Page 20 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
The yard groans under the wind. A sheet of rain rattles against the metal roof. My brothers are out there cussing and wrestling with the horses, but for this pocket of time, it’s just the two of us in the glow of the panel, close enough I can feel the heat rolling off her.
I want to ask her how the hell she knows all that. What else is she hiding behind those sharp eyes and clipped answers? But the words stick. Instead, I just listen to her breathing, sharp little pulls of air that sound too much like my own.
My jaw aches from clenching. My pride tastes like rust.
I drag a hand down my face, smear water and grit across my skin. My pride wants to snarl, to shove her out and take back the reins. But the truth’s already sitting heavy in my chest. Without her, we’d be knee-deep in chaos right now.
“I had it,” I mutter, voice rough. It sounds like a lie even to me.
She quirks an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her disbelief. “Sure you did.”
The corner of my mouth jerks, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. God, she infuriates me. And she just saved us. They can’t both be true.
I lean closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to make sure she hears me over the storm. “Listen, you’ve been lying since the day you showed up, and I don’t like it. But I’m not calling the cops on you. At least not tonight.”
Her eyes flicker, something between relief and defiance, but she holds my gaze like she’s daring me to take it back.
“It’s the least you can do after I just saved your ass,” she retorts, and I can’t help but laugh.
“But tomorrow,” I add, stepping back, “we’ll see.”
She rolls her eyes at me just as thunder cracks outside, so loud it shakes the walls. A reminder that the storm isn’t done with us yet.
The wind shifts, a low, rolling moan crawls across the fields—different this time. Meaner. My gut drops.
Then it slams us.
The roof above rattles like it’s about to tear clean off. The lights stutter, blink, and die again, leaving us in darkness broken only by the flash of lightning through the window. Somewhere out inthe yard, metal screams, hinges give way, and something heavy crashes down.
“Shit.” I’m already moving, fumbling for the flashlight clipped to the panel. It spits a thin beam that cuts through dust and rain spray.
Tessa’s eyes find mine in the dark, wide but steady. “What systems are tied in?” she shouts over the howl.
“Cold storage, barns, main house!” My voice is ragged. If we lose power there, feed spoils, foals freeze, and the house itself becomes a coffin in this weather.
She doesn’t waste time. “Then we split, reroute, and restart everything we can reach. Keep it alive piece by piece.”
Her tone is sharp, commanding. I should hate it. Instead, it jerks me forward, gets me moving.
We push out into the storm side by side. Rain slaps my face raw, mud sucking at my boots, wind threatening to rip me right off balance. She leans into it, small but stubborn, hands tight around the tool kit she grabbed without asking.
Time loses shape after that. It’s just black sky and the roar of the wind, the two of us moving from one failure to the next like plugging holes in a sinking ship.
Cold storage first. I haul the doors shut while Tessa reroutes power lines through the auxiliary board, her fingers flying in the dark like she was born to it. My shoulder and leg scream withevery yank, every shove, but I keep going. Pain’s a better anchor than fear.
Next, the south barn. The generator here coughs, dies, then sputters again under her hands. I brace the breaker box open for her, rain stinging my eyes, watching sparks jump across wet metal. She doesn’t even flinch, just mutters about circuitry and current, knuckles raw where the rain’s scrubbed skin away.
We move together without talking. I muscle doors closed, wedge planks across frames, throw my weight where steel bends. She threads cables, resets boards, and fixes the damn systems I thought I knew better than anyone. Our breaths sync, rough and fast.
By the third reroute, my legs are trembling. She shoves a flashlight into my chest and says, “Hold it steady,” like she’s not already running on empty, too. I do, watching her—soaked through, hair plastered to her neck, eyes burning with focus—like she’s the only solid thing in this storm.
Every so often, our hands brush—glove against glove, or slick skin when the leather tears. Tiny jolts that cut sharper than the wind. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just the night, the adrenaline. But I keep feeling it, even after we pull apart.
Hours blur, and by the time the worst finally begins to pull away, my whole body’s wrecked—soaked, shaking, every muscle blown. And still, I find my eyes dragging back to her, again and again.
Tessa is standing a few feet away, bent over with her hands on her knees, breath tearing in and out. Her hair is plastered dark, her clothes soaked to the bone, mud streaked across her cheek. She looks like hell, like she went twelve rounds with the storm itself.
And somehow, she looks like salvation.
