Page 20 of Cowboy's Way

“I’m sorry,” I say again, before covering my mouth and laughing at his indignant expression.

“She was my case worker. I got transferred to an old guy with a shaggy beard after that.” There’s a quirky smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye as he continues. “In retrospect, I should be thankful he didn’t like little boys. Now, you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“Your kitchen,” I start, then hiccup again as I try to find the words. “I’m sorry. Nothing was in the right place. But they were in the right place.For you, at least. Just nothing made sense, and I don’t know. And then, I just couldn’t stop.”

I slap my hand over my mouth, watching him as he walks over and opens one cabinet after another. There are a few moments of absolute silence until he opens a drawer.

Then he quirks an eyebrow over his shoulder at me.

“You organized the fast-food condiment packets by their color?”

“I threw some away. They didn’t all fit,” I confess, wringing my hands together.

“Okay,” he says, holding his hands up when he sees me start to cry again. “This is fine, babe. I don’t care.”

“I didn’t stop there,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.

At his perplexed expression, I point down the hall to his room.

His mouth quickly drops open, and I swear, even across the room from him it’s like I can feel his exhale.

When he walks in the direction of my finger, I finally get moving myself. Stumbling down his two front steps, I use the momentum to start running toward the path that will take me home.

An occasional rock has me cursing, but it’s when I land on some thorns that I curse, faltering but catching myself just as I hear him calling my name.

“I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t snooping, I just … I’m sorry. It was just, he liked things in order. And I got used to keeping them in order. And even though you had everything in the weirdest places, I shouldn’t have touched your things.”

Logan’s eyes darken at my words, and without another word he scoops me into his arms and turns back to his house.

Bruno’s contently sprawled out in the yard, only his eyes follow us as Logan carries me inside, straight back to deposit me on his bathroom counter.

“You don’t happen to remember where you put the hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids, do ya?” he asks, breaking the silence with a wry smile on his lips.

“The second drawer down,” I tell him. “The tweezer is in there, too.”

“Makes it easier, having it all together,” he replies, and I gasp, watching his expression; thankful when I realize he’s being sincere.

“I never should have touched your things,” I tentatively repeat myself, just as he uses the tweezer in his hand to pull out one of the thorns. “Motherfucker! Oh, shit!”

His lips twitch. “I guess we’re even now, huh?”

“Asshole,” I say, right before he goes back in for the second spike. “Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t be a baby, baby,” he says as he reaches for the peroxide. “I’m almost done.”

“That’s not funny,” I grumble, relieved he’s almost finished.

“What do you say we wait a day for that horseback ride I promised you and we go out on my bike instead?”

I bite my lip, trying to figure out how to avoid spending time with him; just knowing he’s going to want an explanation about everything I’ve done and said today.

“I want to make sure your foot is fine before you spend a couple of hours in stirrups. There’s a great burger place I know about an hour from here, and I’m starving, so let’s get a move on.” His words leave little room for me to say no. Not that I really want to.

When he turns away from me, I look down at the supplies he left on the counter and the open drawer—forcing myself to ignore everything—as I gingerly test out putting weight on my foot.

I instantly feel like the baby he teased me about being. The bite of the thorn is gone and there’s no pain when I stand up straight.

“You don’t happen to know where my boots are, do you?” I ask, soaking in all of the ink on his back as he changes his shirt.

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