The heat that floods my cheeks has nothing to do with the unseasonable warmth. Yes, I know why. I’ve felt his why branded into my skin, whispered against my throat, demanded in the dark hours when he forces me to surrender everything.
A lone red-tailed hawk circles overhead, riding the turbulent air currents with effortless grace.
“We should check the north ridge before the storm hits.” I nudge Whiskey toward the narrow trail that will take us there. “The terrain gets treacherous when it’s wet.”
“Lead the way.”
Three simple words, but they send a shiver up my spine. Jackson Hawkins—the man who controls everything, who orchestrates every detail, who’s spent years maneuvering me exactly where he wants me—doesn’t let others take the lead.
The trail grows steeper, forcing us to concentrate. Loose rocks clatter down the slope with each careful step. One wrong move could send us tumbling down the mountainside.
“Hold.” Jackson’s command freezes me in place. He points to a fresh slide area ahead where the spring rains have undermined the trail. “That’s not stable.”
I study the way water has carved beneath the surface. “There’s a game trail about fifty yards back. It’ll take us above the slide.”
He nods, no hesitation this time.
The game trail is steep but solid. As we climb single file, the first fat drops of rain begin to fall. They drum against my hat brim, dot the shoulders of Jackson’s black shirt. Below us, lightning flashes in the valley, followed by a growl of thunder that vibrates in my bones.
“We’re exposed up here,” Jackson calls over the rising wind.
He’s right. We need to get down from this ridge before the storm hits in earnest. But for just a moment, I let myself feel it all—the wild energy in the air, the power of the stallion beneath him, the intensity that radiates from the man himself.
This is what drew you to him, whispers that traitorous voice again.The recognition of something equally untamed in him, equally hidden.
Lightning splits the sky, too close. The crack of thunder is instant and deafening. Both horses startle, dancing sideways onthe narrow trail. My heart slams against my ribs as Whiskey’s hoof sends rocks tumbling down the slope.
“Easy.” Jackson’s voice cuts through my spike of adrenaline. He’s already got his stallion under control, one hand extended toward me. “Bring her up beside Atlas. She’ll settle better with him.”
He’s right, damn him. I guide Whiskey closer until our legs brush. The contact sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the storm. I force myself to breathe. To focus.
“There’s an old line shack about half a mile ahead.” Jackson has to lean close to be heard over the wind. His breath stirs the damp hair at my temple. “We can wait it out there.”
Rain pelts us now, cold and sharp. My hat brim streams water, and Jackson’s black shirt is plastered to his chest. Moving as one unit, we pick our way forward. The horses seem to understand the danger, each step through the storm careful and measured.
A massive pine cracks in the wind ahead of us. It falls, even as Jackson shouts a warning. Pure instinct takes over. I grab Atlas’ reins, yanking both horses hard right as the tree crashes down where we’d been seconds before.
For a moment we’re tangled together, his hand gripping my thigh to keep me mounted, my white-knuckled fingers on his reins. His eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. Not the usual power struggle, but recognition. Trust.
“The shack.” His voice is rough. “Now.”
We push on through the deluge. The line shack appears out of the greyness like a mirage—weathered wood and rusted tin roof. It’s not much, but it’s shelter. Jackson dismounts first, reaching up to help me down. I want to refuse on principle, but the ground is treacherous with mud. His hands span my waist,and for a heartbeat he holds me against him before setting me down.
“Get inside.” He nods toward the shack. “I’ll see to the horses.”
“Like hell.” I’m already moving to untack Whiskey. “She’smyhorse.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Stubborn woman.”
We work in practiced unison, efficiently stripping tack and rubbing down trembling horses. There’s a lean-to on the sheltered side of the shack. It’s rough, but it’ll keep the worst of the weather off them. Jackson produces grain from his saddlebags, and the horses dive in gratefully.
By the time we duck into the shack, we’re both drenched and shivering. The interior is small but clean—Jackson’s influence is obvious in the well-maintained supplies. He moves with familiar efficiency, lighting the small woodstove while I wring water from my braid.
“You should get out of those wet clothes.” His voice is neutral, professional, but heat flares in my belly.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The words come out more breathless than biting.
He straightens, turning to face me. Water trickles down his throat, and my eyes follow its path beneath his collar. When I drag my gaze back up, the heat in his eyes steals my breath.
