Page 3 of Frosty in Flannel
I stood there a moment gathering my composure, my hands still tingling where we’d touched, before following him outside.
He climbed into the cab of a truck parked next to mine without a word, starting the engine and pulling forward down a narrow gravel road. Again, I got the message—follow or get left behind.
I climbed into my truck and followed him through tall grass and pine trees. The drive was short—less than five minutes—andwhen we reached the end of the road, I saw two small cabins. Identical structures with green tin roofs and front porches built for boots and solitude.
He parked and climbed out. “You’re in that one,” he said, nodding to the cabin on the left. “I’m in this one.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked up the steps to my cabin and opened the door. It squeaked in protest, but inside the place was clean. Sparse, but clean.
One main room with a small kitchenette with a table and chairs. On the other side was a recliner and a small couch and a surprisingly new-looking television. Through the back window, pastures and mountains stretched out in a view that stole my breath.
“There’s internet if you want to watch something,” Beckett said from the doorway. I smiled at his tone—it said real cowboys don’t watch television. “Meals are at six, noon, and six. If you miss one, tell the cook. He’ll leave something for you.”
“Okay.” I gave him a small smile. He acted like missing a meal was a big no-no just like watching television. I couldn’t help it. My gaze traveled over his big body. Had he missed meals? He was made up of muscle, not fat.
Not like me. My curves and me went back a long time. I liked my body. But then, I liked his too. I sighed. No hope of that happening here. Getting through to him would be harder than getting through to the mustang.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy the ride.
Stop it, I scolded myself. There was a reason I worked with horses.
I couldn’t help but let my gaze travel over him again. The way his shirt pulled across broad shoulders. The way his hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them when he wasn’t working. The way he held himself so damn carefully, like one wrong move might shatter whatever control he had left.
Wounded,I thought.So damn wounded.
And I wanted to know why.
More than that—I wanted to help.
Even though I knew better. Even though I’d come here to work with horses, not broken men. Even though every rational part of my brain was screaming that getting involved with someone like him was a mistake.
“There’s no key,” he said, turning to go. “We don’t lock doors around here.”
“Understood.”
He paused in the doorway, and for a second I thought he might say something else. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was fighting some internal battle.
But he didn’t.
Just nodded once and walked out, the screen door creaking shut behind him.
I stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle around me like a blanket. Then I walked back out to grab my suitcase from the truck.
The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. I could hear horses in the pasture, the low murmur of voices from the main house, the crunch of gravel under boots. Somewhere a door slammed. Someone laughed.
It felt like peace.
But beneath it, I could feel the tension. The weight of all the broken things gathered here—horses and men alike—trying to find a way to heal.
I glanced at the other cabin, where a single light had just flickered on in the window.
Beckett was in there. Alone. Probably convincing himself he was fine that way.
I knew better.
Because I’d seen the way he looked at that horse. The way he’d moved around it with infinite patience and careful control. The way his shoulders had relaxed—just for a second—when the animal leaned into his touch.
He wasn’t as closed off as he wanted everyone to believe.
