Page 75 of Eight Second Hearts

Beau raises his brows. “You’re not dressed for Wyoming winter, Indie bird. You’ll freeze your tits off out there.”

Tripp hesitates. “You can borrow some of my clothes. I have some spare jackets and stuff in the closet. They’ll be too big, but they’ll keep you warm.”

Ram crosses his arms, his expression tight. “Seems like an excuse to get theperiodistaalone. I don’t know what kind of danger is out there.”

Tripp shifts, his face turning red. “There’s no alcohol in the barn.”

I blink, realizing what Ram had been getting at. I hadn’t even thought about the potential for liquor being out there. Clearly, Ram doesn’t trust him to be alone with me and alcohol.

“You’re sure?” Ram asks, his eyes hard.

“There’s not,” Beau chips in. “I already checked the first day we were here.” When everyone cuts their eyes to him, he shrugs. “I wanted to visit the stall.”

“The one you holed up in at first?” I ask, frowning.

His eyes dance to me. “The one I lived in, Indie bird.”

My eyes widen in horror. “He made you live in the barn?”

He shrugs. “The Stray, remember? Besides, I had AC and heat and a warm bed. Can’t ask for more than that.”

“Why didn’t anyone else?—”

“He wouldn’t let them,” Tripp admits. “Anyone who adopted the stray got in trouble.” At my sharp look, he raises his hands. “Dad’s words. Not mine.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay. So, no alcohol in the barn. Let’s get over there and feed them before it gets dark.”

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Ram asks me.

“Yeah. We’ll be in and out before you know it,” I reassure him.

He tugs me close and presses a sweet kiss on my lips. He’d been sweet, making sure my neck doesn’t hurt, making sure I take care of myself and my hips don’t get too strained, but I’m not fragile. I’ve been shot before. A bruised neck isn’t gonna bethe end of me. We’re just lucky he stopped before he damaged anything serious.

Tripp buries me in layers of his clothing. I wrap the Carhartt that smells like him around me and bury my hands in the pockets. Beau wraps a scarf around my neck while Ram shoves a pair of socks into the toes of his boots so I can wear them without them flopping around. Then he proceeds to cover my feet in four pairs of socks. By the time they’re done, I feel like the marshmallows we’d roasted.

“I’m gonna burn up before we ever get there,” I complain as Tripp puts on his own coat.

“At least you’ll be warm,” Tripp says before helping me over to the door. “It’s a short walk. We’ll be fine.”

Together, we kick through the wall of snow blocking the front door and make our way into the fresh snow. Luckily, besides the drifts, the snow isn’t so deep that we can’t walk through it, but it is up to our knees, so we have to wade through it. Tripp goes in front of me, clearing a path that as long as I keep the same path, it’s easier for me to walk. Which is good. Because it would be much harder walking through it with how many layers I’m wearing.

We don’t speak on the way there, mostly because I’d be huffing and puffing if we did. Clearly, I’m out of shape and my hip starts to hurt, but Tripp doesn’t faulter. I don’t expect him to. The man is in prime shape. He has to be to be a professional bull rider.

When we finally get to the barn, Tripp kicks all the snow away from the door before opening it and gesturing for me to enter before him. When I do, I realize just how big money this place is.

Fairview Acres does one thing and one thing only. Rodeo Bulls. While they have a small mixed herd to take part in something called the Green River Drift—Tripp hasn’t explainedwhat that is yet—their main source of income is rodeo bulls. And clearly, with the Savage name attached to them, they’re doing damn good. The barn is massive and just like Tripp said, it’s temperature controlled. The bulls all seem perfectly content in their stalls, each of them looking at us curiously when we pass by.

“We just gotta drop a bucket of food into their feed troughs,” Tripp explains.

“If we’re gonna be hauling stuff, I gotta get some of these layers off,” I declare, pulling off what I can and draping it over a chair. It kind of makes me feel like an onion with how many layers I gotta shed until I get down to my jeans and t-shirt. I kick off the too large boots too and end up padding around in my four pairs of thick socks.

Together, we fill all forty troughs of food, so by the end of it, I’m sweating. “Fuck, this is a lot,” I grunt as we fill the last one.

“Usually there’s a whole team who takes care of them,” Tripp says apologetically. “Sorry to make you work so hard.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I’m enjoying spending time with you.”

He glances at me. “Are you really?”

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