The Grump Whisperer (Morningsong Farm #1)

Six

I an sat on an overturned bucket one evening, just inside the field shed. The plastic was uncomfortably cold through his jeans, but he sat quietly anyway. Hades chomped his dinner happily, snorting and chewing. And occasionally stamping his feet just to make sure Ian knew that his presence was unwanted.

But not unwanted enough to forgo food.

He’d learned over the past week that the way to Hades’s heart was definitely through his stomach, although they hadn’t progressed enough for the big horse to allow any sort of physical contact. Ian had tried, first standing close enough to the feed bucket in the shed that he would have been able to reach out and touch the stallion. Hoping Hades was hungry enough to allow it.

He wasn’t.

But a distance of about ten feet seemed to do the trick, and it allowed Ian the chance to look over the horse twice each day, to make sure he didn’t have any scratches or any other issues from his outdoor exile.

He’d tried approaching Hades while he ate a couple of times, and was rewarded with pinned-back ears, snapping teeth and flying hooves.

But time, he knew, was the best way to deal with a traumatized horse. And if nothing else, he had time.

The weather was still unseasonably cold, and while Ian had thrown on a jacket before leaving the house, it wasn’t enough to protect him against the plummeting temperatures now that the sun had set. He shivered, trying to stick it out in favor of more time with Hades, but he could feel his fingers turning numb.

“All right, big guy,” he said quietly. Hades flicked an ear in his direction but didn’t stop chewing. “You win this time. But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He rose and stretched, taking his time before leaving the shed. Partly to give Hades those additional few moments of having a human in his space, but also because the wind was bitter today, and as soon as he left the shed, he was going to regret not finding his warmer coat and some gloves before he left the house. He grabbed the bucket he’d used to carry Hades’s feed to the shed, which Bronwen had prepared and left by the fence earlier that day.

He hurried across the field, head down against the wind, and nearly ran into Bronwen, who was headed down the hill toward him.

She stopped when she looked up and saw him, twisting her hands—sensibly gloved—while she waited for him to reach her.

“Hi,” she said awkwardly, not quite meeting his eyes. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “You didn’t leave the bucket by the gate.”

He glanced down at the empty bucket in his hand. He usually dumped the feed into the shed’s bucket, then tromped across the field to leave it for Bronwen to take and clean with the other horses’ buckets while he went back to sit in the shed. In this way he’d managed to avoid all human contact for several days. But he hadn’t been able to make himself take multiple trips across the cold field that afternoon.

“Right. Sorry, I should have. It’s just cold today.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“But you’ve had to make two trips in this wind.”

He was an ass. It wasn’t any farther across the field from the shed than it was from the barn to the gate, and while he’d avoided one trip, it meant Bronwen had to make two. He’d told himself that other than preparing the stallion’s feed, he wouldn’t impose on Bronwen’s work any more than he absolutely had to. But the cold had frozen that thought right out of his mind.

She shrugged and smiled a little. Shifted from one foot to the other like a restless colt. “I’ve either been outside or in the unheated barn all day—I’ll survive.”

He supposed that was true, but still...

“How’s he doing?” Bronwen nodded toward the shed, where Hades still stood. Probably avoiding the windchill himself.

Ian glanced back over his shoulder. “Doesn’t want anything to do with me other than food delivery,” he said.

“Stubborn,” Bronwen said, then paused, chewing on her bottom lip in that distracting way. “I could help, maybe.”

Ian should have seen the offer coming. Bronwen obviously cared deeply for all of the horses on the farm, and now that included Hades. Of course she’d want to help. And God knew he needed it—especially from the one person who’d been able to get near the horse so far. He’d seen a few of the boarders gather by the fence gate to look at the new horse, and Hades had always kicked up his heels and taken off to the other side of the field.

“I’ll think about it.” He wouldn’t. Probably.

He absentmindedly brought his frozen hands to his lips and blew warm air onto them.

“You must be freezing—why don’t you come up to the tack room? It’s heated, and there’s a fresh pot of coffee on.”

He stared at her. Another offer he should have seen coming. And equally enticing—and dangerous. A series of images of past tack rooms, past barn lounges, flickered through his mind like a movie. Laughing, talking, sharing community with everyone he’d left behind. He’d sworn to himself he’d never go backward. Horses, the people around them—he’d left it all for a reason.

When he didn’t answer, Bronwen sighed and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I know you want to be left alone. It’s just—it’s warm in there.”

“It’s warm in the house,” Ian replied.

At that, Bronwen laughed. “Is it, though?”

Point taken. The old heating system did its best, but on a frigid day like this one, it barely kept the place habitable. He looked down at his hands, red and chapped. “No. No, it’s really not.” And he laughed, just a little, rusty and rough.

“No one’s in the barn,” Bronwen said, cajoling him like he was a spooky horse. “Slow day, and the ones who showed up to ride left already. And if I drink all the coffee myself I’ll be up all night.”

He was not thinking about Bronwen at night, in her pajamas, which he’d already seen. In the apartment above the barn, which he hadn’t. Was she lonely up there? He hadn’t seen any evidence of a romantic partner, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one. And it was ridiculous, that he’d feel even the slightest sting of jealousy over that thought. Over a woman he barely knew.

Still...he could admit that maybe, just maybe, he was the one who was lonely. He’d pursued solitude because he thought it would help. Because he thought no one should have to endure his moods, his bitterness. But Bronwen had seen him bitter, and angry, and she was still inviting him for coffee.

Maybe it was pity, which he hated. But he didn’t think Bronwen was a person given to pity. She was kind, but he suspected she wasn’t overly sentimental. Which was another point in her favor—and honestly, she was gaining too many points for his own good.

“Okay,” he said, surprising himself. He told himself that he was just cold, and the thought of a well-heated tack room and fresh coffee was too good to pass up.

Especially if no one else was around.

A stunned expression crossed Bronwen’s face for a split second before she covered it with a smile. Her astonishment was so obvious he nearly laughed again—twice in one day, some kind of new record.

He started up the hill without another word, Bronwen behind him. In the barn, everything was quiet. Just the occasional rustle of a horse turning in their stall, or grabbing another mouthful of hay.

“No radio?” he asked, just for something to break the silence. In most of the show barns he’d ridden for, there was always music on.

Bronwen shook her head and reached out to pat a horse—a big draft cross with hay sticking out of his mouth—as they walked by the stalls. “I don’t like to make any more noise than necessary. This is the horses’ home, you know? They don’t need all our human racket.” She chuckled and pushed open the door to the tack room. “The boarders already make enough noise.”

He liked that she put the horses’ well-being and comfort above the entertainment of the people in the barn. Most—though sadly not all—of the people he’d worked for and with cared deeply about animals, but it didn’t always carry over into the details, into the careful considering of the ways horses were different from people, with different needs and wants. More points for Bronwen.

In the tack room, neat rows of saddles on racks lined one wall, and hooks with bridles hung above several large tack trunks that probably belonged to the boarders. Cabinets that likely held all of the miscellaneous equipment associated with horses—leg wraps, blankets, extra saddle pads, spare pieces of bridles, extra girths—sat under two small windows. And in one corner was a kitchenette, with a hot plate, sink, coffee maker and minifridge, surrounded by an old couch and two other chairs.

It wasn’t as fancy as what he was used to, but it was neat and practical and comfortable. He liked it.

And it was warm.

“Help yourself to coffee,” Bronwen said. “There’s milk and everything. I’m just going to toss another flake of hay in with Charlie. Otherwise he’ll eat his bedding.”

He did as directed, stirring milk into his coffee in a mug that read My Best Friend Has Four Legs and taking a seat on the sofa.

When he heard a thunk and muffled cursing from out in the barn, he rose and set the mug on the counter. Out in the barn aisle, Bronwen was nowhere to be seen. A little black-and-white pony stuck its head over the stall door nearest where he stood.

“Where is she?” he asked the pony, who snorted unhelpfully. A tall brown horse who looked like he might make a jumper or eventer regarded him solemnly with kind dark eyes. “How about you?” Ian asked the horse. “Did she just disappear?”

Another thunk came from a stall down the aisle, and he followed the sound. He’d been in the barn a few times, always in the middle of the night to avoid the boarders. Which was absurd. Dramatic. Maybe a little unhinged. And maybe he was all of those things.

Now he took a moment to notice details he’d missed. The way each horse’s halter and lead rope hung tidily next to their stall. The gleaming brass nameplates on the stall doors. The wood worn smooth from years of human hands and equine teeth and bodies. The neat broom marks left after an evening sweep of the aisle. The silhouette of a barn cat’s ears just visible in the shadows before the animal darted off to do its job keeping mice from getting into the feed. This was no slick, polished show barn, but everything here was both well used and cared for. He inhaled deeply, old wood and hay and leather in the air, the scent achingly familiar.

He made his way to the door of the stall in question and watched as Bronwen tugged at a hay bale at the very top of a pile of bales. This must be where they stored some of the hay for easy access. Although the access wasn’t looking so easy at the moment, at least for someone of Bronwen’s height.

“Let me help,” he said, and Bronwen whirled around. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But it sounded like you were trying to murder that hay bale.”

A smile turned up the corner of her mouth. “Wow, a joke?”

Ian didn’t know how to take that. He used to make lots of jokes. Now...he supposed not so much.

“A bad one, but yes. Here—” He moved to her side. The hay bale wasn’t out of his reach, and he hooked a hand through the twine holding it together.

“I don’t need—”

“Just let me get it.”

His hand slipped out of the twine as she tugged at his arm, and he turned toward her. Her face was tipped up toward his. And in the dim light of the stall, filtered through where the hay bales partially blocked the window, she looked as warm and inviting as the comfortable tack room had compared to the frozen field he’d been sitting in.

He leaned down, much as he had in the feed room that night, the same charge of attraction sparking in the air between them. Electric and bright and everything that had been missing in his life for so many months. He was lonely, and wholly deprived of companionship and physical touch.

He blamed his actions on loneliness and deprivation, when he knew full well that it wasn’t only that. Not entirely. It was her. She brightened his thoughts when he moped around the old house alone. A glimpse of her from his seat in Hades’s shed as she picked up the empty feed bucket at the other side of the field was the highlight of his day. Her fierce determination on behalf of the horses and their owners reminded him that there was humanity outside of the fortress he’d built around himself.

But he told himself that it was simply physical deprivation that made him place a hand on her waist, waiting a beat to see if she pushed him away. As she should have. But instead she stood perfectly still, as if she didn’t want to scare him away.

Instead, she placed her own hand on his shoulder, right at the juncture of his neck, cool on his heated skin. Somehow, the bone-deep chill of the field had vanished, and warmth sparked from his insides out, warmth that her gentle touch ignited into a flame. Warmth that burst into fiery heat when he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers.

None of it made sense. He wanted solitude, time and space to lick his wounds. And then he wanted to leave the horse world behind forever. Bronwen wanted nothing more than to honor her commitment to her little section of that world.

But at that moment, surrounded by the sweet smell of hay and the irresistible taste of the woman in front of him, that all slipped to the side, things to worry about later.

Right now, Bronwen was brushing her mouth against his, fingers curling into his shoulder, tongue tracing the seam of his lips. He couldn’t do anything other than kiss her back. Not when he was more lightheaded now than when he first woke up in the hospital, not when he could move his mouth to her soft cheek, the firm line of her jaw, the tender skin of her throat. Not when she pressed closer to him, gasping with pleasure. Not when she was so willing it made him weak with desire.

She made a noise that went directly to his dick, which was suddenly extremely interested in its surroundings in a way it hadn’t been since his accident. When Bronwen pressed her body against his, he was sure she could feel his reaction to her even through her thick coveralls.

He told himself, Slow . Careful. There were a million reasons why this was a terrible idea to begin with, but since he didn’t have the sense to stop, he could at least make sure they didn’t do anything they’d really regret.

But Bronwen slid a hand under his jacket, under the hem of his shirt, and her palm moved up his side from his waist and around to his back. Nails digging into his skin when he moaned at her touch, a delicious sharpness heightening the sweet feel of her. And that was it for him—no chance for slow or careful.

He was hungry—starving, dazed with lust as she took his mouth, demanding more from him. He couldn’t resist. He spun her around and gently pushed her back against the tall stack of hay bales, kissing her a little more roughly than he’d intended. His control was legendary—on horseback, off, in relationships and everywhere else.

But he didn’t feel in control now—this was the worst idea imaginable, kissing this woman he’d leave behind, a woman who deserved more than he’d have been able to offer before his accident, let alone now.

He did it anyway, her tongue soothing the sharp edges of his lust, her grasp on his shoulders telling him in no uncertain terms that he was wanted, wanted , just as he was right now. And how he wanted in return, groaning as he moved his thigh in between her legs, stroking her lips with his tongue, breath coming in ragged gasps.

He both cursed and sent up a prayer of thanks for her thick coat and coveralls, wanting nothing more than to tear them off her body to see what treasure lay underneath. And knowing that the kiss had to end, and the more layers between them the better.

Eventually, she tipped her head back, breaking contact. Her eyes were hazy and lips parted. An earthquake of lust tore through him, shocking him to his core.

She gazed up at him, mouth red and swollen, eyelids heavy. Her hair was a messy halo around her lovely face, so expressive and delicate even as she was strong and resourceful. Whatever he’d expected when he’d fled to Morning Song Farm, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t an angel in thick coveralls, bits of wood shavings stuck to her coat, a smear of dirt dashed across the side of the hand she now pressed to his cheek. If he’d known she was what waited for him when he arrived, he’d have run far and fast in the other direction.

Maybe he still should.

“You’re unfairly beautiful,” she said, her thumb tracing his cheekbone.

It surprised a laugh out of him. “I was just thinking the same about you.” If he couldn’t be honest now, when they were both flushed and panting, when could he?

She blushed adorably and bit her lip. “I’m pretty average.” Her eyes flicked to her hand, and she moved to pull it away. He pressed his palm to it to hold it in place. “Filthy most of the time.”

He couldn’t help a smile. “Filthy can be good.”

She laughed quietly. “I guess.”

He sobered quickly, desire warring with the beginnings of regret.

“We can’t do this,” he murmured, releasing her hand. She lowered her arm to her side, and immediately he missed her touch.

She raised an eyebrow. “Can’t or shouldn’t?”

“Both,” he said on an amused huff of breath.

“I’m not looking for...anything.”

“Anything?”

She glanced to the side. “Relationship. Commitment. Whatever. I’m not looking for that.”

He should feel relieved. Not only was he not looking for any of those things, but he was actively avoiding them. Yet some discomfort, some dissatisfaction, sat unpleasantly in his stomach at her words. He ignored it.

“Okay,” he said, because he didn’t know how to reply.

“But maybe you’re right,” she said on a sigh.

She shifted to the side and he stepped back, giving her space. She smoothed her hands over her hair, which did nothing to tame it. She gave him a sidelong glance, a little wary. He supposed he deserved it.

“Right about what?”

He’d already lost the thread of the conversation, distracted by the way her expression had closed so very slightly. He wouldn’t have noticed it if she wasn’t so close. If he hadn’t studied her so avidly the few times they’d been near each other. He suppressed the urge to grab her hand and pull her back against him, to try to cajole her back into the openness and warmth he found irresistible.

She shrugged and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets. “This. Or not this. Not doing this.”

“Ah. This.”

She inhaled deeply, then blew the breath out audibly. “Yeah. It could get complicated.”

As if it wasn’t already complicated. As if she hadn’t stormed into his solitude and blown everything apart just by being there. But...

“You’re right. You have enough on your plate.” She didn’t need this—whatever this was. She didn’t need the darkness inside him spilling all over her sunshine.

She made a noncommittal noise. “Anyway. I should probably give Charlie his hay before he eats all his bedding.”

He glanced from her to the hay bale still on top of the pile, unmoved. “Right. Let me just...”

This time she allowed him to pull down the bale, and with scissors she pulled from somewhere she snipped apart the twine. The bale fell into neat flakes of hay. Bronwen grabbed one and headed for the door, then paused.

His heart beat somewhere up in his throat as he wondered if she’d come back to him. Change her mind, even though that was a terrible idea for both of them.

But she only said, “Don’t forget your coffee.”

Which he had. And he didn’t care about the coffee. He only cared that something felt off, that he was left with the impression that he’d hurt her somehow. Or disappointed her. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

But she smiled and said, “I think I’ll skip the coffee and head upstairs. Have an early night.”

And he was left thinking about her just upstairs in her apartment, in those pajamas, doing whatever it was she did each night, and wishing ridiculously that he could do it with her.