CHAPTER FOUR

SAMUEL

"... she needs heat, not my roving hands. "

The whistling wind outside is magnified in my suddenly quiet house. The power went out a few seconds ago, leaving me in dwindling light and quickly fading heat. Thankfully, this isn't my first rodeo, so a stack of chopped wood stays on the porch for such occasions.

Grabbing my coat, I zip it closed before opening the door and finding Hope prepared to knock.

"What the hell are you doing out in this?" I ask while pulling her inside. She's covered in white flakes that swiftly disintegrate into a wet puddle at her feet.

"M… my car… I s… slid off the r… road," she explains through chattering teeth.

I need to warm her up. Fast.

"Are you hurt?" I run my hands down her arms, reassuring myself that she's alright, when I notice red marks creeping below her neckline.

Lifting a hand, I lightly trace the track of bruises as Hope shivers, and I'm reminded that she needs heat, not my roving hands.

"I'm fine. The seat belt and airbag probably left a mark, but otherwise, I'm good." She gently palpates her cheeks as I guide her to the master suite. What I assumed was redness from the wintry air is also, apparently, the residual effects of being blasted by an airbag.

"You can change into these." I drop a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt on the bathroom counter after snagging the warm fleece from my dresser. "Unfortunately, the power went out right before you arrived, so we'll have to make do with the dark. I'm going to start a fire for heat. If you need anything, just holler."

Hope nods, and I retreat to the living room. It's the afternoon, but with the heavy snowfall and zero lights, darkness has descended on the room, blanketing it in cool shadows. The short trek between the front door and the pile of firewood on the porch leaves me covered in white.

When the ranch profits increase more, there is going to be a new addition to the house—specifically, expanding the mudroom to house firewood rather than the narrow space it currently is.

The fire crackles merrily in the fireplace by the time Hope eases to the blanketed floor next to me. Holding her hands out to the warmth, she murmurs, "This is nice."

"It should do the trick. If not, I'll start the generator." I probably should've thought to get it running earlier once Hope appeared. She deserves more than a measly fire after surviving a car accident and journeying through a blizzard.

"Actually, I'll go start it—"

"No, it's okay. I'm happy with the fire." Her hand lands on my forearm and squeezes, stopping me from getting up. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and it has nothing to do with the blaze next to us.

It's an innocent touch.

Nothing innately sexual about it.

Yet the feel of her soft palm wrapped around my arm has my cock rising to attention as I imagine Hope circling another part of my anatomy.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about her from the moment I left her with Vanderhorn, so now my treacherous body aches for my dreams to become reality.

"Are you sure? It's no trouble." And maybe dealing with the generator will give me enough time to get my body under control.

"Positive. The fire is cozy." She smiles, drawing her knees to her chest. My Montana University sweatshirt looks good on her—the maroon coloring practically makes her skin glow.

Searching for anything to get my mind off the escalating need to touch her, I latch onto the first topic that comes to mind. "So, why are you in Guardian Valley?"

She glances out the window before peering back at me, her glasses reflecting the dancing flames of the fire.

"For work. My friend and I run an online magazine for crafters. Carrie handles photography and marketing. I write the articles and instructions along with creating the crafts."

"We came here to work on a special coffee table book because it's on our bucket list to be traditionally published." Excitement emanates from Hope's voice as she animatedly waves her hands around as she speaks.

"People think crafting means kindergarten activities or tacky projects made in five minutes, but our goal for the book is to showcase the nostalgic elegance of homemade crafts. Reminiscent of antique brooches or historical quilts. All of those things we keep protected in museums were crafted, but no one thinks of them that way."

"Sounds like an impressive undertaking," I say, enamored with her passion. So different from Tara. My ex's emotions usually hovered between moderate annoyance and moderate pleasure.

Everything in moderation.

At first, I appreciated her ability to coolly navigate life and business—she was an exceptional attorney—but it quickly became obvious how mismatched we were.

Because I expected us to spend more than two nights a week together.

Because I wanted her to let me know when she got home safely after a late night at work.

And it was too much . Too intense .

You're too clingy , she said when we broke up. You're suffocating me.

So, I shut down. Focused on building the horse training business rather than my shortcomings. Horses don't mind when you check on them; they welcome attention.

"Are you okay?"

The gentle question jerks me out of the past, and I curse my wayward thoughts. I'm over Tara—realized I never loved her as I thought a long time ago—but the wounds she inflicted still like to rear their ugly heads every once in a while.

Especially around Hope.

Because of the obsessive desire I feel for her. The intense need to protect and care for her is a thousand times worse than it ever was with my ex.

And that doesn't bode well for my peace of mind.