“June,” he said, surprise plain in his eyes. “The horses are all put to bed for the night.”
“That’s okay, I’m here for you.” I winced, lifting the casserole dish to distract from my awkward phrasing. “I brought you dinner.”
“Oh.” He frowned as his eyes fell on the bundle in my hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know, I just…” Really, I had no good explanation for my urge to make him dinner. Nothing that made much sense, anyway.Thanks for sharing with me about your childhood, here’s some food!wouldn’t cut it. “I just wanted to.”
“That was good of you. Thanks.”
He held one hand out as if he intended to cart the casserole dish back to the kitchen himself. This late in the day, weariness lined his eyes and mouth, and his stiff posture proved just how much his muscles ached. He could no sooner carry this casserole dish one-handed than he could do a cartwheel. I wouldn’t give up the goods quite that easily. So to speak.
“I can take it in for you.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.” He edged over to put himself between me and the living room like a bouncer who’d spotted a fake ID.
“It’s heavy, you shouldn’t carry it.” I took one step across the threshold, but he didn’t move, wedging me in the doorway for a moment. I stared up into his face. “Are you going to let me in?”
He sighed until the sound cut off with a low grunt and a grimace. His look of pure apology had me bracing myself—for what, I didn’t even know. Finally, he moved aside and let the door swing open wide.
“Oh. My. Goodness.”
Wreckwasn’t a strong enough word to describe the house. Clothes were strewn across the floor, dirty dishes littered the coffee table, and I could see the pile growing in the kitchen sink even from the door. His recliner peeked out from beneath a tangle of blankets and pillows like he’d been sleeping in it since his injury. The worst-case scenario when visiting a guy’s house come to life, only missing a pyramid of empty beer cans on the side table.
Ty was neither careless nor a slob. He would only live like this if his pain made it impossible to manage the simplest everyday tasks. The man rinsed his rubber work boots after he wore them—it must be killing him to let things get this bad.
Three steps over the threshold, I made up my mind.
“Okay.” Walking past him, I avoided a shirt on the floor, and set the casserole and garlic bread beside the stove in the kitchen. “First things first.”
I moved through the living room, gathering dirty clothes into my arms.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m helping.” I sifted through the blankets on his makeshift bed before moving on to the piles on the floor. “Is your bedroom upstairs? Hamper up there?”
I didn't wait for an answer before I started up the stairs.
“You drop those right now, June.”
His voice rumbled with stern authority, the same one he used when he talked to his horses. Too bad I wasn’t any more inclined to listen than Bullet was. Two footfalls creaked on the stairs behind me, followed by another groan. I turned to find him paused at the bottom of the staircase, one hand hovering over his chest as he scowled up at me.
Stairs didn’t seem to be his friend these days.
Even at this distance, his glare scorched. “You get back down here.”
I gave him a quick smile and turned to assess my surroundings. Four doors led off from the landing, and they all stood open. One bathroom, two virtually empty bedrooms, and finally, Ty’s room. The bed had been neatly made up with a quilt that his grandmother had probably sewed, although the pillows had been stripped for his nest downstairs. The closet doors stood partially open, revealing an assortment of button-down shirts and jeans, with a neat row of cowboy boots and work boots lined up at the bottom. A faint scent of dust and age lingered in the house, but mostly, it just smelled like a rancher. Masculinity. Ty.
Maybe it was weird to stand around smelling the man, but since he wasn’t here to see me do it, I indulged. I breathed him in, letting the scent transport me back to his parents’ house more than a year ago, standing on the back deck watching him grill hamburgers. I had teased him about his meticulous flipping pattern—back to front, left to right—and he had teased me about my drink choice of hard cider. I’d tilted the bottle toward him, goading him to try it. He finally had, his eyes locked on mine as his throat worked.
The moment had seemed to freeze, comfortable and perfect, with just the right amount of sexiness—until the thought of Bret had barreled into our cozy togetherness. I’d darted back into the house, as guilty as if we had kissed.
After that, things had changed between us. Our coziness disappeared, and his old, lop-sided half-smiles had been replaced by deepening scowls. I’d thought he’d been unhappy with me, and maybe he had been—just not in the way I’d expected.
My gaze drifted to the old blue shirt Ty had been wearing the day he got kicked, crumpled on the bed. Remembering what I was meant to be doing, I snatched it up. I guessed he hadn’t spent much time in here since his injury, but a few dirty clothes dotted the room. Nosing around just a little, I found a mesh hamper in the closet and stuffed all the clothes inside.
I lugged the hamper downstairs where Ty waited for me, scowl firmly in place.
“You put all that down. You don’t just barge into a man’s house and do his laundry.”
