Page 43 of Untamed
I go upstairs and change, returning to the barn dressed a little better than before. The afternoon sun beats down on my bare shoulders the moment I step outside. I’m in my jean shorts with a flannel tied up around my waist. My head is reeling from everything he said. Chores are the only thing keeping me from stomping up to him, grabbing him by the shirt and forcing him to tell me what his problem is, and then kissing him. Beg him to take away the pain I have buried deep inside my chest. I want him to cure me, hold me, make me laugh. I want him to tell me I’m pretty and feed me tacos. Doesn’t any girl?
Mac has a hurt foot, so I bring him inside the stable to check it out. He’s got an abrasion on his left front leg that I cleaned a couple days ago after he got tangled in a barbwire fence. When I examine it today, the skin is turning gray, which means it’s healing.
I stand up and stroke the side of his head. Mac leans into my touch. He’s the sweetest horse. I’m kinda sad Grayer’s taking him back to Decatur with him. He was Stanton’s horse and came over to us once Stanton got sick last spring. Nipping at the ends of my shirt, he tries to pull me toward him. I stroke his nose. “Stay out of that fence, boy.”
When I’m finished with cleaning out the other two horse stalls, I spot Grayer watching me, a hammer in hand.
“Help me out here.” He nods to the side of the barn he’s repairing. “I need an extra hand and you’re distracting me.” He turns, facing the boards, and then back to me. “Might as well help out.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “So you don’t want me, said mean things, but I’m distracting you, and younowwant my help?” I’m teasing, but it’s slightly entertaining the look that comes over his face.
“You know damn well you’re distracting me.” And then he steps closer, his brow scrunched in determination I know well. “Don’t make me beg.”
Beg!Oh God, I can only imagine what that would be like.Pull yourself together, Maesyn. Stop the nonsense.Part of me really wants to see him on his knees before me, begging me for something instead of telling me off and acting like an asshole. His words, the harshness . . . they’re too much for me to ignore.
“Begging might be good.” I lean into the stable doors only to have Mac stick his nose in my ear and then his tongue. I giggle, taking a step away from him.
I’m not sure, but I think it’s the sound of my laughter that makes Grayer smile.
He stands in front of me, crossing his arms over his chest with the faintest of a grin tugging at his beautiful lips I desperately want on mine again. I want to reach out, skim the curves with my fingertips and whisper how pretty he is. “Okay, if you won’t help me out . . . and stop teasing me, I’ll tell your daddy what we did in my truck the night I met you.” To get his point across, he tips his head south.
I burst out laughing, my arms clutching my stomach. “Yeah, I’d actually pay to see you do that.”
He takes a teasing step toward the door and then stops, reaching for the extra bag of nails. “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that.”
I sigh, following him. “I’ll help.”
He looks back at me over his shoulder. “Keep your shirt on this time.”
I roll my eyes. “Am I too hard for you to handle, Eight Seconds. Why are you all bitchy today?”
“I don’t have a bitchy bone in my body.” He stops and I nearly run into his back when he does this, whirling to face me, his chest pressing into mine. He smiles. “Stop teasing me.”
“Stop teasing you?” I raise an eyebrow, fighting back laughter.
“Yes . . . you know I can’t act on it and you’re making it really hard for me.”
I take a seat on the crate near him, holding the bag of nails. “You could act on it, remember? But you won’t.”
“You’re right. I won’t. Now help me out. Hold that board up so I can get it up there.” He motions to the stack of boards.
It’s clear he doesn’t reallyneedmy help and that makes me smile too. He wants me in here with him.
I do as he says because I want nothing more than to be around him. Even after the verbal lashing he handed me earlier.
We work in silence for the most part, but it’s unbearable for me, as it usually is around him. So I start asking questions.
“When did you start riding?”
He looks back at me over his shoulder as he’s hammering, surprised by the question. “I started riding sheep when I was three and haven’t looked back.” He steps back from the board once it’s secure and sets the hammer on the crate. “Same with my brothers.”
The idea of him bull riding has me remembering the video I saw of him riding for the championship. I’ve seen countless rodeos, but it was nothing like what I’ve seen Grayer do. I wonder what it was like for him the moment he knew he won. I wonder if he grasped what it meant to be the best, or did the true understanding behind the achievement come later? “How do you stay on the bull with him bucking like that?”
He takes a seat next to me on the other crate, the one he’d just set the hammer on. Picking it up, he flips it around in his hand. Our eyes meet. He seems more relaxed now and my heart sputters when I realize he’sactuallygoing to talk to me. “It’s all about finding the rhythm the bull has. He moves, you need to find that countermove and he’s doing the same.”
I want to find rhythm with you. I want to get lost in your eyes and suffocate in your breath against mine.
He watches my lips when I ask, “Is it scary?” Most people think bull riders are crazy. Insane for getting in the chute in the first place, let alone in the ring trying to hang onto a raging beast who’s trying to buck them off only to attempt to hook them with their horns. I don’t think bull riders are insane. Not me. I’m fascinated by their desire to tame a beast.
