Page 75 of Burn the Wild

Jolting out of whatever daze held him, he shifts the bag in his big hands. “Yeah. We’re back on track.”

“Do you own the ranch?”

“Nah. Charlie does,” Ford says with a hint of pride. “Bought it during some sort of life crisis. But he got his shit together.”

I look down at my boots as they crunch gravel. Life crisis. Is that what I’m having?

“Is that why you came?” I’ve been trying to figure out why Ford retired from baseball. “To help your brother?”

His eyes collide with mine. There’s so much pain in them that I physically feel it.

“I had a mid-life crisis too,” he says.

He doesn’t offer anything more and I don’t pry. This country boy has stories he doesn’t want to share. I can relate.

At the barn, Ford slides the door open for me, and a wave of cool air hits us as we march inside. We drop the bags of feed in the tack room, and I can’t help but smile as I straighten up. It’s funny. For all the dusty cowboys, worn-out jeans, and pickup trucks, this barn is about one level down from the Ritz.

“Stay away from the horses when you can,” Ford warns, nodding at my bangles. “Those noisemakers you wear scare ‘em.”

Feeling’s mutual.

I eye the horses warily. Just like they eye me. I can be around them, but riding them is another story entirely. “I’m sorry.”

He arches a brow. “Could take them off.”

“Can’t. They’re welded to my flesh.”

He snorts. “No more sorries either.”

“So many rules on the ranch,” I tease.

“No rules,” he says easily. “I just don’t like you apologizing for yourself when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Oh.

I don’t know what to make of it, only that my heart pounds double time.

I sweep the floor, every so often sneaking glances at Ford.

He is everything rugged and untamed—the Rocky Mountains, rawhide, whiskey—wrapped up in one lean package of man.

Ford moves through the barn with a long stride. The horses lean into his touch, his dexterous hands moving with a surprising gentleness as he pets them. He greets each one with a carrot and a soft murmur. Muscles ripple in his back, the veins in his forearms flexing as he coils the rope and loops it over a peg on the wall.

I’ve never had a fetish for cowboys. Gavin fixed me up with musicians or pretty-boy actors. But watching Ford work in those tight blue jeans does something infernal to my heart. Causes a soft pulse between my legs.

I’m beginning to think a muscled, hardworking blue-collar man is more attractive than any LA rockstar I’ve laid eyes on.

The sweep of the broom over the hay-strewn ground has a calming effect, and before long, Ford fades from mind as I lose myself in the work.

At the ping of my phone, my heart leaps. Earlier, I emailed my lawyer to get a copy of my contract. I retrieve my phone from my back pocket and open my email.

Reese,

Apologies for the delay.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to send you a copy of your requested contract.

I’ve emailed and copied Gavin on this correspondence. If you need anything further, feel free to reach out to him.

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