Page 2 of Frosty in Flannel
I gave myself a mental pinch. I was here to help a skittish horse, not heal a broken man.
“Hey,” I called gently, stepping forward.
He turned.
Slowly. Deliberately. And when his eyes locked on mine, the air between us went tight.
They were dark. Deep. A devil dark that drew you in. They were hard and cold and assessing, just like the rest of him. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked straight through me likehe was cataloging every weakness, every tell, every reason he didn’t want me here.
“You the new behaviorist?” His voice was low, rough-edged, like gravel under boots.
“That’s me,” I said, my voice steady as if I were talking to the horse, not the man. “Libby James.”
His gaze swept down, then up again. Not leering. Not friendly. Just... reading. But when he turned back to the horse without another word, I felt the dismissal a little too personally.
I leaned on the gate, watching the way he moved around the stallion. Calm. Measured. The horse didn’t flinch from him, didn’t pin his ears or bare his teeth.
“You’ve got good timing with him,” I said quietly. “Firm without being too forward.”
“He doesn’t need more voices right now.” The comment was made so low I barely heard it. Again, a jolt of something that felt way too personal at his words.
“Understood,” I said, stepping back a pace. “I’m just here to help.”
He gave a short nod but didn’t look at me again.
I stayed a moment longer, watching man and animal move together in that silent understanding that came from shared trauma. They recognized each other. The damage. The fear. The desperate need to be left alone while simultaneously craving connection.
I knew that feeling.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away from him.
Finally, I pushed off the gate. That’s when his phone rang. He immediately silenced the ringing, but he didn’t answer. He finished with the horse, walking out of the stall before glancing of the screen. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he exhaled, like it cost him something to answer it. “Yeah.”
A telling pause.
“She’s here.” Another pause. “No. Quiet. Professional.”
He glanced my way and something unreadable flickered across his face. He hung up without saying goodbye.
“Cabin’s this way,” he said, voice flat. He headed toward the doors, and I followed silently behind him. Once outside, he gestured toward my truck with a jerk of his chin. “That your equipment?”
“Yeah. The duffels and the crate need to go in the barn.”
He didn’t say anything. Just walked to my truck, popped the tailgate, and grabbed the two heavy duffels like they weighed nothing. I followed, picking up the lighter crate of supplies, and trailed behind him back into the barn.
He opened a storage room off the main aisle—cool, dry, well-lit—and set the bags down on the floor.
“I cleaned off those two shelves,” he said, taking the crate from my hands.
Our fingers brushed.
It was only a fleeting touch, but a shiver raced up my arm and coiled tight in my core, leaving me off balance. His hands were rough, calloused, warm. Strong.
I pulled back quickly because from the way his jaw tightened, he’d felt it too.
“Thanks,” I managed. “That helps.”
No response. He just turned back toward the door, shoulders rigid.
