I turned my back on him, lest he saw the tears burning in my eyes. “Fix your clothes and get back to work. You’re not getting paid to get laid. Put your hands on me again, and I’ll fire your ass.”
I walked away.
Because if I stayed?—
If I looked back?—
I would sink to my knees and beg him to forgive me for all the foul things I’d said. For ignoring his daughter this morning. For treating him like I still didn’t care about him.
But why should I? He was the one who’d fucked up. Not me. I was just the karma he had to face for as long as he insisted on working on the ranch.
There were other ranches around Bristlecone Springs. Why did he stay?
“Hudson,” I called over my shoulder without looking back at him.
“What?”
“Lawson’s wanting to take on a new ranch hand. Maybe look into it. You don’t belong on this ranch. You were right. I’m sick and tired of fighting with you.”
7
HUDSON
It was a little past two, the worst time of day to be doing anything labor-intensive in July, but horses didn’t wait for cooler weather, and Gray Magnuson was never one to put off work that needed doing.
We’d already trimmed two hooves on the old bay gelding, a stocky beast named Whiskey with a temper that matched his name. Gray was crouched low, one knee planted in the dirt, rasping away at the third hoof while I kept hold of the reins, trying to keep Whiskey calm.
We were working outside the barn, in a corner of the paddock where the ground was dry and flat, good enough for shoeing, even if it wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t the first time we’d done it out here, and Whiskey didn’t seem too fussed by the change of scenery. Still, I kept a close hand on the lead rope, ready for anything.
A few yards away, Warren was working with one of the newer colts, brushing him down in the open pen, humming along to whatever country tune was playing low on the barn’s radio. He looked up every so often to check on us,giving a two-finger wave when our eyes met. I gave him an absent-minded nod, not encouraging him or his interest.
Whiskey shifted, ears flicking back. The tension snapped tight in his neck under my hand.
Normally, I’d have made a joke. But my mouth was dry. Felt like my tongue had been scrubbed raw from the inside.
Because all I could think about was Matty.
How he’d shoved me. Cursed me. Said things with such venom that they hadn’t just landed. They’d sunk in. Anchored deep in my chest.
God, he hates me so much. He’s not pretending at all. He really hates my guts.
Don’t fucking call me that.
It was just a name. One I’d always called him back when we were something. But the way he’d spat it, like it poisoned his mouth to say it, made it clear he wanted nothing of me. Nothing to remind him of what we were.
Of what I ruined.
I swallowed, staring at Whiskey’s twitching ears. “Easy, boy,” I murmured, stroking his neck.
Matty hadn’t held back. He’d called me a slut. A whore. A goddamn cheater. And maybe… maybe I’d earned every last word. Maybe I’d handed him the knife and stood still while he carved the shame into my skin.
Because it hadn’t just been pride I shattered.
For years, to make myself feel better, I told myself what we had was a summer thing. A fling, nothing more. I tried to believe that sleeping with Heather—and it didn’t matter that I’d been drunk at the time—only bruised his ego. That the bitterness in his voice when he saw me again was pride, licking its wounds.
But that lie didn’t hold anymore.
I’d seen it in his eyes. When he spat those names at me, like they burned his mouth. That wasn’t wounded pride.
