Brady skimmed a knuckle down her arm, and her pulse chased after his touch as he linked their fingers together. He didn’t say anything, simply gave her a tiny squeeze to let her know he was there whenever she was ready to talk.
Tanya gave in to the butterflies and his assuring presence, her eyes still fixated on the drowsy horse in the stall as she rested her head on Brady’s firm shoulder. “Is this how it feels? With the teens who come to Turn Around Ranch?”
“Which part?” Brady asked, his voice low and raspy with emotion. “Looking at a broken creature and wanting to hurt whoever hurt them? Hoping you can help them recover and live a better life?”
“Yes,” she said, because it all applied.
“Yeah. Only most of the time, the teens look just fine. With a horse, at least you can see the injuries. It makes it easier to treat.” He dragged his thumb over her knuckles, soothing and riling with such a simple touch. “Not that what you did this morning was easy.”
“What we did.” She tightened her grip on his hand. Admittedly, constantly thinking up witty lines and putting out the vibe had also been exhausting. Being on autopilot for this moment—which had resulted in handholding, so yay—reminded her of the many reasons she’d failed to avoid falling in love with Brady Dawson. “Thank you for being there whenever I need you.”
“Always.”
Warmth suffused her, and she found herself fighting tears for the second time today. Suddenly, she was questioning being in love with Brady all over again. Not because she wasn’t—her heart thumped faster and faster, each beat confirming the fact that she was beyond head over heels—but because what if she lost this?
Then again, what if this could be even better?
Hadn’t she already analyzed and overthought all this? It was hardly the time, yet her brain whirred too quickly to stop it. “Do you promise?”
His blue eyes met hers, and the world ground to a halt. “I promise,” he said, and she flung her arms around his waist and hugged him for all she was worth.
Chapter 7
“Hey, Harlow.”
Chill bumps skated across her skin at hearing her name in that deep, incomparable voice, and she spun around so fast she smacked into the large side mirror of her truck. “Ouch.”
A chuckle came out, and Maddox asked, “You okay?”
She growled in response.
“I’ll take that as yes.”
When she started away from the mirror, a sharp pain pricked her scalp. She twisted to see why she couldn’t move without pain and discovered her hair was caught. Newer models didn’t have the large mirrors that stuck out as far as the ones on her older truck. While she appreciated being able to see so much of the road in their reflection, she wasn’t ready to lose a chunk of her hair to them.
This is what I get for not braiding my hair today.
She attempted to work the strands free but couldn’t quite see whether they were stuck in the crease or on a screw, so it wasn’t going great.
“Here.” Maddox stepped closer, and with his body nearly touching hers, she caught a whiff of his cologne. Unlike the boys she attended high school with, who used a gallon of Axe body spray—sometimes in place of showering—the subtle hint of citrus and note of pine smelled nice and fresh. Like the forest after rain.
As his fingers combed through her hair, a different sort of prickling tiptoed across her scalp.
Don’t let yourself get pulled in. He might be nice for one tiny second, but then he’ll do a total one-eighty and you’ll end up stung again. As soon as Maddox freed her hair, she widely sidestepped both her mirror and him.
His gaze lifted to the straw cream-colored hat atop her head. “Do you ever take that thing off, or is it glued to your hair?”
Harlow clenched her jaw, justification coming along for the ride now that he’d taken a jab at her fashion choices. “Do you ever pull your head out, or is it permanently lodged up your butt?”
He gaped at her, his mouth gaping like a fish that hadn’t figured out why he’d been yanked out of the water. A twinge of regret twisted her chest, even as she told herself to ignore it. Let him see how it felt to think they were bantering, only for her to shift gears and snap. “Damn,” Maddox said. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Harlow crossed her arms. “Saying I’m in a mood only puts me in a bad mood.”
“Which makes me right.”
It was like he enjoyed pissing her off. Did that mean she should hide her anger or keep it on full blast whenever she was around him?
Harlow hefted her gear from the bed of her truck and charged toward the training course. Maddox followed, picking up a coil of rope on his way over to where she was squaring off in front of a bale of hay.
As he posted up beside her, she spared him half a glance and said, “If the next words out of your mouth are rude, or if you’re gonna be a smart aleck, I’ll give you a demonstration on how they castrate steers.”
Maddox winced and stuck a protective hand over his package. “Damn, girl. Also, smart aleck? What’s that?”
She gritted her teeth. “You should know, since you’re the very definition. And acting like you don’t is doing the exact thing I just warned you against.”
With her blood pressure already rising, Harlow decided the best thing to do was to concentrate on training and only training. “Do you remember how to make a lasso?”
The tip of his tongue stuck out as he formed the loop the way she’d instructed him to during their first session.
“Good enough. Now, pay attention to my refresher course on throwing, because I don’t wanna keep explaining over and over.”
He mumbled something about how he’d salute her if it wouldn’t leave his crotch unprotected, but she continued on as if she hadn’t heard.
“Arm up, loop nice and open as you swing, get some momentum going as you aim, and…” The movements were second nature, ones Harlow had repeated countless times through the years. “Throw.”
Most of the time, she could feel if the toss was right the instant she let go, and that sense of rightness flared. Sure enough, the loop slid over the plastic calf head, and she yanked back on her rope to tighten the knot.
After she’d undone the loop and gathered her line, she glanced at Maddox. “Your turn.”
Maddox swung the lasso over his head a couple of times. The momentum was there, but he didn’t follow through, even though she’d harped on it when she’d taught him to throw. She probably should’ve mentioned it again.
His rope hit the ground half a foot short and to the right of the bale, nowhere close to grazing the plastic head. Then he snapped his fingers. “Gosh darn, that son of a gun got away.”