Page 66 of Breaking All The Rules
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Just after three on Sunday, Bea pulled up in front of Austin’s cabin. She’d followed his directions from the turnoff and driven past what was obviously the large, rambling main house, to a smaller log-style cabin tucked in about two hundred feet further on. A massive barn was probably another couple of hundred feet behind, along with a series of fenced-off yards.
Beyond that was a whole lot of flat, flat nothing. Fields of pale-green grass as far as the eye could see, the land undulating gently and a line of trees in the distance. The day was absolutely beautiful. A perfect arc of blue sky unspoiled by clouds and gorgeously temperate—not cold, not hot. Just right. The kind of warmth that confirmed the seasons had changed and warmer days were on the way.
Bea was in jeans and a T-shirt, but she’d brought a jacket for later when she figured the temperatures would drop.
Climbing out of the BMW, she was assailed by a sudden wave of bile sloshing around in her stomach. Nerves. And not just because she was about to jump on a beast and attempt to ride it with zero skills in that department. But also, because…what if she ran into Austin’s mother?
Bea wasn’t good with mothers. Knowing how to act around one when she’d had very little first-hand experience had left her severely disadvantaged. Which was why she tended to avoid it.
But what if the other woman had put two and two together? The main house wasn’t that far away and in full view of Austin’s cabin, and Bea imagined his comings and goings could be easily monitored if Austin’s mother was the type to do so. Where did she think Austin had been until five in the morning for four mornings straight?
Good lord, why had she let herself be talked into this? Credence was surrounded by ranches. Surrounded by horses. Hell, she probably could have stood on the main street and whinnied, and a horse would have appeared. About to chicken out, she saw Austin’s cabin door open and there he stood, in jeans and dusty boots and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off golden, ropey forearms.
“Hey,” he said as he shoved a hat—not his police-issue one—on his head, a slow smile warming his face and electrifying the air as he crossed the distance between them.
As if he could read her hesitancy, he didn’t touch her, didn’t lean in for a kiss.
He quirked an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Sure.” She nodded. “Nervous. About the horse,” she clarified quickly.
“Don’t be nervous.” He shoved a hand on his hip and smiled. “You’re going to be on my old horse. I’ve got Buffy all saddled up. She’s twenty years old and gentle as a lamb, I promise. I got her when I was thirteen.”
Bea blinked. “Buffy?”
“As in the vampire slayer.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Buffy was hot.”
“Aww.” She laughed, relaxing a little. “You had a crush on Buffy?”
“Honey, everyone had a crush on Buffy.”
“Hey, no judgment.”
“I should think not, Team Dean.”
Bea returned his grin. Touché.
“C’mon.” Austin gestured to the barn. “Let’s go get you introduced.”
They entered the huge old wooden structure, the aroma of hay, gasoline, and engine grease assaulting her as they passed several pieces of machinery and farm vehicles. A veritable wall of hay was stored along the back, the bales stacked one on top of the other like bricks. The loft above also appeared to store hay.
At the far end was a block of six concrete half stalls with wooden gates, their floors covered with hay. They were all empty, but in front of them, head down, munching on even more hay that had been strewn around, stood a light, coppery-colored horse with a blaze of white down its nose and a dirty-blond mane. She was all saddled up, the reins dragging on the ground. Lifting her head as Austin approached, whickered softly in recognition.
“Hey, girl,” Austin said quietly, sliding his hand onto her forehead and giving it a scratch.
The horse nosed into Austin’s palm before nudging him gently in the belly, encouraging Austin to pat down the long, elegant neck as she turned curious brown eyes on Bea.
She seemed to be an average size—whatever that was. Somewhere between Clydesdale and Shetland pony. And she was very pretty. Her face was sweet with long, soft eyelashes no product on the human market could ever hope to achieve, and the blondish mane was thick and luxurious, streaked with rusty-strawberry strands.
Bea could imagine Buffy out prancing in the fields, tossing it around for all to see. She bet that mane brought all the boys to the yard.
“You can pat her if you want,” he said.
