Page 9 of Buckled in Barbwire

“That was different.”

But for some inexplicable reason, my focus strays to where the blonde is bent over to give me a peek at her cleavage. I tug at the collar of my western shirt that’s suddenly too suffocating. Unlike Paisley’s casual outfit, the straw hat on my head is the only proof that I relent to the heat. From the neck down, I’m dressed in my standard button-downand Wranglers combo. I wouldn’t be caught in fiery hell wearing less. That’s when I notice my jaw is clenched hard enough to slice through wire. A long exhale loosens the strain but it’s too late.

My dad’s attention is taking a leisurely loop from the hired help to me. His thoughts are loud enough to be audible, but he still voices them. “She’ll be good for morale.”

“Maybe where you’re concerned.” I’m willing to admit that woman has scared off Dad’s demons for a few precious moments.Meanwhile, mine remain securely locked away and heavily guarded.

“Mhmm, already chasing off the gloom.” He flicks his fingers to where Paisley has her face tipped to the sky. “We can use a dose of sunshine. You especially.”

I don’t appreciate the direction of his scheming. “That’s my cue to get gone.”

“Not so fast.” His hand on my arm stills my retreat. “Go welcome Ms. Keaton to our farmstead. I’m gonna call my brother and silence his complaints or I’ll give him something to actually bitch about.”

That gives me pause. My mouth works silently for a moment. I’d rather get fucked by a thistle than confront Paisley, but my father is willing to do something other than drown his sorrows in whiskey. My earlier conviction resurfaces. Dad’s revival is worth the annoyance of introducing myself to our new barn manager.

I’ll give Paisley the treatment she deserves, just like every other weed that dares to pollute my path. She’ll have her head bowed and spirit broken before lunch.

Iangle my screen higher, but Bandit’s large head is still cut off. The palomino stands patiently while I attempt to fit us in the frame for a picture. No such luck. As it turns out, I haven’t perfected the skill of snapping a selfie with a horse. Bianca will appreciate an update regardless.

“You’re off to a productive start. Why am I not surprised?”

A gasp rips from me as I whirl to confront the gruff voice. My phone almost drops into a pile of manure from the abrupt motion, but I barely notice the bobble. Not while Brody Benson is leaning on the paddock gate, glaring at me. I gulp at the sudden dryness in my throat.

“Um, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

“Wonder why,” he deadpans. “Is this what I can expect from your work ethic?”

I blink at the snark in his tone. “Is everything okay?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m fine. You’re the one…” I trail off and gesture at his surly expression.

Brody’s scowl deepens into a sharp point that punctures my confidence. “This is what you get for slacking off while on the clock.”

I’m shocked silent by his obvious irritation. “Slacking off?”

“What would you call it?”

“I’m doing my job.”

“You’re not getting paid to be a photographer.”

The smile I give him is honey slathered on a thorn bush. “It won’t break the bank if I take a quick pic. Bianca approves of my methods. You can trust me too.”

“I’d rather eat horseshit.”

In a fluid motion, he hops the fence and lands in the dirt. The loss of the barrier between us feels detrimental. I’m an open target as he stalks toward me. Brody’s stride is a lethal prowl, like a predator hunting the stench of weakness. Nerves punch my stomach the closer he gets. We’ve only been alone on one other occasion and that didn’t end well.

But that previous stumble doesn’t register in this moment. I’m too preoccupied by his steady approach, and the fantasy he represents. It’s no secret I’ve always been attracted to cowboys. Brody turns that general interest into a specific point.

The shade from his straw hat does little to conceal his devastating features. I almost choke on my tongue. My ovaries are singing hallelujah and ready to spit out eggs like a firing squad, which is wrong on so many levels.

But damn, he’s sexy. Such a manly man. The complete opposite of those sorry excuses for masculinity who paradearound rodeo chutes after just sprouting their first chest hair. Don’t even get me started on his Wranglers. Brody is distinguished and chiseled and striking and… I’m staring. He notices my blatant ogling, which sets fire to my cheeks.

“Aren’t you hot?” I blurt.

His eyes smolder into green flames. “Excuse me?”

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