Page 47 of Resisting Isaac
“Shit,” Isaac mutters under his breath. “I think I just took his girl.”
Where I come from, half the people who have horses got them by wrangling wild mustangs and breaking them. A practice that always broke my heart a little.
“You did,” I whisper, when I see the rest of the herd blending into the trees behind him. “And you took their leader.”
I’ve known some cowboys that didn’t want to believe it, but mares are almost always the leaders of the herd. They give direction, guard resources, and will often kick the ass of anyone stepping out of line.
Holding my hands up, I step between Isaac and the mustang, blow out a loud breath and tilt my head toward the trailer.
“She’ll be back,” I call out to the enormous animal. “We’ll bring her back when she’s better.”
He blows again. Less aggressive this time.
I blow back in similar fashion because I know in my heart, he’s intelligent enough to understand.
There’s a moment of perfect stillness where he looks into my eyes, and I stare into his. Try to will him to understand we don’t mean the mare any harm.
He turns slowly and returns to his herd.
Isaac exhales heavily from behind me. “So, your ability to command men is a cross-mammal affliction as well, I see.”
I’m about to smile at him when I meet his stare and it’s even more intense than the mustang’s.
The weight of it is heavy and dangerous because I can’t break it.
I’m in trouble.
Big, blond, sexy pilot-cowboy trouble.
“Lucky for you,” I say.
As we make our way back toward the plane, I swear I hear him mutter, “don’t I know it.”
By the time we land,the adrenaline is fading from my limbs like water slipping through my fingers.
It’s been a long day, and I haven’t had time to eat much.
Isaac drives me to my cabin but lingers before he leaves. The sky above us has softened into twilight. A few stars beginning to make their evening appearance. Isaac leans against the fender of his truck, flexing his hand like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, quickly digging for a first aid kit in the back of the truck.
“It’s nothing.” He shifts his stance but doesn’t argue when I motion for him to sit on the porch.
He does, the swing groaning in protest beneath him. “Just a scrape.”
“Scrape or not,” I murmur, lowering myself beside him and tugging his hand gently into mine, “We should clean it.”
His skin is warm and rough beneath my fingers. I pour antiseptic over the angry-looking cut and watch him wince, but he doesn’t pull away. His knuckles are raw, probably from the gate or maybe the reins. Either way, he looks like hell and heaven all at once—golden hair mussed, dirt smeared along his jaw, and those damn green eyes watching me like they do when he thinks no one is looking.
“I’ve never seen anyone fly a plane up close before,” I say quietly, trying not to lose myself in the weight of him.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t take many passengers.”
I press gauze to his skin. “That supposed to make me feel special?”
He chuckles, and it rumbles right through me. “If the night we met didn’t, I doubt a plane ride will.”
I glance up. His gaze is locked on mine. Not playful now. Steady. Sincere. Like he’s seeing right through the armor I keep in place to keep people from seeing the real me.
