Page 62 of Shared on the Ranch

Which left him with some downtime before Chyanne finished riding. It was so unusual, at first he hadn’t even been sure what to do with himself. But almost without thinking his feet had led him to his workshop. As soon as he’d pushed the sliding door open—the sound of the metal folding as he moved it out of the way always amped him up—he knew it was the right choice.

Smells of leather and new wood reached his nose and made him grin. Yes, this had been the right call.

It had been a long time since he’d worked on anything new. He hadn’t had the time, much less the inspiration. People probably wouldn’t associate making implements with inspiration, but nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing helped keep you working like imagining the ass that would be flattened under the paddle you were creating. Or the sound of the high, gasping cries that would follow the fall of the whip.

Aaron’s eyes scanned his work desk as he contemplated what to do next. There were bits of leather and even the beginnings of a paddle. But neither of them called to him. Instead, he picked up his sketch book, flipped it open to a fresh page, and began to draw.

There was no telling how much time had passed. He hadn’t been this sucked in to a new project in a long time. It felt good—like returning to a familiar, favorite routine. The garage-style building meant there were no windows and only an overhead light, so he tended to be heedless of time as he worked.

He found himself completely relaxed, even humming as he selected the wood and turned on the buzz saw. By the time he was polishing his creation, his fingers ached from the hard work, but he felt happy with his accomplishment.

When his phone buzzed on the workbench, he finally looked up. The first thing he felt was shock as he realized he’d spent nearly four hours working. When he checked his cell phone and read the missed texts from Chandler, the second was concern for the very girl whose paddle he’d just created.

“Well,” he muttered to himself as he slid off the stool and grabbed the newly finished paddle off the workbench. “Looks like we might be putting this to work sooner than I thought.”

* * *

Chyanne

The moment the door creaked open, she knew she was in trouble.

I don’t give a shit,she thought, equal parts angry and hopeless. She needed to get out of here—off Discipline Ranch. But nothing had changed. She still had nowhere to go. So she was stuck here, staring at the ceiling and so angry she nearly expected to see cinders erupt from her nose.

She had known that any minute one of them would come in, and she’d have a lot to answer for. And frankly, that pissed her off even more than she already was.

“Chyanne? Are you in here?”

Her heart hardened at the sound of Chandler’s voice—even the evident concern didn’t soften it.

“Chyanne? Honey?”

Glaring at the ceiling plaster, she tensed until her body was rigid as she attempted to close her ears to his plaintive calls.

“Chy—hey. What are you doing in here? Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

Folding her lips into one another so that they wouldn’t be tempted to answer, she continued to glower.

“Chyanne?”

Then she heard another voice. “Chyanne? Are you—”

“She’s in here!” Chandler called out.

Then there were two of them. She was still aiming all her anger skyward, but she could feel them, the weight of their stares, the way they were both trying to figure her out.

“What’s going on?” Aaron asked.

“No idea. She won’t talk.”

She could feel the baffled silence and it just made her angrier. She was so wound up now, she felt like a top that would spin its way right through the floor if given half a chance.

“Chyanne, we need to know what’s going on here.”

No, you don’t. This has nothing to do with you.Inever should have had anything to do with you—either of you. If I hadn’t, then this wouldn’t hurt so much. It would still hurt, sure, but it wouldn’t feel like this awful thing twisting a knife in my gut.

She still hadn’t said a word, but she quickly realized she should have been as careful with her thoughts. Now that she’d had them, her eyes—those angry, angry eyes—were filling with tears. Not the normal kind, either. These stung.

“Honey?”

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