Make It A Double(10)

Chapter 4





Alyssa





By the time I push the fourth bag of shavings to the ground, Brody is carrying the third into the barn. I climb down carefully from the stack and head that way. He passes me as I enter the barn, heading back out for the last one, but we don’t say a word to each other.

Grabbing a pair of work gloves out of the small storage closet to the left of the stall, I put them on and pull my knife out of my back pocket. Brody walks in with the last bag as I bend over and start to slice into the plastic holding the shavings. I ignore him, although I can feel him there watching me.

I’m unbelievably grateful for his help today. I had been just shy of a full-fledged meltdown when he told me Hunter wasn’t home. But I’m not forgetting for a moment what a prick he is. The fact he called me a snotty, rich bitch heiress—yes, those were his exact words—still stings a hell of a lot.

Honestly… I hadn’t seen that coming. Ever since Brody returned home, I’ve been thinking about him a lot. I wasn’t that close to him before he got arrested, but friends enough that we hung out some in the summer. I mean, Gabby, Casey, and I were five years younger than him, Hunter, and their friend Wyatt, but there were plenty of times that we all happened to be at the Markham house at the same time.

He was such a good guy. Nice, funny, and smart as hell. Oh, yeah… let’s not forget smokin’ hot. I expected he’d be different when he got out of prison, but I didn’t expect him to attack me the way he did. I was blindsided and incredibly hurt.

Now I’m just pissed at him, and his little act of charity today doesn’t erase that.

I lean over, pulling handfuls of the shavings from the large bag so I can spread it around the stall and, to my surprise, Brody steps up beside me and starts doing the same to another bag that he merely rips open with his fingers.

“There’s another pair of gloves in that closet,” I tell him, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.

He doesn’t respond, but he does get the gloves. We work side by side, spreading the pine, and, just as we finish, I can hear a truck pulling up outside. My Corolla horse is here and I shake out the last handful, beyond excited to get my first up-close look at one of those beauties. Slapping my gloved hands on my thighs to dust them off, I head out of the barn.

Brody walks out and stands beside me as we watch the truck and horse trailer back up to the barn.

“Where do you want the rest of the hay? I’ll get it moved,” he asks me.

I turn to him, my eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to. I’ll get it taken care of after I take you home.”

“Just tell me where you want it,” he says in exasperation, already walking away toward the bale-stacked trailer.

“In the second stall,” I call out.

I assume he heard me, because he gets to work. I watch him for a moment, appreciative of his help and more appreciative of the bulging muscles that flex and bunch under his t-shirt as he hauls bale after bale off the trailer. Brody filled out in prison. He was tall to start out, but had always been on the lean side. He clearly had been working out a lot while he was away, and as a female who can appreciate male beauty, Brody has it going on. His brown-gold hair could use a trim, coming down all one length to his shoulders, but he wears it tied back at the top. I’m guessing it hasn’t been cut since he got sent away.

His face is a contrast, covered by a beard that he keeps trimmed short. So handsome, and I remember his blue eyes used to be filled with light and mischief. Now, they are hard and bitter.

Brody glances up after throwing a bale off the trailer, and our eyes lock. For a brief moment, I see something unusual on his face. More often than not, there is something negative he’s emoting my way, like anger or resentment. But now, right at this very moment, I see a flicker of curiosity spark through his gaze. It’s only there briefly before it vanishes. He turns his back on me and goes back to flipping the hay bales off the trailer and onto the ground. I turn toward the horse trailer, dismissing Brody Markham from my mind, filling my thoughts with the wild horse I’m getting ready to meet.











It doesn’t take long to get the yearling settled into his stall. The driver also brought some bundles of Spartina grass, which is one of the main staples of their diet. I would be mixing this in with his hay and oats until we could wean him off it all together. When Brody was finished moving the hay bales, he unhooked the trailer for me as Frank told me he’d come and pick it up in a day or so. Then he stacked the grass bundles in the second stall for me as well.

As the transport carrier pulled away, I stood at the stall gate and watched the horse munch on some of the grass. The wild horses are much smaller than domestic breeds of horses, and their coats are shaggy. He didn’t seem too perturbed to be in this new environment and even let me scratch his head a bit as he fed.