Free The Rancher Next Door by Betsy St. Amant Page B

under his boots, and scooped her up in his arms. The aroma of horse and hay and lemon soap wafted through her shock, drawing her in. She clutched the front of his work shirt in her uninjured hand, not caring about the dust and tiny white horsehairs that covered the material, and held on tight as he carried her to the kitchen table.
    He deposited her on top of it, not appearing to care as a tower of her carefully folded towels toppled off and landed on the floor. He rushed to the freezer and returned with a bag of frozen peas. If she looked at the undoing of her hard work on the floor—either in fabric form or rice form—she’d cry. So she just looked helplessly into his eyes. They appeared compassionate. Concerned.
    Big mistake.
    Tears formed anyway, and she clutched the bag of peas to her chest, the cold seeping through her shirt and distracting her from the pain in her fingers. She wished Brady would just go back to ignoring her. Arguing and having a stubborn match was a whole lot easier to deal with than this nice guy before her. This hero.
    Who apparently didn’t think enough of her to trust her opinions or advice. And why should he? She couldn’t even bake cookies or get supper on the table without catastrophe.
    Pity parties weren’t normally her style, but this one was settling in and getting comfortable.
    She fought the urge to break down completely, closing her eyes as Brady wiped a lingering tear from her cheek. “Does it hurt that bad?”
    Yes, but in more ways than he realized. Still, at least he thought her pain was from the burn and not the totally uncharacteristic flurry of emotions fluttering through her heart. When was the last time she’d even been on a date? Had it been so long that her heart was desperately reaching out for company? Any company?
    No. It was Brady. She’d been drawn to him from the moment he first crossed their dividing property line and shook her hand with his work-worn one.
    The one that still lingered by her cheek.
    She leaned away from his touch and removed the bag of peas to study her red fingers. “I’ll be all right. It’s just a first-degree burn.”
    Brady gingerly took her hand, as if to determine her diagnosis himself. “I think you’re right.”
    Of course she was. She was a firefighter and a certified EMT. Why couldn’t she be attracted to a man who had more in common with her? One who wasn’t grounded to this particular piece of earth like a thirty-year-old oak? One who didn’t raise his own child the way her father had raised her? Stifled. Cared for, but ignored in the ways that mattered most to a girl.
    One who actually took her opinions and advice seriously and treated her as an equal.
    On closer inspection, she really had no reason to feel the way she did about Brady and all of the above reasons not to.
    But try telling that to the can-can dancers kicking across her stomach.
    “I was trying to tell you a minute ago that I was sorry. You were right about Spitfire, and I was being stubborn. I just didn’t want you or Ava to get hurt.” Brady tucked the bag of peas back over her burn, glancing up to make eye contact.
    Sorry. He was apologizing? Maybe there were more reasons to feel for Brady than she’d thought. When was the last time a man had ever apologized to her? In her field, it didn’t happen often. The firemen she’d worked with over the years were mostly good men, but certainly gave new definition to the term macho. The most she’d ever gotten was a grunt of acknowledgment for being right.
    But Brady was saying the words. And, from the look in his eyes, meaning them.
    “But then you decided to throw my supper on the floor, so I guess we’re even.” He winked, and her heart dipped into her toes.
    “Thank you.” She licked her dry lips, wishing she had the words to express how much his apology really meant to her. But opening her heart to that degree wouldn’t be helpful for either of them. Best to keep it light. “And, well, I’m sorry