If anyone were to see my hat on her head, they might have a few questions.
Now and then, our hands brush as I pass her a tool or she steadies something for me, and each touch sends electricity shooting through my body.
I want to join in the fun after the chases, but I have to make sure she is ready for me. I also need to trust in myself that I won’t lose control. Ever since she asked about branding, all I have wanted to do is get our gear and ride over, then bend her in half and leave the Callahan brand on her creamy, pale skin. But I truly believe what I told her: it takes a lot of trust to let someone brand you. A few of us have the Callahan mark, but it isn’t just given to anyone.
“Walker?”
Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’ve been staring at her for the better part of a minute.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? You looked like you were somewhere else.”
I was thinking about bending you over on this roofand showing you what rough really means, I say in my head. Instead, I clear my throat and get back to work.
“Just planning the next section,” I lie.
Before she can respond, the sound of approaching vehicles cuts through the morning. Duke’s black F-250 comes into view, followed by Nash’s beat-up Chevy that’s held together with duct tape.
“Looks like the cavalry’s here,” I mutter.
Indie peers over the edge of the roof, shading her eyes with her hand. “More help?”
“Supervision, more likely.” I gather my tools, knowing Duke will want a progress report and Nash will want to flirt. “Duke doesn’t trust anyone to do a job right unless he’s watching every step.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me. He thinks I’m too focused on getting things perfect instead of getting them done fast.”
She tilts her head, studying me with those blue eyes that could trap a man into doing whatever she asks. “Are you?”
