4. Claire

4

CLAIRE

T he hay bale hits the stack with a resounding thud, sending up a cloud of dust that hangs in the air. The sweet, earthy scent of fresh hay fills my nostrils as I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

I take a moment to catch my breath, leaning on my pitchfork. The barn is quiet except for the soft nickering of horses and the rustling of straw. It should be a peaceful quiet. But today, the silence feels loaded, amplifying the thoughts swirling through my mind.

Brady Magnuson is driving me crazy.

Last night at his birthday party, I thought we’d made progress. There were moments when his guard was actually down for once, when I caught glimpses of the man behind that hard exterior. The way his eyes softened when he opened my gift, the low rumble of his laugh when I was joking around in his truck—it felt like maybe, just maybe, we were getting somewhere.

But today? He’s more distant than ever, refusing to look at me, speaking only when absolutely necessary. It’s like last night never happened, like we’ve taken ten steps backward.

I grab another bale, the rough texture of the twine biting into my palms as I heft it onto the stack. The motion is part of my muscle memory, allowing my mind to wander.

Why is he acting this way? Did I say something to offend him? Was I too forward?

Or is this just Brady being Brady, keeping me at arm’s length because it’s what he does?

The questions spin in my head as I reach for the next bale. But as I lift it, my foot catches on a loose piece of twine. I stumble, the hay bale slipping from my grasp. It hits the ground with a muffled thump, straw scattering across the barn floor.

Suddenly I’m completely off-balance, and my ankle twists beneath me, a sharp pain shooting up my leg like a bolt of lightning. I manage to grab onto a nearby post, the rough wood scraping my palms as I try to catch myself.

For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own ragged breathing and the thundering of my heart. Dust swirls around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the pain to fade.

“Claire?”

Brady’s voice, deep and concerned, cuts through my haze of pain and frustration. I look up to see him striding towards me, jaw tight with worry. Of course he’d show up now, when I’m at my most vulnerable. When did he even come into the barn? I didn’t hear him over the noise in my own head.

Despite my frustration with him, I can’t stop myself from noticing how goddamn good he looks right now. His shirt clings to him, damp with sweat from his own work, defining the muscles of his chest and arms. His hair is tousled from the wind, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek that my fingers ache to wipe away.

It’s not fair that he can affect me like this even when I’m angry with him.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, waving him off. But he doesn’t budge, his intense gaze fixed on me. Those steel-blue eyes of his, usually so guarded, are now filled with unmistakable concern. It’s at odds with how he’s been acting all day, and it only fuels my frustration.

“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, more firmly this time. I try to take a step to prove it, but wince as pain shoots through my ankle.

Brady moves closer, his hand reaching out to steady me. I can smell the intoxicating scent of him, and for a moment, I’m tempted to lean into him. But I pull away instead.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice sharp. “You don’t get to act all concerned now, not after how you’ve been treating me all day.”

He flinches at my words, but doesn’t retreat.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice brusque. “Let me help you.”

I shake my head stubbornly, ignoring the way my ankle throbs. “Not until you tell me what’s going on with you. Why have you been so cold to me today? Did I do something wrong?”

Brady runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident on his face. “It’s not you, Claire. It’s me. I just—I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” I press, my heart pounding. “Talk to me, Brady. Please.”

He’s quiet for several seconds, the silence stretching between us. I can hear the soft rustle of a horse in a nearby stall and the creak of the barn in the wind.

Finally, so low I almost miss it, he mutters, “Being near you stirs up things I can’t afford to feel.”

The admission stuns me into silence. Before I can fully process his words, Brady’s arms are around me, lifting me effortlessly off my feet. The hard planes of his body kiss against my curves in a way that sends a surge of heat through me. Jesus, he’s so solid. So strong.

Without another word, Brady carries me out of the barn and into his house, his face a mask of determination. I can barely take in my new surroundings because I’m still so distracted by the sensation of our bodies pressed together.

In his living room, he sets me down gently on his oversized leather sofa. The leather is cool against my skin, buttery soft with age and use. Brady starts moving around the room with purpose, his boots thudding softly on the hardwood floor. He grabs pillows to prop up my leg, then retreats into the kitchen, and I hear the whoosh of a freezer door sliding open and shut before he comes back with an ice pack in hand.

Brady arranges everything I might need within reach—a glass of water beading with condensation, the TV remote, a thick wool throw blanket. His fingers brush against mine as he hands me the water, and a shiver zips up my spine at the brief moment of contact.

“Rest,” he says gruffly, once he’s satisfied with the setup. “I’ll check on you later.”

I open my mouth to reply, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. Suddenly he’s gone, and I’m left alone in his house.

I shift on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. The ice pack is shockingly cold against my ankle, but it helps numb the throbbing pain. The ticking of a clock on the mantel seems unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Outside, I can hear the distant sounds of ranch life continuing without me.

My gaze wanders around the room, taking in the personal touches that make up Brady’s private world. A well-worn saddle sits in the corner, its leather cracked and sun-faded. I can easily imagine Brady caring for it, his strong hands working oil into the leather. Just beyond the saddle, a bookshelf is filled with books on horse care and ranch management, their spines creased with use.

And then I see an old framed photograph sitting on one of the shelves. It’s of Brady, many years younger, standing with a woman I instantly know must be his late wife. They’re both smiling, arms draped around each other in a way that radiates love and comfort.

The sight makes my heart ache, both for the happiness captured in that moment and for the loss that followed.

The hours crawl by, marked by the steady ticking of the clock and the changing angle of sunlight through the windows. I drift in and out of a restless doze, lulled by the quiet of the house and the lingering scent of Brady on the blanket wrapped around me.

The sound of the front door opening draws me out of my nap. Brady walks in, and suddenly I’m wide awake. As he moves into the living room, my pulse quickens at the sight of his ruggedly handsome appearance, and I smile at him, feeling more tender toward him after the way he protectively looked after me today. But his focus is entirely on my ankle.

“How’s it feeling?” he asks, kneeling beside the sofa to examine it. His voice is low, but not as rough as before.

“Much better, thanks to you,” I say softly.

His fingers are gentle as they examine my ankle, and I swallow hard at his touch. I know his touch doesn’t mean anything, but it still has the power to make all kinds of feelings bloom in my chest.

My gaze drifts over to the framed photograph, and even though I know it’s a question that could make Brady retreat into his hard shell again, I ask it anyway. “Is that your wife in the photo on the bookshelf?”

Brady tenses, his hands stilling on my ankle. He follows my gaze, and for a moment, I think he might shut down completely.

But then he nods. “Yes. That’s Sarah.”

“She’s beautiful,” I say gently. “How long were you two together?”

Brady is quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken memories.

“About ten years,” he finally says. “Felt like a lifetime and not nearly long enough, all at once.”

“You must miss her,” I say, my heart aching for him.

He nods, his jaw tightening. “Every day.”

I hesitate, then ask, “What was she like?”

For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. Brady’s face shutters, and I can almost see him retreating behind his walls. But then, to my surprise, he starts to speak, his voice soft with memory.

“She was everything to me,” he says, his eyes focused on something I can’t see. “Smart as a whip, stubborn as all get out. She could light up a room just by walking into it.”

As he talks, his whole demeanor slowly shifts. Brady shares one story, and then, without my prompting, shares another. He tells me how he and Sarah were both driven by dreams of wide open spaces and a life built with their own hands. He tells me about their early days on the ranch, how they worked side by side to build it from nothing, and the plans they had for the future.

His voice warms as he talks about the day Logan was born, how fussy but perfect he was. And how good the next few years were. And then, more quietly, Brady speaks of how everything unraveled after Sarah’s death, leaving him to run the ranch and raise his son alone.

I listen, my heart hurting for the man sitting next to me, understanding now why he keeps his emotions so tightly under wraps. He’s lost so much, risked his heart and had it shattered. No wonder he’s hesitant to open up again.

The vulnerability of the moment shifts the air between us. Brady is sitting closer to me now, looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I reach out, touching his arm lightly—just enough to show I see him, all of him. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, but the moment my fingers make contact with his skin, I feel a spark of electricity between us.

Brady goes still, his eyes locked on mine. I can see the conflict there, his desire warring with doubt and old pain.

But there’s something else in his eyes, too—a hunger that makes my heart race.

He leans in slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away if I want to. But I don’t, of course. I stay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as he gets closer.

When his lips finally meet mine, his kiss is soft, tentative, like he’s testing dangerous waters.

My heart thunders away, hardly believing this is happening. His lips are so warm, and I feel like I might melt right into his kiss.

But then, as quickly as it began, he pulls away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.

But I’m done with the dance we’ve been doing. I’ve waited too long, wanted this too much to let it slip away now. I lean in, closing the space between us, and kiss him back.

For a heartbeat, Brady is still. Then, with a low groan that I feel more than hear, he kisses me again.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and I know there’s no going back now. Our kiss deepens, filled with a year’s worth of pent-up longing and frustration. My hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands. His stubble scratches my skin, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the feel of him, solid and warm against me, and the taste of him on my lips.