Whenever I’m cleaning or preparing meals, someone’s always nearby, either inside the estate or watching from outside. I hate that they have to babysit me, but I also appreciate it. Between Lorne’s training and having a safe place to live, he’s given me more stability than I’ve ever known.
“I’m going to take Captain back to the stable.” He runs a hand across the dappled flank of his horse. “Then I’ll be on the front porch, working out.”
He exercises every day without weights or machines. Or clothes. Stripped down to his briefs, always outside, he conditions his body with crunches, squats, chin lifts, and whatever else he learned to do in a six by eight cell.
In fact, he only goes inside to eat and shower. His massive suite sits unfurnished, unpainted, and lonely. I don’t sleep well in there, and I doubt he sleeps any better on the ground.
He needs to move in and make this place his home again.
With a hand resting on his belt buckle and his other hanging at his side, he idly strokes his thumb along the scar on his palm.
Sunlight hits his face at just the right angle to illuminate a faint scattering of freckles across his nose. His sister is covered in them, thanks to their Irish blood, but his freckles didn’t appear until the last couple of days. His skin is darker, too. Healthier.
The fresh air and glow of summer suits him.
“Go inside, Raina, before I forgo the workout for a different kind of exercise.”
My mouth parts on a faltering breath, and a jolt of warmth quakes through me. I’ve been attracted to him since day one, but that shallow sentiment is evolving into unchartered territory. I feel greedy for him, possessive, and utterly confused.
Thirty minutes ago, I wanted to break his dick on my boot. Now, I’m imagining it in ways I’ve never craved a man.
I turn toward the house and enter through the mudroom.
Distance from him is smart, even if the ache in my gut doesn’t agree.
I slide off my boots, and my attention falls to the trail of dirt that leads to the interior door. My molars slam together as I follow the mess into the kitchen, where it tracks back and forth and around the table.
“Raina?” Jake bellows from another room.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
As the sound of his footsteps retreat, an idea hits me, and I run after him.
The office sits off the foyer. When I reach the open doorway, I poke my head in.
Jake sits at a huge wooden desk, surrounded by paperwork and computer monitors. He’s the finance brain of the cattle operation, but that’s not where his attention resides at the moment.
He stares at a large screen filled with a dozen live camera feeds from various locations on the property. Some of them display Conor’s clinic. The view of her exam room shows her kneeling beside a blurry dog-sized animal.
“Is that a goat?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder at me and returns to the screen. “Yeah.” After a moment, he sighs and pushes away from the desk, seemingly with great reluctance. “I could stare at her all day. Conor, not the goat.”
“Don’t let me stop you. I just wanted to see if you had a marker and something to write on.”
His stern gaze sweeps over the messy office. “For what?”
“A sign.”
A dark eyebrow lifts. Then he ambles over to the closet and removes an old poster of Chris Stapleton. “Use the back of this.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t know.” He hands me a sharpie from the desk drawer. “I haven’t seen your sign yet.”
With a grin, I stretch out the poster on the floor and write.
Attention Ranchers.
Take off your clothes.
And prepare for disappointment. It’s not what you think.
If you track in dirt, your next meal will be your last.
I cap the marker and peer up at Jake.
He bursts into laughter. “Are you hanging that in the mudroom?”
“Yup.”
I thank him for his help and head out to take my first stance in this family.
The sign goes on the wall with a dirty clothes hamper beneath it. I set out clean shorts on the shelving unit and clear the bottom shelves to store dirty boots. Then I start mopping.
That night, dinner simmers on the stove as I flit around the kitchen, preparing the salad, buttering the bread, and setting the table.
With the volume turned up on the stereo in the living room, I sing along with my favorite song, Gun Power and Lead by Miranda Lambert. The brash lyrics grab me where my heart lives. I belt them, loud and out of tune, in an ode to John Holsten, Lorne Cassidy, and any other man who underestimates me.
When the song ends, everything’s ready, and I stand at the sink with a flutter in my chest.
They’ll arrive any minute and gather around the table, laughing and arguing and sharing stories about their day. I look forward to it with an unfamiliar tug of affection.