Page 19 of Rough Riding Orc Cowboy

Remaining here meant hiding. Staying out of sight while he went into town. My stomach knotted.

He took his plate to the sink that still held dishes from yesterday and came back over to the table and reached for my plate. When our fingers touched, a spark shot through me. Static electricity. That’s all it was. He froze, staring at our hands like I held a light saber and was about to use it to behead him.

We hadn’t touched on purpose. Not really. He was reaching for the dish at the same time as me. An innocent thing. But for one stupid moment, I let myself pretend that little jolt meant something to him as well.

I think I’d read that it was common for orcs to have fated mates. How interesting that would be. Did they know the other person was “the one” right away? Oh, shit.

“Do you have a fated mate?” I half-bellowed. Jeez, maybe he was already married and here I was, dreaming about living forever in this cute little ranch house. Washing the dishes. Testing out his vacuum—assuming he had one. Everyone did, right?

“No,” he barked, his gaze slashing away from mine. “No mate. None at all. Haven’t licked any palms yet.”

Whatever that meant. I would’ve asked for clarification, but he’d spun away with my plate so fast, what was left of my toast went flying. He swiped it out of the air and carried it over to put in a bowl to the right of the sink.

“For the crows,” he said as if that explained everything.

“Crows?”

“I don’t keep any as pets. That’s Tark, not me.”

“Tark.”

“My brother. He takes care of wounded creatures. He has a crow. Or a raven. I can’t remember which. It makes cat sounds.”

“Cat sounds?”

He made a long, mouth stretching meow sound.

I nodded, though I had no idea what he meant.

“Tark also has a three-legged bobcat,” he said.

Caring for wounded animals? “He sounds like a great guy.”

“He is. Good looking, like Sel. Stay away from Tark.”

“I’ll try.” Didn’t he remember that I wasn’t going to meet anyone in this town?

“He’s got a mate. Gracie.”

“Is she an orc too?” I asked.

“Human.”

“So what does all that have to do with putting my leftovers in a bowl?”

“I feed the crows.” His shoulders drooped. “They get hungry, and they’re friends.”

So sweet. “I could feed them for you while you go into town.”

“You can’t go outside.” He turned to face me. “Remember.”

“Ah, yes, right.” I almost felt sad that I couldn’t feed the crows. “Maybe I could watch you feed them through the kitchen window?”

“Yes, that would be alright.” He lifted the bowl and trooped over to stuff his feet into his boots by the back door.

As he left, shutting the door behind him, I rushed to the sink and peered out the window, watching as he strode across the back lawn and flung the contents of thebowl out onto the lawn.

“Crow friends,” he called out. “Crow friends!” Pivoting, he walked back to the house.

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