Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(25)

“Can I see you for a minute?” he asks.

“Sure thing.” I drop a brief kiss on her forehead and follow him towards the edge of the barn.

He leans his frame, which is much bulkier than mine, against the wall and tips the edge of his hat towards his sister. “I don’t know what your deal is, Richie Rich, and I don’t care. You treat her right, we’re good as gold.”

I start to answer him, but he shakes his head, waving me off.

“But let there be no mistake. You break her heart, Tucker, and I’ll break your face.”





WE SPENT A GOOD HOUR and a half washing the horses, and while I’ll admit I hadn’t been super keen on the idea at the time, it grew on me. It was as close as I’d been to Achilles emotionally since my fall, and it was uniquely reviving for my soul to connect with him in some way.

Branson was chatty, asking me questions about riding and some of our old horses, and as our conversation had done so last night, it moved to stories about my mother. It was brilliant to talk about her with someone new.

He has such eloquence in the way he makes me feel so very much, while making it so very easy to do so. With other people, it feels as if they had a microscope on me, desperate to weed out the flaws and insecurities before investing too much in you. But Branson praises my accomplishments, worships my flaws, and battles my insecurities.

Branson is beginning to feel less like a separate entity and more an extension of my own soul. Whatever hearts are made of, ours are meant to walk hand in hand with ease.

Though, all grace and ladylikeness aside, I could have punched Owen right in the throat when he came around. I’d never expected in a million years that soaking my cowboy would lead to what it did, but I was desperate for a kiss and I was about to get it. I could feel his breath on my lips, the hardness of his chest against mine, and then . . .

And then, Owen—with older brother heroism rolling around—had to ruin it.

Hell in a hand basket.

“Ready?”

Stepping out of the feed room, I smile as I see him coming down the barn aisle. His clothes have mostly dried from the heat of the sun, but I am sad that his shirt is covering his torso again. He spent most of the afternoon helping around the barn with various chores, as I had assured him I could not abandon Aurora and Owen again.

“Ready for what?” I question.

He’s nearly halfway to me when Charlotte steps out of her office.

“Branson, is that you?” she singsongs.

It takes a pathetic amount of restraint on my part not to cover my ears in irritation.

She shimmies her petite frame across the space and rests a hand on his bicep. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon. I saw the truck outside,” she purrs.

Of course you have.

I consider rescuing him from her, but although I’m certain it would make me feel good, he’s a grown man and had best learn how to handle that one on his own. So, instead, I lean against one of the stall doors and settle in to watch the show, as I’m certain she hasn’t seen me yet—otherwise, her mood would be far less ecstatic.

His eyes snap up to mine, and I shrug as if to say, You’re on your own with that one. She’s nattering on about herself, and when he rolls his eyes, I have to bite my lip to keep the laughter from bubbling up my throat.

“I’m on a bit of a time constraint, Charlotte. Is there anything you need with specific regards to the horses?” he questions her, and the fight to keep a straight face is evident on his handsome features.

He handles her well, and while I dislike her, I am entirely comfortable with his behavior around her. I have no reason to act irrationally, nor do I have any claim to him.

“Oh no!” she gasps. “Is that because of the break-in last night? Goodness. I can’t believe I forgot to ask. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

My eyes flare up at the news. I make a mental note to discuss it with him later.

“I’m well. Thank you for asking.”

She pats his arm dramatically, which causes me to shake my head.

“I actually have to get going. You see, I promised the pretty lady standing over there I’d take her on a date this afternoon and”—he checks his watch—“that’s a promise I intend on keeping.”

Her brown braid flips to the side as her eyes find me over her shoulder. If looks could kill. “Oh, London. It’s so nice to see you,” she lies through her professionally whitened teeth.

Not wanting to be rude, because I was raised to be polite—most of the time, anyway—I push off the wall and come to stand with them. “Charlotte.” I nod just as Branson drapes an arm over my shoulders.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks her.

“No, Branson—”

“Mr. Tucker,” he corrects her.

Her jaw clenches in frustration, which makes me feel a little bad for her. It’s obvious in her body language that this is something more for her, or perhaps it had been in the past and the formality bothers her. Even so, this is her job, and I imagine that, if she disliked it so terribly, she could easily find another one.

“No, Mr. Tucker. The horses are fine.”

“Very well. Have a good evening.”

I admire his professionalism and say a small blessing that he feels no need to pit us against each other.