Page 30 of Roped

“No.”

“Fuck no.”

The first no came from Haven, and the second, more emphatic one, was from Ax, and they both said it at the same time. I have no particular interest in staying with the youngest Grayson—in fact, if I were to choose, I’d pick Haven any day of the week—but in this case, I wish I could stay with Ax. Because I don’t want to face the men. I don’t know what men she’s talking about, but I already know I don’t want to be around them in case one of them is… you-know-who.

“We’re late,” Haven announces, standing up from her seat.

I can do this, I tell myself. I have to anyway. It’s not like I have a choice, and I’ve faced worse things.

You’re such a liar, Peyton. You know you haven’t faced anything worse than him. The beautiful cowboy with a wicked scar and green eyes whose life your father destroyed.

Getting up from my seat, too, I help Haven with all the stuff she needs to gather before we head out. Since we’re going to the south stream, wherever the heck it is, we need a mode of transportation. In this case, a side-by-side ATV. I lived on a ranch until I was eleven so I’ve been in an ATV, but I absolutely hate riding in them. My stomach churns as Haven starts it up and pulls out of the driveway. Every bump, every jostle, every freaking turn we take, I taste bile in my mouth and my limbs feel hot and heavy. Just as I think I’m not going to make it and I’m about to throw up all over Haven’s and my own cowboy boots, she stops. I stumble out of the vehicle and stand, leaning against it for a few seconds to get my bearings. I seriously hate living on a ranch.

Good thing it wasn’t a horse, or I would’ve died on the ride over.

But then all the commotion around me penetrates and I straighten up. We’re indeed by the stream like Haven had mentioned. It’s fast-moving and is flanked by high ground on both sides. Immediately, I know why the men can’t make it to lunch this afternoon; they’re trying to retrieve a calf from down there. Not only a calf, though, but a stuck one. As in, one of its legs seems to have gotten wedged under a fallen tree trunk, and the ranch hands are gathered around, shouting out commands and instructions, trying to get a handle on the situation.

My own stupid fear and discomfort vanish as I hear a bellow. I rush to the edge of the stream and notice trembles running through the calf’s white, skinny body. It’s trying to free the leg on its own but to no avail, and that’s only making it bellow harder. Not to mention, I don’t think it likes so many people around. Every time a ranch hand tries to get close, it becomes more terrified and struggles harder. It’s a vicious cycle, and I have absolutely no idea how they’re going to save the poor animal. But then I hear hooves. The distinct sound of a horse galloping on the ground, approaching fast.

I snap my eyes up and see a flash of white streaking through the woods on the other side of the stream. A dark figure sits atop a white horse, wearing a black Stetson and a bandanna over his face like a mask. And despite knowing better, my breaths start to come easy. I know he’s going to save the calf. There’s not a single doubt in my mind about that.

You’re such an idiot, Peyton.

As usual, his shirt is bursting at the seams, trying to contain his wide chest, and his washed-out jeans seem to be painted on his bulging tree-trunk thighs. His sleeves are folded up to his elbows, and even though I’m far away from him, I can still see the bulge of his bronzed forearms as he holds the reins in his powerful hands. When he jerks his horse to a stop and jumps down with an ease that only comes from years and years of practice, I squeeze my thighs. Still masked, he strides over to one of the ranch hands and a hush falls over the group. A certain calm. They all stand taller and lose the tense lines of their bodies as they speak to him. As if they know, just like me, he’s going to take care of it.

As though to prove my thoughts correct, I feel Haven coming to stand by my side. I glance over to see her watching him and the others as she says, “It’s going to be okay. Rad’ll take care of it.”

Rad.

I know that’s what they call him, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for him at all. He’s a king, in both his name and his aura. He deserves to be called by his full, kingly name: Radisson. I’m not proud of it, and I will take this secret to my grave, but I love his name. The moment I heard it from Haven, I knew it was perfect for him. Perfect for the only man at Rawhide bigger and broader than all the Grayson brothers combined.

I watch him grab the rope in his hands, and instantly, my wrists begin to tingle. They burn and itch, and I rub them up and down my dress. With the rope wound around his hand, Radisson takes the lead while the rest of the men stay on the edge. He climbs down and gets in the stream, slowly approaching the stuck animal through the swift current of the water. Like before, Radisson’s closeness only stresses the calf, and it starts shaking and bellowing, struggling to get free. But instead of either forging ahead or retreating, Radisson freezes. He unmasks his face and looks the poor animal in the eyes. He raises his arms, his fingers splayed wide, the rope still wound around his right hand, as he speaks. I can only watch his lips move, plump and bisected by his scar, and I have to bite my own as I wait, like everyone else, for something to happen.

Slowly and continuing to speak, he takes a step closer. The calf stays still as it watches Radisson. He advances a few steps before something spooks the poor critter again and Radisson has to stop to prevent the animal from injuring itself in its struggle to be free. He speaks to the animal in what I can only assume to be hushed tones. The animal’s body relaxes by slow degrees, and when it appears calm enough, Radisson resumes moving.

Finally, when Radisson is close enough to put his arms around it, the calf yelps and shakes harder than ever. But Radisson strokes its back and its sides to get it to calm down. Bent over, he rubs circles around the calf’s flanks, while also inspecting where its leg is stuck. Still murmuring to the calf, he flings the rope over the animal and signals with his hand. A few ranch hands climb down to the stream while Radisson keeps the calf distracted and ropes it around the middle. When the men reach them, they grip the fallen trunk and Radisson throws his burly arms around the scared animal. On another signal from him, the men pull at the trunk while Radisson lifts the injured animal free.

A harrowing cry sounds from the calf as the pressure is lifted, and it struggles in Radisson’s arms. But somehow, he manages to keep his grip on the animal as he throws the other end of the rope to the hands waiting on the edge. When the calf is relatively calm—but still in pain; there’s a streak of blood on its hooves—Radisson hands it over to one of the men nearby as the others on the edge pull at the rope and help carry the calf up to the bank, safely and securely.

Again, there’s a lot of commotion around me, this time because everyone is relieved, and I realize my eyes are wet. My eyes are also locked on the man who just saved the day. I knew he would, but that doesn’t make what he did any less awe-worthy. Or any less painful. Wasn’t there a time when I thought that’s what he was: a savior? That no matter what, he’d always come to my rescue. What a stupid thought. He might be a savior for everyone else, but not for me. Not for the Turner Princess.

He’s still down at the stream, talking to some of the ranch hands, when I notice something. Something that I couldn’t have before because his face was covered. Now that it’s not, it’s so plain to see: People around him don’t look at him. Not really. They talk to him, these men who work under him; listen to him, all very diligently and respectfully, but they don’t look directly at him. They don’t look at his face, and if they do, they look away quickly. Like they can’t bear to see whatever is on there. They can’t bear to look at his scar, and I…

I want to scream.

I want to get up in their faces and demand that they look at him. I want to shake them and punch them and fucking kick them in the nuts for being so cruel and mean and just plain ignorant. Can’t they see how utterly beautiful he is? How capable and strong? How he was the one who saved the day. Him and no one else. Without him, they’d still be standing around being the waste of space they are, while that poor little animal would still be stuck and writhing in pain. A scar doesn’t change any of that. A scar doesn’t change him or define him. If anything, it’s a testament of his strength. It’s proof that he lived. He survived.

My angry thoughts come to a halt when he tips his face up and his eyes land on me. Even through the space, the force of his startling green stare is so potent that I have to take a step back. I have to clutch at my dress in tight fists when his stare moves. Takes my face in, which I’m sure is flushed and sweaty from everything that has gone on, before sliding down my throat and heaving chest to my belly and bare legs. I say “slide” because that’s what it feels like, smooth but also heavy and laden with intensity.

“Hey.”

I flinch at the greeting and quickly look away from him to acknowledge Haven still standing beside me. “Hey.”

That I was staring at Radisson hasn’t escaped her notice, and she watches me carefully. “Are you okay?”

I know what she’s asking about, but I try to distract her and pretend she’s referring to my bumpy ride on the ATV. “Yes, much better. Being outside helped, thanks. I didn’t, uh”—I tuck my hair behind my ear—“think I’d be this affected. I’ve ridden on an ATV before, I promise. This was total city girl behavior, huh.”

I expected her to at least crack a smile at my self-deprecating joke, but she keeps watching me with the same look. Then, “You know I wasn’t asking about that, right?”