Текст книги "Change Rein"
Автор книги: Anne Jolin
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
“LONDON!”
Shhh.
“London!”
Go away.
“I’ll get the hose if you keep pretending not to hear me.”
I squint one eye open and find my brother standing over me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ll kill you,” I groan, pulling the blankets up over my head. “Go away.”
I’m about to claim victory, but it’s short-lived. The blanket is yanked off me.
“No can do,” he says. “The horses will be arriving soon. Rise and shine, American Idol.”
Karaoke.
Shania Twain.
“Oh, God.”
Did that really happen?
“Oh yeah, it happened,” Owen answers on behalf of my sluggish brain.
Looking down, I realize I’m still in my clothes from last night, boots and all. “Shit.”
“That’s exactly what you look like.” He chuckles, and I throw my pillow at his head. “I’m not surprised though. After you upchucked out my truck window, you spent the rest of the night praying to the porcelain throne.”
After sitting up, I pause at the edge of my bed and wait for the spinning to stop. I haven’t drank for what has to be at least two years. The more intense my training got, the less time I spent on things that didn’t enhance my professional game. It would seem I don’t hold my liquor quite as well as I used to, if the hangover I am sporting is a telltale sign.
“Here.” My older brother thrusts two Advil and a glass of water in my direction.
After snatching them from his hand, I greedily swallow both pills and chug the glass of water. When my stomach protests against the hydrating liquid, I groan.
“Oh God, are you going to be sick again?” he whines, taking two steps backward and raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Why are you still here?” I growl, wishing he were close enough to hit.
As the thought occurs to me, my pillow comes back to haunt me. He launches it across the room, and it connects with my pounding head.
“I hate you,” I murmur, toeing my boots off.
“The first trailer will be here in fifteen minutes,” is the last thing he says before the door to my apartment closes and the sound of his boots going down the barn stairwell hits my ears.
After standing up, I pad to the bathroom, and the sight in the mirror is absolutely terrifying. My long hair is sticking out every which way, the mascara I was wearing is now under my eyes and running down to my cheeks, and my dress, well . . . that appears to be crooked.
I look like a hot mess. Emphasis on the mess.
I debate whether it’s even possible to look half decent without taking the time to shower, but come to a hard no on that decision.
Ten minutes later, I’m showered and no longer smelling like something found in a barn—despite the fact I am, indeed, something that can be found in a barn. Checking the time and realizing I have none to spare, I slip a pair of cut-off jean shorts on and pull an old camouflage hoodie over my head before stepping into my work boots and forgoing doing up the laces.
I grab my aviators and a hair elastic off the kitchen table, putting my hair in a ponytail as I descend down the stairs two at a time.
“You look how I feel,” Aurora moans as she walks through the barn doors.
Walking up to her, I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweater and kick dirt in her direction. Then I sit on a bale of hay. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she repeats, plopping down beside me and putting her head between her legs.
Honestly, from what I can remember of the night—which, I’ll admit, is only anything before my fourth beer—it went better than I’d expected. There were, of course, the people who stared, which I really only encouraged by making an idiot of myself on stage, apparently. But, aside from that, most people left us alone, seeing as Owen had decided to join us. He wasn’t the kind of guy whose baby sisters you messed with when he was around, not unless you wanted to be wearing a shiner come the next morning.
We were lucky anyway. It was more of the older crowd—our daddy’s age and such—there last night. I’d sure have gotten a lot more negative attention had the place been more of a high school reunion. Everyone in a small town loves to knock their peers down a few pegs, even when we’ve long since graduated.
I hear the sound of tires coming down the road and lean forward to see what looks like three massive truck-and-trailer combos a few minutes away.
Daddy must have heard them too. He’s coming down from the house, adjusting his ever-present ball cap on his head.
“Holy hell,” Owen says as we all move to stand in the driveway. “Look at them rigs.”
He isn’t kidding. Each truck and trailer match—white, black, and gold, with logos reading Tucker Farms on every door. It’s impressive, and I’m sure they cost a near fortune. Real estate must be damn good work to be in around here.
The first rig in the convoy pulls to a stop in front of us, and a petite brunette close to my age climbs from the passenger’s seat.
“Good morning,” she singsongs.
I wince behind my sunglasses. Her chipper voice is a little too loud for my hangover’s liking.
“I’m Charlotte.” She looks directly at Owen when she speaks, and I’m thankful everyone misses the rolling of my eyes. I’m hardly ignorant to my older brother’s reputation and poor taste in pastimes, but occasionally witnessing it can be somewhat gag-worthy. “I’m Mr. Tucker’s barn manager. I’ll be overseeing the transport today, and ensuring all the horses get settled.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Owen.” My brother grins, sliding his hand into her outstretched one.
After knocking him with her hip, baby sister is the next to chime in. “I’m Aurora.”
“And you must be London,” Charlotte says in my direction. While the statement hardly comes across as harsh, there’s an underlying context there.
I’m not sure why I didn’t consider the possibility that all of these people coming today might know who I am, might have seen the shot I blew or the tabloid articles that ripped me apart because of it.
I let my eyes wander over her from behind the safety of my black lenses. She’s around my height and slender—although, if I had to guess from the constant rigid position of her breasts, which stretch her white polo tight across her chest, they’re likely fake. Everything about her is posh, just like the vehicle she arrived in. Not a hair on her white breeches, not a scuff on her black riding boots, and not a strand of hair in the braid that runs down her back out of place. She’s the Equestrian Barbie, and as I slip my hand into hers, my confidence gets knocked down a peg or two.
“That’s me.” I attempt not to scoff as I say it, but whether it worked or not, I don’t know.
She eyes me a second longer before turning her attention to my father as he approaches. I’m quickly distracted when I see movement in the back of the first trailer. The spacing between the panels doesn’t allow me to see much, and without realizing it, my boots are moving of their own free will towards it.
The wheel wells are too far forward, and despite not being short, I can’t see inside. When I check over my shoulder, it seems everyone’s still thoroughly engrossed in dialogue, so I opt to begin unloading the horses, if not at least to satisfy my curiosity.
After unhooking the latches on both sides, I carefully let the gate swing open. Luckily for me, it’s not the same as our trailer, so I refrain from having a repeat performance of my unloading Chil over a week ago in this same spot.
As soon as the gate is down, my eyes catch the swish of a black tail, and I smile when a matching black head turns to the right and eyes me over his shoulder.
“Hey, guy,” I coo, smoothing my voice out as I step up into the trailer, running my hand over his backside. “You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you?” I whisper, running my hand down his side as I walk the length of his powerful body.
“You always have to talk to a horse when you walk around them or you’ll scare them. Are you listening, London?” My Momma’s voice plays in my head. “You have to speak before you touch them or they’ll be startled.”
I skim his dark coat, allowing him to know where I am, even when he can’t see me. Horses have blind spots, so talking to them and keeping continuous contact relaxes them.
When I finally reach his neck, I pat him softly. “Wall Street Warrior,” I hum out loud, reading the gold nameplate on his tan leather halter.
He snorts in response, and a small laugh escapes me, echoing inside the trailer. Some of the other horses start to get restless, but I’m completely captivated by the harnessed power under the palm of my hand.
I’ve never seen a horse this dark before. Although I’ve not moved all the way around him, I have yet to see any white markings on his entire body. He’s jet black and stunning.
Scooping my arm under his head, I rub his muzzle. “Should we get you out of here, guy?”
After loosening the lead rope, I pull it out of the hook and cluck twice with my tongue. Then I push a finger into his chest. In response, he moves backwards.
People would assume that, because horses are so large, they’d require harsh, strong touches to get them to respond, but they actually need very small, light cues to understand what you want from them. Especially if they’re well trained. If I were to lean all of my body weight into a horse, they would, in turn, lean back against me. Whereas, by pushing him with my fingers and making signals with my voice, he will move where I ask him to, with very little effort on my part.
The black beauty backs out of the trailer with ease, but the look on Charlotte’s face as I walk towards them is hardly one I’d like to see again.
“What are you doing?” she snaps, worry clouding her pretty features.
Stopping abruptly, I purse my lips at the somewhat absurdity of her question, as she can quite clearly see what I am doing. “Unloading the horses,” I answer, looking over her head to my family.
They seem equally as dumbfounded by her sudden change in demeanor.
“That’s Bran—” She shakes her head as if to correct herself. “That’s Street, Mr. Tucker’s horse. He’s not to be handled by anyone other than myself or Mr. Tucker.”
Well, okay, then.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t let it happen again,” she announces curtly, walking towards me.
Wonderful. Now I’m being reprimanded by a woman my own age for more or less petting a horse.
Something behind me pulls Charlotte’s focus and she halts in her steps. The transformation that happens on her face would be comical if it weren’t so confusing.
I’m so perplexed by the woman that it takes me a few seconds to recognize the sound of an engine approaching, and by the time I’ve turned around, the bright-red Corvette causing the composed woman in front of me to act stupid rolls to a stop, the engine still purring.
I immediately regret judging her when my eyes lock on the man behind the wheel. My hands fist into Street’s mane, and the heady sensation at the sight of him makes me dizzy. I instantly curse the way my body starts to shake, unsure if it’s from the dehydration brought on by last night’s drinking or simply an ridiculous physical reaction to a complete stranger.
After turning the engine off, he steps out from behind the wheel, and my body sways into the neck of the horse beside me. This man, whoever he is, is beautiful. My heart is wildly lunging to have him next to me, but my body is too weak from his presence to take me there.
The denim of his jeans does nothing to hide the muscular shape of his legs as he moves around the vehicle, the heels of his boots ringing out on the pavement. My eyes greedily trace up his body, taking in the white dress shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and showing off every line of the lean body underneath it. It’s, however, his face that, unregretfully so, does me in.
His strong jaw clenches, and the five-o’clock shadow covering it seems a stark contrast to the fine lines of his clothing. Brown hair a few inches long is styled messily on top of his head, and I desperately wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. I bite down on my lip as I look at his full ones, sure I’ll have dreams haunted by them in my future. The burning desire to see his eyes floods me as I find them covered by black Ray-Ban sunglasses.
He’s a mere five feet from me, and my heart pounds in my chest. A part of me hopes he doesn’t talk to me, as I don’t trust my mouth with words in this moment. Another part of me is certain I’ll die on the spot if I don’t hear his voice.
If I could think of anything but him for even a fraction of a second, I’d be sure to find my sanity gaping at me in horror with the way I am behaving. He’s stolen every thought from my mind, all of which now belonging to the cowboy heart throb coming my way.
Lord, have mercy on me.
I want to throw a child’s tantrum when Charlotte steps into my line of vision.
“Branson,” she coos, resting a palm on his bicep. A growl creeps up my throat when my heart realizes she’s touching him. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”
Branson.
Heavens, if his name doesn’t suit him perfectly, both of them capturing elegance and grit in one entity.
“Daniels family, meet my friend”—her emphasis on the word rubs me remarkably the wrong way—“and employer, Mr. Branson Tucker.”
Well, hell.
I LOOK DOWN TO WHERE Charlotte is touching me and immediately want to rip her hand from my arm. The woman I’m here for has gone rigid at the interaction, and I’m wrapped up in fury that this moment is causing her any kind of discomfort.
I push my sunglasses up onto my head and eye her once before looking back down to the offending touch. “Charlotte.” My voice rumbles with an unspoken warning.
Reading my tone with accuracy, she hastily returns her arm to its rightful position by her side. I glance past her to see London standing but a few feet away, leaning against my horse’s neck. Without seeing her eyes, I know her attention is entirely directed at me.
As it should be.
Following my gaze, Charlotte sparks into action and struts towards her, clearly not blind that there is more to this situation than she’s been made aware of. “I’m sorry, Branson. I had yet to tell them Street was not to be handled by others, but she”—she draws out the word, and I clench my teeth to refrain from reprimanding her ridiculous behavior—“began unloading without any direction.”
“I’m sorry.” London’s voice falters briefly before Street nudges her playfully with his head. Her passion becomes distracted, now shifting from me to my horse.
Green with envy, I’m captured by the smile forming on her unmasked face.
“He’s just so beautiful.” She pats his neck down. “I had to see him,” she says in a harsh whisper.
I can sympathize. That is a feeling I’ve come to know all too well.
Charlotte reaches to grab the lead rope from London’s hands, and my mouth disobeys my head.
“Stop,” I demand.
Subsequently, the two women freeze.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken loud enough for everyone to hear, and the object of my affection brings her focus back to me as I close the remaining distance between us.
“She will be responsible for Street from now on.” I close her open hand around the lead rope, proudly watching her body shiver from my touch.
Without looking at my barn manager, I can tell she wishes to object. This is something I’ve never done. Street is like a child to me, and I hardly let romantic or lustful whims allow anyone to touch him, but this is more than that. She is more than that.
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Branson.”
Without looking away from the camo-clad blonde in front of me, I correct her sharply. “Mr. Tucker, Charlotte. Let us not forget our roles in the presence of new company.”
If I’m mistaken, a smirk has formed on the lips of my angel. She is most certainly not a fan of Charlotte. Duly noted.
It’s not lost on me that, throughout the altercation, we’ve gained the onlooking eyes of her family. Although I would wish for nothing more than to have her all to myself in this moment, it would be in poor taste not to meet her family. Hell, her daddy sure as shit needs to love me. Come hell or high water, that will be a reality.
I am more certain than I’ve ever been in my goddamn life that my soul is tethered to hers, and I have yet to taste her.
If anyone could hear the way I am thinking about her, they’d send me to the nuthouse. I am pretty sure I’m in love with this woman, even though I am only meeting her for the first time. Even I’m not ignorant to how absolutely crazy that sounds.
With Street’s large body offering us the smallest bit of privacy, I pull the aviators from the bridge of her nose. “There you are, pretty lady.” My voice is low and gravelly at the heavenly sight of her big, blue eyes.
Her mouth opens and closes a few times before the sweet sound of her voice rains through me. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I repeat back to her, sliding her sunglasses into the front pocket of her hoodie. My fingers graze her stomach through the material, and the sound of her sharply sucking in air makes me want to beat on my chest with pride.
Crowding her space, I tug on the strings of her sweater, using them to pull her body a little closer to mine. “I’m coming for you, London Daniels, and there ain’t nowhere you can hide from me, angel.”
I leave her standing there, her lips parted and her breathing heavy.
I’m not here to mess around.
I’m here to make her mine.
Even if I come across like a jackass while doing it.
“WELL, HELL. STICK A FORK in me. I’m done.” Aurora fans herself after barreling towards me as the crowd disperses around us.
“W-w-what,” I stammer, my eyes admiring the backside of a certain billionaire cowboy’s ass as he walks with my father into the barn.
Waving her hand in front of my face, she laughs. “London?”
“Mmm,” I hum.
“I think you’re drooling.”
My eyes blink a few times as I soak in her words. Then I lift the sleeve of my sweater and rub the back of my hand across my mouth.
“I can’t tell if I imagined it,” I murmur, not really meaning for her to hear me—but she does anyway.
“Can’t tell if what happened?”
“If he actually said that . . .”
She gives me a small shove. “If he actually said what?” she urges.
“‘I’m coming for you, London Daniels, and there ain’t nowhere you can hide from me, angel’.” I repeat what I’m not sure was something taking place in my imagination or occurring in actual reality. Truthfully, either one is absurd.
Standing up on her tiptoes, she looks towards the entrance to the barn, catching the last glimpse of him before he disappears. “Holy shit.”
Holy shit is right. I’ve never had an emotional or physical reaction like that to another person in my entire life, let alone a complete stranger with an ego the size of this property. I could feel him in every one of my bones, and the craving for him gets stronger in every breath I take.
“I think I’m still drunk,” I say, feeling the warmth of the memory wash over me, my knees threatening to buckle once more.
“Mm-hm.” Aurora smirks. “That’s what you’re hopin,’ anyhow.”
Heck yes, I was hoping to chalk it up to being drunk, because I’m not even the slightest bit sure I know what to do with that man. I barely know what to do with myself.
Two hours later, most of the horses are settled into either their stalls or outdoor paddocks and I have managed to avoid nearly all other humans.
Charlotte has disappeared into an empty stall that serves as a makeshift office, and I groan at the thought of having to work so closely with her over the coming months.
I’d be lying if I said I’m not the littlest bit thrilled she was put in her place earlier, but the damage to our working relationship has already been done and I am hardly ignorant as to why. She touched him intimately, and it drove me to the brink of insanity to consider all the possibilities of why she would deem that okay. My mind can’t help but wonder if they’ve been together before¸ or are even an item now, thus resulting in my immediate dislike for her.
My heart is constantly driven by the luster of things I’m passionate about, and nearly every one of those things has put a break in my heart at least once. My penance for loving with all I have, I suppose.
Aware of the romanticism surrounding my personality, I’ve consciously chosen to keep dating at bay. Of course, when I was younger, I had a few boyfriends. I’m hardly a nun, but I’ve never entered a relationship—or anything, for that matter—if I was both certain it would consume me and not willingly to let it. For that reason, the few men I’ve had over the years could be classified as ‘safe’ or ‘boring,’ and while that was, perhaps, doing the love my heart is capable of giving a grave injustice, it was a sacrifice I eagerly handed over.
After walking across the property to the farther and nicer of the few grass paddocks, I step onto the bottom rung of the wooden fence and fold my arms over the top rail, resting my head on top of them.
My emotions are chaotic at best, even on a good day, but my confidence since I’ve returned home has been fragile and dwindling each day I have been unable to ride. So, it is no surprise that, as I watch his black horse graze, my thoughts drift to him, to the eyes my mind will surely never forget.
They are a mossy green, dusted in some lighter shade of brown, and the most unique specks of dark chocolate were found when I looked close enough.
“Thinking about me?”
Looking over my shoulder, I see him, Branson, walking towards me. The beautiful eyes I was thinking about assess me as he approaches.
“No,” I lie. “I don’t even know you.” That much is true, but it doesn’t stop my heart from flopping over inside my chest.
“I’m fixin’ to see that changed in a real short period of time,” he drawls, leaning his hip against the fence. His entire body is positioned towards me, causing my temperature to rise to a fever pitch.
I regrettably drag my gaze from his handsome face in hopes that I’ll find some willpower from not looking at him. “I’m not sure we prepared enough space for all your horses plus your ego,” I sass, fighting the urge to smile at my own hilarity.
He laughs, the deep, rich sound nearly swallowing what’s left of my consciousness. This is only my second time around him, and both times left me feeling dizzy from overwhelming emotion. That coupled with the teetering remainder of my hangover and subsequent lack of food causes my body to sway and my legs to give out.
His strong arms wrap around my midsection and gently pull me against the front of his body. “Easy.” His voice is so smooth, but not quite like honey—something stronger. My fluttering mind does its best to keep up.
“Single-barrel bourbon.” I’m not even sure I said that out loud until his chuckle ripples through me again, causing my skin to break out in a shiver.
His breath ghosts against my neck when he says, “Pardon?”
“That’s what you are,” I hum incoherently. “Single-barrel bourbon. On ice.”
The black dots in my vision multiply and my stomach turns. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Have you eaten today?” he growls.
Unable to speak, I shake my head in response, grabbing at his hands, which are still around my stomach.
“Are you going to be sick?” There’s no disgust in his voice, just a hint of anger in the calmness of his tone, but it’s worry that is most apparent.
I nod furiously.
When he scoops me up into his arms, I let my head rest against his shoulder, and he briskly carries me towards the barn.
“Bathroom,” he barks at someone.
It feels a little like I’m underwater, every movement seeming so exaggerated and the smell of him intoxicating.
After kicking the bathroom door open, he kneels down to the floor and gently places me on the cool tile in front of the toilet seat.
I grab at the porcelain like it’s a lifeline as opposed to the barn toilet and whimper as my stomach tries to purge itself. However, much to its dismay—and mine—I have nothing left to give. The dry heaving takes a toll on my small, overtired frame.
“Angel,” he says, rubbing my back. Then he starts to hum the bars to some familiar country song I’m certain I could place if I were more coherent.
After almost an eternity of suffering, my body settles and I lean up, flushing the contents. Then I sink all the way onto the floor and press my warm cheek against the chilled tile.
“Sorry,” I apologize before adding a necessary, “Thank you.”
The whole scene was incredibly embarrassing, especially considering that, even as I was emptying the contents of my stomach, I still found myself affected by his presence and, sadly, not in a PG manner.
“You need to eat,” he huffs, ignoring my gratitude. He leans his back against the bathroom wall, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.
Closing my eyes, I welcome the coolness against my face. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.”
I’m still coming back to life when the process is sped up by his hauling my body off the floor. “What are you doing?” I shriek.
“You need to eat,” he repeats as he storms from the bathroom with me draped in his arms. My face must show a lack of understanding, and in response, he winks at me. “So I’m taking you to eat.”
This man is downright certifiable.
