Page 63 of Beat of Love
It wasn’t desire.
Rather, it was something …more.
Dear Lord, I am in so much trouble.
“What’s her name?” the subject of her discombobulation said in a low voice, stopping a respectful distance out. Brandy leaned forward and patted the filly’s shoulder.
That’s right. Concentrate on the horse, thetask, and not your companion.
“Sparrow. She’s three years old, and almost a month into her training.”
“Okay if I approach?”
“Yeah,” Brandy said, keeping her tone dry. “She’s green, not glass.”
A flash of a grin crossed his face, quick and crooked. It tugged at one side of his mouth and lit something unguarded in his eyes.
Her pulse fluttered. That warm feeling spread, winding up through her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to look away — or lean in closer.
So. Much. Trouble.
Rafferty guided his horse up beside her. He eased one gloved hand from the horn and let it hang at his side — open, relaxed, inviting. He didn’t even look at Sparrow when he spoke, like he wasn’t talking to her at all.
“Pretty Sparrow,” he murmured, voice pitched low and soft. “You up for some riding?”
Sparrow didn’t move her hooves, but her neck stretched, nostrils fluttering.
Rafferty stayed exactly where he was, that loose hand still and steady in the space between them.
The filly’s nose touched his fingertips, just the barest graze.“Good girl,” he said, quieter this time. “That’s it.”
Brandy’s insides turned all warm and gooey. And this close, she caught a whiff of citrus and leather. The smell swirled around her, mixing with earth and crisp morning air had a far too heady effect on her. Unnerved, she picked up the reins. “Day’s wasting, cowboy. Let’s go.”
They rode out, hooves muffled in the packed earth, Rocco taking the lead by half a stride. The buildings faded behind them as they passed the last fence line and dipped into a recently plowed pasture. A breeze stirred from the west, rustling the dry grass and tugging at her braid.
They eased into a companionable silence, the soft rhythm of the horses’ breathing mingling with the low murmur of distant cattle, birdsong, and the steady chatter of insects — each sound working like balm on her frayed nerves.
The stream came into view — a shallow ribbon of water, running clear over smooth rock and fallen leaves. Rocco stopped and started drinking, and Sparrow followed suit. Done, the gelding stepped into the stream without hesitation, water splashing up to his knees as he waded deeper. When urged on, Sparrow refused, backing up the bank, neck stiff, ears locked forward.
Brandy didn’t touch the reins. Just waited, letting the horse settle.
Rafferty glanced back, reining in his gelding midstream, waiting.
Sparrow pawed at the edge. Snorted.
“You’re all right,” Brandy said quietly. “Nothing gonna bite you in there.” She shifted her seat — a little forward, loosening her knees — and clucked her tongue once. The mare stepped in, cautious, ears flicking. The water hit her fetlocks, and she danced a half step sideways.
“It’s just water, sugar,” she assured.
The mare blinked, then lowered her head to sniff the water. One more step, then another. The current pulled lightly at her legs, but she crossed. Brandy gave a quiet breath as they stepped out onto the far bank.
“Good girl,” she said, brushing her hand across the mare’s neck.
They rode on, past the gate that led into the lower pasture. Rafferty dismounted to open it, Rocco standing still like he’d done it a thousand times — which he probably had. Brandy urged Sparrow through the opening and stopped, the filly turning her head to watch the cattle in the distance.
Rafferty swung back into the saddle. “You want me to take the lead again?”
She shook her head. “Let her pick her own way.”
