Page 9 of Tattooed Cowboy
My eyes wash over his thick build again. Can’t help myself. Golden brown skin, burnished copper hair. He shouldn’t look this good in daylight. Or at all.
Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, removes his hat, and sweeps it my direction, waving me over. My throat tightens, heart stuttering. Half of me wants to run to him. The other half begs to run away.
But then, a bleating sound cracks the air. I spring into action.
“Poor baby,” I whisper, sprinting toward the sound. Maveryk vaults the fence, crossing the distance so we reach it at nearly the same moment—a calf tangled in barbed wire, panicked, crying for its mother.
“Hold him for me while I work?” he asks, turquoise eyes swirling. “Your hands are more gentle than mine.”
I nod, setting down the journal and bucket and kneeling in the sunbaked clay. He smells of cedar and smoke, the kind of scent that makes you think of danger and shelter in the samebreath. My cheeks heat, breath mingling with his as he leans closer.
His hands work quickly and with precision, his voice calm as he croons gently to the baby. No matter what this big, gruff cowboy might say, he’s got a tender side. One that steals my breath and makes my heart race.
His fingers brush my forearm, electricity sparking between us. I gasp, feeling fire trails roam up and down the flesh. His jaw tightens until I can hear his teeth grinding, eyes narrow with concentration.
And that’s when it starts again, the steady pulsing of the tattoos peeking out beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. I try not to notice, biting my bottom lip, holding my breath, noticing that the more he concentrates on the calf, the more they glow. A low hum accompanies the pulses, like runes dancing over flesh. Piercing through the grime—heat meeting oncoming rain-light.
Thunder rolls distant, echoed in the storm of his eyes. Our arms brush again, barbed wire singing between us as he hesitates for one brief second, then pulls back like I’ve stung him.
My stomach knots, stuck somewhere between awkwardness and rejection. Though why I’d want the old grumpy neighbor makes about as much sense as the persistent vibration beneath the soil. In his haste, his skin snags along a rusty barb, digging deep. Blood spills, darkish blue mixed with red, and a strange tinge of silver shimmer that matches the iridescence of his ink.
He grunts, his other hand going to the laceration as blood spills between fingers. A moment’s hesitation. Then, back to work.
The calf doesn’t bolt when the barbed wire snaps.
It just crumples, sides heaving, one leg bleeding dark and quick.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Maveryk mutters.
He lifts it like it weighs nothing, murmuring something low that feels older than the mountains. “Thank you for your help.”
“Those words. What language is that?” I call after him.
I scoop up my notebook and run beside him. The air smells like iron and sage, a storm close enough to taste.
He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Inside the barn, the light is dull, amber slats filtered through boards. Dust motes float like prayers. “You should go,” he warns. But I don’t want to, not until I know what happens to the baby. He sets the calf on a bed of hay, his breath ragged, jaw clenched against the pain in his own torn arm.
“Grandpa would’ve shot him,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “But some things deserve a fighting chance.”
He kneels, presses his broad palm over the wound. A low hum starts—not the mountain, not the wind. It’shim.
The air trembles. For a heartbeat, the veins beneath his skin flare silver-blue, the same glow that crawls through his tattoos.
I stare, mouth dry, pretending it’s a trick of light.
The calf shivers, then stills. Blood flow slows, flesh knitting beneath his hand until only a pale scar remains. When he draws back, his own gash is gone too.
I catch his wrist before he can turn away. “Your arm?—”
He jerks free. “Old ranch trick.”
“It was bleeding a minute ago.”
“Guess it changed its mind.”
