Page 25 of Unstable

AFTER SPEEDING ALL THE way to and through the feed store, not taking any chances on the supply, or lack thereof, of salt and grain at the house, I continue to mash the pedal to the floor ‘til I’m home.

Home. The thought producing itself, and feeling “acceptable” this time.

I skid sideways into the driveway and Bourbon gives me a disapproving growl as he’s jostled all over the seat.

I drop him off at the main house, getting him set up with full bowls of cold water and food, then jump back in my truck and head for the horse barn.

But just as quickly as I’d hustled to see to the horses, I freeze outside the double doors.

It’s silly of me, this paralyzing fear brought on by the ghosts of many years past. Whiskey isn’t in there, neither is she…but the memories and images flashing through my mind of both are assailing me, as though it all happened yesterday, without having taken so much as a step inside.

Surely Gatlin’s been taking care of the horses—hell, I don’t even know how many of them there are—and he’d said he had work to do. But I didn’t see any sign of him when I got back, so I can’t ask him. And I can’t waste any more time in seeing to them on the off-chance he hasn’t been.

I suck in a healthy dose of fortitude and gradually push apart the doors—beyond the entire expanse of the definition of astounded at what I find on the other side.

Both doors on the far end are open, where he’d obviously parked, so the extra sunlight I’ve just let in doesn’t call his attention to me.

I take a step back around the door, using it to hide myself as I watch in…I’ll just call it fascination for now, until I figure out the right word.

Keaton Cash—shirtless, sweat glistening off every beautifully flexed muscle in his arms, back, chest and abdomen—is tending to my horses.

Not daring to move lest I’d make a sound and be discovered, I tell my rapidly thrumming heart to calm the hell down. It’s merely a finely-toned, exquisite body. Lots of men probably look just like that under their shirts. Yeah right.

I allow my eyes to roam over every last inch of him, but blink several times, chastising myself mentally when I feel the damp heat build between my legs. Hell, I may have never liked him, but I never said he was ugly. And any cheesy come-on lines he may have used to have every girl in town throwing themselves at him back in the day? He can throw them away now, ‘cause his best, impossible to resist, pick-up line by far is the way he wears those jeans of his. Dark Wranglers, clinging to his round, firm ass as though they were made around a mold of his body while he stood there for the fitting.

“You gonna come over here and meet your horses, or stand there and fuck me with those baby blues all day? I’m fine with either, just thought I’d ask.”

My whole body flames with a fever of embarrassment, but I raise my chin and shoulders and move from behind the door, plastering on a look that I really hope conveys the forced falsity that I think he’s talking egotistical nonsense.

“Do you always have to be so arrogant and crass?” I sneer, keeping my post just one step into view. Not that my post at what I thought was out of view seemed to work.

“Only when I’m right.” He turns to flash me a cocky smile, holding out his hand. “Come ‘ere, Henny Penny. Sky isn’t gonna fall, you can do this.”

I’m too immersed to call him out on the name play. I can see, smell, hear…horses, and my feet shuffle backward on auto-pilot. “I’ve got salt and grain in the back of my truck. I’ll…uh…just go start unloading it.”

He stomps my way. “Stubborn to the damn core. I swear, woman. That shit’s too heavy for you. I’ll unload it, then you can help me get their hooves cleaned while they finish eating and drinking so we can turn them out. How long they been cooped up in here?”

“I…I don’t know,” I shamefully mutter.

He marches right past me and starts hauling the supplies from my truck bed like the bossy ass he’s always been. Don’t remember him always being quite this hot though…a full-grown man now, bare-chested and all cowboy, slinging heavy bags over his sculpted shoulders like they weigh nothing, growling under his breath as his dusty boots hit the ground.

I reel in my long-neglected, never really fully serviced now that I think about it, libido and sigh, giving in to help him.

“Well at least hand me something. I’m not a weakling.”

He slings another bag of grain over his shoulder, giving me a full-out smirk, eyebrows raised in amusement. “These sacks weigh almost as much as you do, badass. No sense in hurting yourself just to spite me.”

“Fine. Thank you,” I grind out under my breath.

God, I have got to get my own shit in order. If for no other reason than to eliminate the need to quit thanking the men of my past.

“What was that?” he goads with that killer, crooked smile of his.

“You heard me.”

He laughs, a sexy rumble that makes every one of his exposed abdominal muscles, eight of them damn things, not that I counted, ripple. “I couldn’t have possibly, ‘cause I thought I heard you say ‘thank you.’”

I wrench my gluttonous gaze from his physique and stare off into the distance. “I did, and I meant it. Thank you for your help, Keaton. If you could just set it all inside, I’ll see if Gatlin can put it away later.”

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