Page 53 of Cattle Stop

The more dominant cows in the herd, the ladies who are the oldest and Drew’s worked with the longest, will make it to Drew first to get their handful of grain, and that’ll be enough to lead them back to the barn with a promise of more where that came from.

Sure enough, Drew’s Jeep sits empty, idling at the edge of the road when Cooper and Whit reach it. The driver’s door hangs open and hoof tracks lead down the road that curves eventually into the barnyard. Drew’ll be jogging ahead of them now, calling to the girls to follow him. Cooper lifts himself into the driver’s seat as Whit pops open the passenger door and climbs in after him.

Halfway back, Cooper pulls to the side of the road and parks in the same spot where they’d parked the truck yesterday. “It wasn’t the cattle stop,” Cooper says as he jumps out of the Jeep.

There’s a tree down, the fence snapped under it, and perfect impressions of hooves in the mud on either side. It’ll be good firewood at least, a huge oak that apparently couldn’t stand up to last night’s storm. Cooper pushes at the strands of the barbed wire fence with the toe of his boot and sighs. One more thing to fix. Don’t tell Drew indeed, or hell if they ever get him back to that loose, good mood he was in last night.

“We can get this restrung,” Whit says, pulling at a length of wire like he can just brush the branches and shattered trunk aside.

“We’ve got to get the tree cleaned up first,” Cooper says.

Whit’s arm flexes as he tugs and Cooper tries to ignore the heat that immediately builds under his skin. He needs to find some chill. Just like Whit, who’s breezily moving on as if last night wasn’t a big deal at all.

It was just sex.

With Whit.

Holy hell, Cooper thinks, his memories of warm, smooth skin mixing with the thread of disbelief still coursing through him.

“We can string the fence over it.” Whit sets his foot on top of the trunk, his running shoes still coated with mud. Trust Whit to want to work on this, rather than return to the house to change first, or even get the farm truck back from Caroline’s. “It’s low enough, it’ll work, and we can leave the chainsawing until the winter.”

“Yeah, that’ll be great until a cow decides to just walk up the trunk, step over your brilliant fencing plan, and stage an escape, round two.”

“They’re not acrobats.” Whit kneels to pick up the line of broken fence.

“Oh, right, they’re cows.” Cooper lifts his eyes to the sky. He hates how Whit’s shirt stretches over his back and hates all the more that he wants to stare at it, those dips of muscle the damp fabric clings to. “You know so much about farming, it’s incredible.”

Whit doesn’t bother to say anything, which is typical, his ping-ponging between acerbic cuts and steely silence. Whit stares at the fence, not even looking at Cooper, just studying his lap. Of course he is, ’cause he’s not spending all morning mooning over Cooper, because he’s able to keep his head on straight, which is only more irritating.

“Any other stupendous insights to share with the group?” Cooper asks.

“My, ah, hand.”

Cooper jogs over to him. Whit cups his right hand in the palm of his left, holding both away from his body. There’s blood on the grass. And a drop of it on Whit’s shorts, right in the middle of his thigh. It coats his fingers too, shiny and pulsing slowly from a gash across the base of his thumb.

“Whit,” Cooper breathes.

“I’m fine.” Whit presses with his other thumb, but the blood just seeps around the pressure, the cut too wide.

“You’re not.” Cooper tugs at his arm. There’s the shine of blood on a rough, sharp spur of barbed wire next to Whit’s knee. “C’mon.”

Cooper grabs a wad of napkins in a cupholder in the Jeep. They’re none too clean, but neither is the hand Whit’s still pressing to the cut. Cooper cups Whit’s wrist and nudges his thumb to the side, pressing hard. “Hurts?” Cooper asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look fine.” Cooper shouldn’t be holding him like that. He steps backward, and slowly, Whit curls his own fingers over the wad of napkin. “Try to keep your blood inside you, where it belongs.”

“If only you’d told me earlier.” Whit wipes his other palm on his shorts, then reaches for the tangle of fencing.

“What the hell?” Cooper grabs his wrist again. Whit’s so strong, tugging back against Cooper’s grip. Cooper learned that well enough last night, didn’t he? His cheeks flush hot. “Are you trying to cut both hands, you genius?”

“How are we going to put the cows back out if this isn’t fixed?”

“The only thing you’re doing is going to the hospital.”

“I’m fixing the fence, my hand is fine.”

“We have, I don’t know, dozens of other acres of pastures the cows can eat.”