Page 8 of Dusk's Devotion (Blue Ice Ranch 3)

“You’re the most annoying man. No wonder Morgan thrashed you.”

I coughed to clear my throat of a small chunk of carrot. “You’re sadly misinformed, young man.”

“I’m not that much younger than you.”

“I’m thirty-five and you’re what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six.”

“As I was saying, you’re sadly misinformed, young man, if you were told that Morgan won that fight. I beat him like a rented mule.” I laid down my spoon and went back to the black, cast-iron kettle for more. Shep was sipping his coffee when I returned to the table, his puffy and discolored eyes droopy. “What really happened to you?”

He blew over his mug but never replied. “Look, I know it wasn’t a horse. Not that horse.” I jerked my thumb in the direction of Dundee’s shelter. “He don’t know me from Jack and he never once lifted a foot. Also, he didn’t hit your stupid face multiple times. So that leaves only a few options,” I theorized while pouring myself a cup of coffee. Which was incredibly good. Huh. This man was full of surprises. His swollen eye slits followed me as I sat down with a bowl and mug, placed them on the scarred table, and plunked my forearms on either side of my stew. “One was that you were thrown from Dundee—”

“Argus.”

“Thrown from Dundee into a tree. Many times.” I lifted a finger. The snow and wind careened around the cabin, pulling upward on the draft, which made the fire leap and send sparks up the flue. “Or you were playing hockey and lost a fight.” I raised finger two and then three. “Or someone grew weary of your uppity ‘Vassar isn’t prestigious’ ass and knocked the stupid out of you.” His lip flattened. Poor lower lip. A fat, plump lip like that shouldn’t be so sore and scabby. Ugh. Fucking dick.

“It’s really none of your business. I’m leaving as soon as the storm lessens.”

“On that horse?” I asked in disbelief. He nodded. “Have you been outside over the past twenty-four hours?” He gave me a blank look. No, he hadn’t. He’d been in here recuperating and washing out tin cans. The moron. “There has to be, at a minimum, close to four feet of snow on the ground as we speak. If this keeps up, by morning there’ll be easy five feet. Five feet. You can’t ride a horse in snow that deep. You have no idea what’s under the snow. Step into a gopher hole and SNAP! there goes Dundee’s leg.”

“Argus and I know this area pretty well.”

“You’re so fucking belligerent.” His nostrils flared. “Seriously, if you just chill the hell out, once the snow stops and I get ahead of my ass here, I’ll take you home on the snowmobile and when it’s safe I’ll—”

“No. I’m not going home!” He shot to his feet, winced, sucked in a shaky breath, and hobble-walked to the sink to place his bowl and cup into it. Okay then. So maybe I was on the right track thinking Morgan had a hand—or two fists and a boot—in this abuse of Shepherd McCrary. Now the next question was what had triggered such a vicious beating. I’d get my answers. I wasn’t the best irrigator on the ranch after Aaron Yellow Horse for a reason. I knew how to dig better than a prairie dog. I’d get to the bottom of this.

Sleep didn’t come easilyto Shepherd that night. He tossed and turned, then finally gave up and went to sit and stare at the fire, with my blanket tight around his wide shoulders. I lay there on my side for the longest time, watching the play of the fire on the varying shades of yellow and gold in his short hair and tidy beard, contemplating if I should simply stuff some cotton in my ears. Sleep eventually overtook me. I woke up slowly, still groggy, and blinked to try to clear the junk from my eyes. There was sunshine outside. It lit up the snow and ice crystals on the dirty pane, making a hundred thousand glittering little diamonds. Craning my head around, I spied my guest.

Shep was still in the chair, but his chin rested on his chest. I slipped to the floor, tiptoed around him, and then hunkered down to stare at him as he slept. The bruising was still ugly as sin, his lip still scabbed, and his cheek with a weeping gash that really should be cleaned again.

“Hey,” I called softly, hating to wake him as I knew how bad of a night he had put in. His puffy eyes cracked open. There was a small bit of blue to be seen. His chin came up so fast his neck cracked.

“Ouch, fuck.” He reached up to massage his neck with his right hand, his left arm now pressed tightly to his side. “What?”

“Storm’s passed.” I nodded at the sun falling over the worn floorboards. “I need to get moving. Slept in too long due to someone pacing and sighing half the night.”

He actually looked contrite for a split second before that look was replaced with his snooty expression. I had to chuckle which got me a frown.

“Sorry, but that snobby expression of yours is pretty pitiful, given the state of your face.” I pushed up, tended to the fire, and made my way to the front door while Shepherd sulked. Fearing what I’d find, I lifted the bar and slowly opened the door. “Holy hell,” I whispered.

Shep arrived at my side. I pushed the door open wider, cold air flowing in over drifts of snow that had to be six or seven feet high in places. The wind had swirled around the cabin and piled the snow on the westerly side of the door, leaving about two feet to wade through instead of seven.

“Christ,” Shepherd croaked, his arm brushing mine. We both jerked our elbows back. He moaned at the motion. “I need to see Argus.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of riding that horse out of here, are you?” I gaped at him. His profile was regal, his nose long and straight. It was a good thing that whoever had done this to him—his horse or so the lie went—hadn’t broken that nose. It was a snooty nose, but it fit the stuffy bastard well.

“No, I can see the folly of that. I’ll wait to leave.” He glanced my way. “If you don’t mind.”

My heart did a little skip-to-the-loo. I shook my head, grunting like a bear, then spun from the snow-covered beauty just outside the cabin door.

What the ever-loving fuck was that?! Since when did we want an asshole McCrary in our space?!

“Shut the hell up,” I groused as I stumped around making coffee.

“I didn’t say anything. Let me do that. Your coffee tastes like you ran it through a shitty diaper.” He pulled the old percolator from my hand, and I threw him my darkest look. “I want to see my horse. Feed him. I need to do something. I cannot sit around here and let you play nursemaid.”

I crossed my arms over my long john top. “Admit it. You secretly want me to give you a prostate exam.”

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