Page 61 of Brim Over Boot
Walter said he wonders what his life would have been like had he not chosen such a solitary existence. Have I been doing the same? Not truly putting myself out there for fear of losing what I might gain, the same way I lost my parents?
They weren’t perfect, but who is? The important part is they always tried. They showed their love—to me, to each other—in little ways and big. And I took that for granted as a child, as, honestly, any child ought to be able to.
Admitting I want that for myself, to share love and life with another person, isn’t easy. But I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a part of me desperate for what my parents had.
So why the fuck am I messing around with Colton Darling?
Why is it so hard to stop?
My phone finally pings as I’m turning onto the dirt drive for my next client. It’s an exercise in restraint not to check my messages right away. But I keep my hands on the wheel, navigating past the open metal gate and over potholes and muddy tire tracks. I get a couple waves from the farmhands as I park near the barn. Looks like they’re rounding up sheep for shearing.
As I’m reaching for my phone, it starts to ring. My pulse picks up, and I answer immediately, assuming it’s Colton.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Noah King?”
Disappointment hits at hearing the stranger’s voice, but I do a quick mental recalibration. Of course Colton isn’t calling. Why would he?
“That’s me,” I answer. “How can I help you?”
“I just got a horse from auction,” the guy says, sounding young, “and he’s got a bad shod. The other farrier…Darling? He can’t come until next week. Can you fix it sooner? I really don’t wanna let this horse loose until he’s got new shoes, but he’s getting real antsy in his stall.”
For the first time in—Christ—ever? I feel a twinge of guilt about the idea of grabbing a client out from under Colton. But thisisbusiness, and I’m available to help when Colton isn’t. So I put my personal feelings aside, confident Colton himself would have no problem whatsoever doing the same in my shoes, and answer.
“I can be there tomorrow afternoon if that works.”
“Oh,thankyou,” he says around an exhale. “I’m Gabriel, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I say with a chuckle. “All right, lemme just take down your address…”
Once I have Gabriel all set and on my calendar, I swipe over to my text thread with Colton. The last message I sent, goading Colton to ask for my dick, is still onscreen, thatbabyglaring at me. His response is simple and concise.
Colt: Never gonna happen, King.
I let out a slow breath. Now why the fuck does that feel like a challenge?
Work is waiting for me, and there are a million things I should be more focused on than feeding thispreoccupationwith Colton. But I can’t quite resist sending off one final text.
Me: We’ll see, little Colt.
Chapter 19
Colton
“Ican’tbelieveI’mdoing this,” I mutter to myself, glancing around before sneaking into the horse barn. The door creaks, and I freeze before realizing how ridiculous I’m being.
Squaring my shoulders, I walk inside, my boots thudding lightly against the floor. It’s pitch-black out, but I make my way by memory to the mini-fridge where we keep some fresh produce for treats, among other things. Light gently illuminates the area around me when I open the fridge door.
My heart gives a great bigthumpwhen I spot the carrots, and I nearly slam the door shut again.
“Ah, fuck it,” I hiss, grabbing a moderately sized carrot. Before I can step back, I notice something on the shelf nearby. I snag the saddle butter, tuck both it and the root vegetable inside my shirt, and get the fuck out of there.
The ground is soft as I walk briskly back toward the ranch house, rain having hit yesterday. My boots are going to be muddied all to hell, but I’ll deal with it later.
The house is dark as I approach, which is expected considering the late hour. Even still, I’m careful to open the back door into the dining room slowly, not wanting to make any noise. I take off my boots while on the porch, carrying them to the mudroom to deal with later. And then I practically sprint past the carrot-free kitchen—I checked—and race up the stairs.
I’m out of breath when I shut and lock my bedroom door, the soft click like a gunshot. The items I grabbed from the barn rest against my stomach, held in place by my hand over my shirt. I carefully remove them, staring down at the carrot with a mixture of dread and intense curiosity.
