Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Maybe it has already arrived, with bright eyes, red lips, sharp wit, and a heart brimming with mischief, with no intention of ever being the answer we thought we wanted.
And I realize as I nudge my horse forward:
I want her to want to stay.
19
GRACE
Forks scrape plates, and chairs are pushed back. The lunch table clears, and I stand, wincing as soreness radiates from deep between my thighs and hips.
God, Jaxon, what did you do to me?
Just the memory of the power behind his thrusts and the way he took me apart, over and over, like he figured he got one shot and wanted to give it his all, makes me flush white hot.
I grab my empty plate, walking stiffly toward the sink, pretending nothing hurts except my ears. The kids are still yelling and chattering. The men move in their usual rhythm: boots on, hats grabbed, calls tossed back and forth. How easy has it been to get used to everything that’s playing out around me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Brody.
He’s near the door, tugging his scuffed boots on, hat low over his eyes, already half out before anyone can speak. Broad shoulders strain the seams of a sun-faded T-shirt, and his jeans are stained and torn at one knee, worn from their share of brutal days. There’s always dirt under his nails. Always a frown between his brows. Brody Delaney looks like the land shaped him out of rock and grit and said, stay angry. He’s like a ghost in this place. A man who exists but is so withdrawn, it’s almost like he’s not here at all.
I need to write about him in the way I can about the others, so it’s now or never.
Setting the plate down, I call out, casual as I can manage, “Brody.”
He pauses, stiffens, then looks at me over his shoulder with that penetrating stare. His eyes are the same color and shape as Corbin’s but reveal nothing of the same openness and warmth of his brother’s.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and step closer. “Mind if I tag along this afternoon?”
The reaction is instant. His jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffen, and he looks at me like I suggested we share a bubble bath.
“No.”
I blink, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. “Wow. Tell me what you really think. Not even a ‘maybe’?”
Before he can answer, Conway passes behind him, clapping his hand against Brody’s back as he goes. A wordless cue. I swear the entire house tilts with it.
Brody huffs out a breath. He avoids Conway’s serious gaze and yanks his gloves from his back pocket. “Fine,” he mutters. “If you can keep up.”
I grab my water bottle and follow him out the door before he can change his mind. Beau shadows us instantly, his big tail sweeping the dust behind him. I smile. Challenge accepted, Cowboy.
***
The sun shows no mercy, and neither does Brody.
When we reach the far pasture, we discover a section of fence has buckled under last week’s windstorm. The heat radiates up from the dry dirt like an invisible second sun intent on grilling us from beneath. Somewhere nearby, a cow moos in that lazy way, as if annoyed by the disruption to her afternoon. Brody walks ahead without looking back, with long, determined strides, and a cloud of silence. I’m practically jogging to keep pace.
We pass the barn, the fencing, the grazing fields, and keep going. A herd of black cattle watches us from under a scraggly oak, tails flicking at flies, eyes blinking under long lashes. One chews, staring at me so hard it feels like I’ve caused offense.
I finally gather the nerve to ask, “So… what exactly are we doing?”
He stops near an old, battered flatbed trailer stacked high with heavy fence posts. “Replacing rotted posts on the north pasture.” His voice is rough; gravel dragged over concrete. If I had to guess, it’s from under use. Maybe his vocal cords have crusted over.
I nod, even though I have no clue what that entails. “Okay.”
He tosses me a pair of work gloves from the truck bed without warning. I barely catch them.
“You’ll need these.”
A curious calf wanders up beside us, gangly and big-eyed, its wet nose nudging the fence post with a soft thunk. Brody gently waves it off with a grunt. The calf blinks once and trots back to its mother, tail swishing.
I slide on the gloves, watching Brody grab a post as if it were made of Styrofoam, while I try to remember which end of the hammer is supposed to face the nail.
The work is brutal. Brody digs deep into the earth with a post-hole digger as if it weighs nothing, his arms rippling with effort, and sweat glistening on his tanned skin. His shirt’s discarded after ten minutes, tucked into his back pocket, leaving broad shoulders and a carved back that flexes with every thrust into the dirt. There’s a quiet focus to him, like the rest of the world fades when he’s working. I drag the old posts into a pile, awkward and sweating, my sore muscles screaming rebellion with every step. All the while, I catch myself watching him and wondering how a man that silent can be so loud without saying a word.