Page 13 of Buck

He knew that all too well.

* * *

Once D-Day laid eyes on Helen Buckard, there was no going back.

Regardless of the complications—they both had unpredictable and dangerous jobs, he had an excruciating shyness around women, especially one he was attracted to, a result of his painful past, and the worst of them all was that she was Buck’s sister.

It didn’t stop his body from reacting to her, or even the thought of her. He’d had a perpetual hard-on from the moment he’d turned around and saw her after his shower. He knew why his gut was in knots. He felt like he was a hair away from disaster.

For the past week, he’d worked as hard as the Buckard family, staying out with them, and doing the never-ending chores that were required of a big, working spread. Buck was in some terrible pain as he recovered, mostly resting on the leather couch in the expansive living room.

When he wasn’t on the range, he was with Buck. He felt it was safer that way. The man had opened his home to him, and D-Day absolutely loved it here.

He felt some guilt for opting to come to Wyoming instead of going home. But his hometown was constricting to him, where Buck’s family ranch was nothing short of…freedom. He felt it down to his bones. Yet his family’s World War II history with Bedford, Virginia where he’d been born was part of his legacy. There wasn’t just the history to live up to, but the incident that had scarred him in high school, one he hadn’t quite reconciled, his trust so thoroughly broken, it was hard to think about opening up to anyone of the opposite sex. But he found himself leaning into conversations with Helen. She was easy to talk to, warm and caring, and he liked her sass. Of all the women he had ever met who made him feel somewhat at ease, it would have to be Buck’s sister.

“Hey, cowpoke, I’ve got a chore for you after breakfast,” Buck’s father Bram said.

D-Day smiled at him and nodded. “You bet, sir. Just point me in the right direction.” It was early, but he’d gotten his PT in before the sun had come up. Old habits die hard, and even with the physical labor here, he wanted to make sure he didn’t lose his aerobic edge. It had saved them when they had to outrun those cartel bastards in Costa Rica.

“Head down to the barn where Cole will have some horses saddled and ready for the arena. Could you take them over there for warming up and training?”

“Will do. How many are we talking?”

“A passel.” Wyatt grinned and his father chuckled.

D-Day figured he would find out when he got to the barn what exactly a passel was.

He fleetingly wondered where Helen was. She was also an early riser, but even though he had an almost uncontrollable desire to see her, he was relieved she wasn’t here. He finished eating and headed over to the barn.

Cole was saddling the last mount, and D-Day counted six animals altogether. That was manageable. He grabbed up three lead ropes in each hand and started out of the barn to cross over to the big red arena. Someone had already opened the big doors and when he entered, he had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior, the fiberglass panels along the arch of the roof letting in a faint tinted light.

A couple of men came over and took some of the lead ropes off his hands, walking the horses to some box stalls that had been built along one side of the wall, with a concrete alleyway between them to separate them from the arena. He followed with the horse he still had control of to the far box stall.

Once he’d settled the big gelding inside, he secured the latch and turned around. There were a couple of riders working a small herd of cows inside the four-foot-high plank wall. Realizing he wasn’t all that visible in the dim light, he rested his arms on the wall and watched a bay gelding perform, the horse’s movements quick, sharp, and highly tuned as he prevented the wheeling, running steer from returning to the herd. Bram said that a good cutting horse was fluid in turns and movement, and it seemed to D-Day that horse and rider were as in tune as man and animal could get.

Light flashed on the rider’s face, and he realized that it wasn’t a man. It was Helen. His pulse climbed as he appreciated her stillness, her grace, her oneness with the mount. This was just another side to Helen that turned him on. She was like an extension of the gelding, her hands motionless, the hard, fast, twisting action of the horse barely shifting her in her seat. And she looked like a million bucks doing it.

By the time she was finished, he had another hard-on and decided it was time to get away. She had dismounted, ready for one of the horses he’d brought over that had just been warmed up.

Fuck but she looked so damn good.

She had on blue jeans tucked into worn brown boots and brown suede shotgun chaps, and he could see the tip of her white insulating underwear, a red woolly, well-worn sweater, and a brown oilskin quilted vest. Her deerskin gloves were darkened with age and use, and she had her hair stuffed under a black cowboy hat with a decorative band. She should have looked like hell, but instead, she looked like she was ready for a spread in a fashion magazine. Everything about her, especially those long legs in tight chaps, were enough to make a man forget his good intentions.

When he stepped out of the shadows, she saw him and froze, a whole host of expressions crossing her face, but when he saw her close her eyes and drag in a deep breath, he increased his steps. What he wanted was mirrored on her face, but vaulting the wall and giving into those desires would be wrong, stupid, and ill-advised.

He breathed deep of the cold, refreshing air when he got out of the arena, feeling those hazel eyes following him. He spent the next eight hours riding fence and checking the herd with Cole, his ass numbed in the saddle. A fresh fall of snow covered the landscape, the stalks of dead-range grass breaking through the blanket of whiteness. Hoarfrost glistened and sparkled in the bright sunlight, the long, thick crystals coating the bare branches of the shrubs and trees and sparkling on the wire fences, the Rockies in the distance like silent sentinels. The sun was closing in on the horizon when they reached the barn, setting the bunched clouds on fire.

A breeze strengthened, and D-Day could detect the sharp scent of snow. They were going to have more of the white stuff come morning. Swinging down from the saddle, D-Day pulled the reins from the horse’s neck, then led his mount toward the darkened barn, unbuckling his borrowed chaps as he went. He paused briefly outside, patting Cash’s neck as the horse took a long noisy drink from the watering trough. He tossed his head when he was done, and D-Day led him through the wide barn door. Cole had already turned on the lights as he’d passed.

Light shone down on the long alleyway between the box stalls, casting the cavernous structure in soft illumination. Cash’s shod hooves made a hollow clip-clopping sound on the thick plank flooring, the sound echoing in the stillness of the barn. When he reached the big gelding’s stall, he pulled open the door, looping the reins in a metal ring beside the stall. He stripped the tack off him, noting that he needed a quick wash after he’d gotten his legs muddy from going after a stray calf.

Cash responded easily to D-Day’s cues as he used the warmed water from the hose to clean off the mud. He wiped him down, dried the excess water, then led him back to his stall. There was fresh hay and a measure of oats ready for him. Removing the lead, he smacked the horse on the rump, and closed the heavy door, shooting the bolt as he hung the lead shank on a hook by the door.

Cole’s horse, Domino, a gorgeous black and white paint, had already finished his munching by the time D-Day passed his stall, and as far as he was concerned, the big barn was empty.

He looked up at the welcoming sights of the big house anticipating dinner, and his nightly aching for Helen, when he heard a soft noise. Frowning, he turned back the way he’d come. The noise intensified as he passed the tack room, then stopped in front of the small room where the vet could rest when horses were foaling, or a hand could catch a nap.

Someone was weeping hard inside. He knocked, but there was no answer, and for the life of him he couldn’t leave whoever was inside alone in grief. He knew what that felt like to be so goddamned alone, crying and dying inside.

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