“Yes. Sure. Fine.” But my words sound anything but sure when I get them out.

  Willow’s neigh, frightened and freaked, followed by the slam of something breaking cuts through the fog and has both of us running. We find her cornered in the stables with the bag still on her ear. She apparently kicked a stall door so hard that it swung open and was pressing her into a corner with its weight.

  I reach her before Jack does and focus on opening the door and getting the bag off so I can calm her down, but just as I get my hand on the door, Jack pulls me back.

  “What are you—”

  “She’s gonna hurt you if you do that. Kick you into the hospital. She’s freaked out, and that goddamn bag spooks her more and more every time she moves.”

  “That’s why we have to get it off her!” I shout the obvious, frustrated that we’re talking about it and not doing it.

  “I’ll keep the door pressed against her, you climb on the inside of the stall and remove it. She won’t be able to hurt you that way.”

  But she’ll still be able to hurt you.

  The thought glances through my mind as Jack pushes his hands and weight against the door to try to keep the frightened horse where she is. But the gate would never be able to protect him if she decides to let loose again.

  I step on the rail so I have a better position, and Willow jerks her head as I try to grab the bag. “C’mon, Will,” I croon as I let her settle a bit before I go to try again, but when I do, I get the same result.

  She’s more freaked and the bag moves violently only to spook her more. My concern for her safety is growing.

  I adjust my feet in the rails for more leverage while soothing her with soft words, but she’s still jittery and unpredictable.

  Just before I go to reach toward her again, Jack’s voice fills the air. Its tenor is deep, its tone is melodic, and his words are bluesy.

  Stunned, I glance over to him to make sure that’s really his voice. His hands are still pressing against the gate, his head tilted down so I can’t see his lips, but it’s clear that the strong voice that echoes off the concrete floors is coming from him.

  The words might be about someone who has lost their heart, but they somehow soften the fear in Willow. Her feet stop moving. Her head begins to lower. Her muscles relax.

  I reach out and remove the bag as soon as I can, and she doesn’t even flinch. She just lowers her head farther as Jack slowly opens the gate, relieving its pressure from her hindquarters. He continues singing as he places his hand on her rear, running it slowly up her back toward her neck before petting the length of her nose, and then resting his forehead against it. They stand inches from me, in the depths of the stable, while he soothes her with his presence. He takes a startled animal scared of something beyond her control and calms her with words she doesn’t understand but actions she can.

  I hate that I’m mesmerized by the sight of it.

  I dislike that I wish it were me who had that type of superpower to calm Willow.

  Even more, I hate that I want to hate him. Despite struggling with accepting his presence here on the ranch, hate is an impossible emotion when I know I’ll always remember this. Jack Sutton crooning to a petrified horse to calm her.

  The thought replays over and over as he gets her to begin to move. His voice is softer now, the compassion just as poignant as he leads her out into the paddock where the other horses are all waiting and curious as to what her shrieks were all about.

  All I can do is stand there and watch him with them, taking in the tenderness of a man who comes across as anything but gentle.

  The singing turns to humming as he takes the bucket of halved apples and, one by one, holds a piece to each horse. Each one a reward for their calmness. Each one a bribe for it to continue.

  My feet move closer without thinking. I rest my forearms on the top rail, set one foot on the bottom rung, and watch, mesmerized as they stand and wait for him to pay them attention.

  “It isn’t my fault most females are taken with me.” He flashes me a grin that shows perfect teeth.

  Arrogant prick.

  I smile because, for some reason, this banter is what I need to calm my nerves over Willow’s freak-out and Jack . . .well, Jack saving me from being hurt. I struggle with admitting that I needed anyone to save me.

  “I’m not most women.”

  “If you were, I’d already have won you over.” This time, he looks at me over a sea of ears and manes and studies me with an intensity that’s unnerving.

  “What?”

  “You could say thank you?”

  “Thank you?” I snort.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “For what?” I ask when I know the answer.

  “For saving you. For helping you calm her. For giving you something good to look at while you make up reasons why you hate me so much.”

  “You’re insane.” I push back off the rail and shake my head as if it will help me reject the fact that he is just that handsome. “And you should thank me for the job.”

  “So you don’t think I’m good-looking? It’s a simple question, Knox.” He tilts his head to the side and gives me another disarming grin as he slides a hand up River’s neck. “You can still hate me and think I’m sexy.”

  I glare in response.

  “There are those daggers again.” He laughs and presses a kiss to the horse’s nose. “You mind telling me what in particular I’m doing to piss you off, or is it a permanent thing and you’re always angry?”

  All the reasons I’m angry these days, all the ways I harbor resentment, flit through my mind, and I know not a single one is his fault.

  “Just you.”

  “Is your attraction to me that hard to fight? I’m sensing it is.”

  I fight the smile and lose as I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s exactly it. You’re right. I can’t resist you.”

  “See? Don’t you feel better now that you got that off your chest?”

  “My chest is perfectly fine. My chest is . . .” My voice drifts off as I realize what I’m saying, and the lopsided smile he offers me says his mind went right there too. “You’re an asshole.” The words come out in a laugh.

  “So you’ve said.”

  No apologies. No nothing. Just a man standing there with a sweat ring around the neck of his T-shirt, his biceps stretching at its cuffs, a singing voice that quite possibly could make a woman weak in the knees, and a smirk that unnerves me more than I’ll ever admit.

  “You’re still admiring me, Knox,” he teases. “The ladies here are getting a bit restless with jealousy.”

  “Are you dismissing me?” I snort in disbelief.

  “Last thing I need to be is micromanaged.”

  “Last thing I need is for you to be arrogant.”

  It’s his turn to snort and take a step toward the railing where I stand, the horses stepping apart for him as if he silently asked them to. He mimics the stance I had moments ago, tips the front of his hat up, and lowers his voice so I’m forced to take a step closer to hear him. “You pay me for arrogance. You pay for the sure thing. You wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth if I were any other way.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter as I take a step back to gain some distance from him. The sudden chills that chase over my skin from the deep tenor of his voice don’t diminish with the extra foot or two.

  “I’m sure you have work to do.”

  “I do.”

  “Good.”

  “Then I’ll go do it.” But it takes me a beat longer to actually take another step back and break the hold he has on my gaze.

  Just as I turn on my heel, he says, “I’m glad you didn’t get hurt, Knox.”

  My feet falter and my head drops just a bit before I nod slightly and then continue walking to the house.

  I wanted to roll my eyes at him.

  I wanted to argue and tell him he’s an ass and his arrogance doesn’t do a damn thing to win my favor nor do I find him attractive in the least.

  Hell, I wanted to thank him for saving me from getting trampled.

  Instead, I stomp up the steps to the house, vibrating with a restless energy I can’t quite understand.

  When I was younger and felt this way, I’d lace up my running shoes and just go. Take off for miles until the feeling settled and my head was clear. When we first moved here, I’d grab my camera and get lost in capturing the perfect image. After Fletcher died, I’d throw my suit on and go swim laps in the pool till I couldn’t do one more stroke.

  After I was thoroughly exhausted from swimming myself ragged, I’d slip below the surface of the water and scream at the top of my lungs to alleviate all the hurt and betrayal that was eating me alive inside.

  It’s been a while since I felt as restless as Jack being here makes me feel.

  And, damn it to hell, I think everything that just happened might have won a little piece of me over to liking him.

  Just a little bit.

  It’s the singing.

  It has to be the singing.

  8

  JACK

  She moves like a force to be reckoned with. Stroke after measured stroke, she cuts through the water with a determination that is part admirable, part intimidating.

  Standing on the edge of the deck, I watch her as the sun begins to set in the west, slowly painting the sky with oranges and pinks.

  I came to ask her about Ruby’s feeding regimen and the breeding schedules that I couldn’t find in the stack of papers she handed over to me. Ever since Willow spooked this morning, though, she’s avoided me. Maybe I’ve done the same since singing isn’t something I share with most people, and Tate is now part of that small number.

  Hell, I came here to ask her questions about doing my job, but all I want to do is watch her.

  Now all I want to do is try to figure her out.

  She does some kind of tuck when she hits the edge and pushes back through the water. I try to find something else to look at, but the rest of her backyard is sparse. There isn’t any patio furniture for entertaining or umbrellas for guests to gather under to beat the late afternoon Texas heat. Besides the pool, there is a barbecue that looks like it hasn’t been used in ages, a plastic chair that her towel is draped over, more flower pots filled with dead plants, and a dilapidated dog house that hasn’t seen a dog in a long time.

  So, when I turn my attention back to her, I blame it on boredom instead of intrigue. Her movements are fluid and confident and natural. When she’s on the ranch and with the horses, she pretends to be just this sure of herself, but there is an underlying insecurity over whether she is doing the right thing. It’s slight but there, and I wonder what exactly that husband of hers did to her to cause it.

  The question is why do I care?

  Trust.

  That’s what it all comes down to, and for the fucking life of me I’m not sure why I care so much if she trusts me . . . but I know that I hate that she doesn’t.

  Feeling like an ass for standing here watching her, I take a step in retreat. But it’s the minute my back is turned that I hear the sound. The muffled scream beneath the water.

  I whip back around, afraid for her safety, and spot her on the bottom of the far end of the pool as if she’s sitting there, body still. Each air bubble that breaks the surface releases part of her scream into the air around me.

  Each one relieving only what I can assume is a tiny bit of her stress.

  Each one helping to bring her slowly back to life.

  Unsettled, I watch her when I know I need to leave. I tell myself that it isn’t my problem and that whatever she’s screaming about is because of something that happened way before I showed up here. That whatever she’s hurting from isn’t my fault.

  “Not your place to care, Jack,” I mutter when every part of me wants to step forward and ask her why she’s sitting at the bottom of her pool screaming.

  As I retreat, the sound carries with me.

  The sound eats at me.

  The sound all too familiar to the one that fell from my own lips when I found out my father had died and I wasn’t there. My scream that said I was too damn selfish to stop my own life and give in to his requests for me to come home and so all I was left with was to fulfill the promise I made him instead. My shout that expressed how I felt knowing I’d missed the chance to see him one last time and let him know that I loved him with everything I had.

  I know that sense of loss that makes you want to scream until you lose your voice, and I’m not sure why I’m surprised to see it in Tatum Knox.

  The woman has ice in her veins.

  At least, I thought she did until I heard the cry for help in her screams.

  9

  TATE

  The strength in his hand as he holds the reins. Each muscle defined. Each white scar highlighted by the light.

  Click.

  Those brown eyes as he looks up at me from under the bill of his hat.

  Click.

  His broad shoulders as he hefts a bale of hay over the fence into the corral.

  Click.

  His swagger as he moves toward me. The dust his boots kick up almost like a haze around his legs as he walks.

  Click.

  His lips framed in the lens. His stubble a dark shadow against his tanned skin. The feather of the muscle in his jaw as he fights whatever it is he’s going to say.

  Click.

  “Put the camera down, Tate.” Jack’s voice is a deep rumble that washes over my skin and makes me look up from the finder.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He strides the rest of the way to me and takes the camera from my hand. “It’s my turn to take some of you.”

  “No way.” I pull the Canon away from him, but he’s stronger, faster, bigger, and he is able to get his arms around me without much of a struggle.

  Not that I struggled very hard against the familiar heat of them. The undeniable strength in them. The smell of sun and shampoo on him. All of these things hit me about the same time as Jack’s lips slant over mine.

  His tongue slips between my lips, and every part of me heats and aches and melts into the familiarity of the kiss. Into the sense that he gives me that everything is going to be all right.

  “Wait a minute!” I say, ending the kiss and pushing against him playfully. “Do you think your lips are going to distract me enough that I’ll get on the other side of the lens?”

  His laugh rumbles through his chest as he rests his forehead against mine. “Tate.” He sighs my name so that the warmth of his breath feathers over my lips. “I’m about to distract you a whole lot more than that.”

  I AWAKE WITH A START. My heart is in my throat, and my hand drifts to my lips as I take a minute to allow my brain to catch up and my pulse to calm down.

  Real.

  It seemed so damn real.

  Real and peaceful and normal.

  How is that possible when everything about Jack Sutton riles me up? He’s strong-armed his way into my life, my ranch, and my business, and now he’s invading my damn dreams.

  “Fiona.” I groan her name, knowing her comments were what got my imagination going and caused this dream.

  That has to be it.

  Still, I dreamed about photography. I dreamed about it when my muses haven’t been seen or heard from in years. Sure, I’ve picked up the camera and headed out to the pond, begging to be inspired, needing to get lost in something other than the ranch’s day-to-day routine, but I’ve always put the camera down after taking one or two photos. After each of those impulsive outings, I was left feeling emptier than I was before because the one thing I used to count on, getting lost in my art, was no more.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that I feel as if my subconscious is betraying me by suggesting that Jack could be my new muse. Nothing like a dream like that to whack me over the head and tell me to stop resisting Jack’s help. That deep down my mind was telling me that letting him in might be a good thing for the ranch’s success and for me to learn to trust others again.

  I’d rather focus on that revelation than the kiss that lit every single part of my body so brightly the ache still burns . . . even if it was a figment of my imagination.

  It was a dream.

  A kiss in a dream.

  That’s it.

  Plus, I only dreamed it. My subconscious chose to speak to me that way because it’s been over a year since a man has touched me.

  It knew I would wake up and hear it.

  Too bad I still feel it.

  Needing to shake it from my thoughts, I sit up in bed, prop my pillow behind me, and grab my book from the nightstand.

  But after staring at the page for way too long and never seeing the words, I realize what’s bugging me so much. It’s that everything I’ve ever loved began with my seeing it in snapshots like art playing out before me: the first time I saw Fletcher, the first time on the Mediterranean, the first time I laid eyes on Ruby.

  And how does Jack play into all of this?

  Click.

  “Christ,” I mutter before giving up on the hope of reading, sliding back down under my blankets, and forcing myself to fall back asleep. The last thing I need is for my brain to start suggesting that the dream could really happen.

  Or, worse, for more snapshots to fill my mind.

  Only I can’t fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s as if I can feel the heat of his body against mine and taste the flavor of his kiss on my tongue.

  It’s maddening and arousing, and as much as my previously dormant libido flutters to life, I need to stop thinking about this.

  About him.

  I shove up out of bed and out of my bedroom.

  The house is quiet as I walk through it, the pad of my feet the only sound, but I welcome its silence and darkness. It feels as if muting any kind of outside distraction is my only goal these days. It’s a sad thought since I used to have so many goals, so many dreams and desires.

  Photography. It used to be my life, my passion, and a way to show others the beauty they could see if only they knew where to look.