This was her home. The Trading Post was hers, because she was the one who had built it up from nothing. If it had really been left up to Nathan West, it would be nothing. It would be nothing but a hollow shell. She was the one who had given it life. She was the one who was entitled to it.
She would be damned if Gage got to come in and make her feel like it wasn’t hers. She would be damned if she would be chased off. She had made that decision early on. Even while she endured somewhat pitying stares from the townspeople, those who remembered the circumstances surrounding her accident, and the general indifference of men that had forced her to cultivate a shell that was so hard she didn’t think anyone could get through it now. Even if she wanted to let them.
Feeling fortified, she continued on down the driveway, feeling gradually less fortified the moment his house came into view.
She loved her house, and she was proud of it. It was rustic and cozy and entirely perfect for one woman who lived by herself. But his place... Well, it was something spectacular. She had rarely had occasion to see the house up close, even though it was visible across the lake from her back deck. She’d known that it was impressive, she just hadn’t realized quite how much.
It was one of those fancy, two-story cabins with logs that shone like honey and a green tin roof that pitched at sharp angles, following the expansive sprawl of the house itself. There were large windows at the front that reflected the scene around her, and herself, in their shining surfaces.
She looked determinedly at the door, and not at the reflection of herself. The reflection that looked very small and ineffective in the vast open surroundings.
She was not ineffective. She was a warrior.
She repeated that mentally with her every step up the front porch and to the door. Then, she knocked sharply, twice, before wrapping both hands back around her thermos. Clinging to it as though it might offer some source of power. Her own little caffeinated talisman.
She waited. And then, at a certain point, she decided that he was making her wait. That made her grit her teeth in frustration. As if all of this wasn’t irritating enough, the man was playing power games with her.
Too bad for him, that kind of thing didn’t work on her. She had lived through hell. Nothing scared her anymore. Least of all monsters under the bed, in the closet or in the spectacular log cabin.
Just when she was about to knock again, the door swung open and her heart, stomach and every other organ in her torso plummeted down toward her toes, leaving her hollowed out and breathless. He was...well, he was shirtless.
And while she considered herself impossible to intimidate, she was, apparently, easy enough to shock.
She swallowed hard, doing her very best not to stare at that broad expanse of bare chest. At the dark hair that covered his well-defined muscles, thinning out as it reached his incredibly cut abs.
He was wearing jeans that were disconcertingly low, revealing chiseled lines that acted as an arrow, directing the feminine gaze down to the rather prominent bulge at the apex of his well-muscled thighs.
She imagined that this moment, this moment that seemed horrifically extended, was actually over quickly. That she wasn’t really standing there gaping at his body for a recognizable or measurable portion of time. She imagined that in actuality things were just moving slow on a scale of relativity at the moment. At least, she hoped so, because if not, she had just made a complete and total ass of herself.
Still, she found herself looking at that perfect body again. All hard lines and gorgeous skin and...not one single scar.
Unlike her own skin. Which was a guide to every injury, every surgery...
How was it fair that he looked like this and she looked like she did?
She forced her gaze up to his face and found it no less disturbing. Monsters, she decided, should be hideous. They should not be lean, finely honed examples of masculine perfection complete with an utterly offensive yet compelling tattoo on an equally compelling forearm.
They should not have sharp, hot blue eyes and curved sensual lips that put a woman in the kind of mind that began to wonder about how they might feel beneath her own.
But it occurred to her then, that maybe that was what made a monster like him so terrifying. He wasn’t repellent. He was the embodiment of all of her nightmares, and she should hate looking at him. But she didn’t.
Yeah, she wasn’t easy to scare. But that was damn scary.
“You took all that time to answer the door and you couldn’t find a shirt?” she asked, keeping her tone as hard and arid as possible.
“I took the time to find pants.”
“Allow me to thank you formally. Are you... Heading out soon?”
“No,” he said, offering no explanation beyond that.
“I thought that I was handling your ranch stuff because you were busy.”
“I am. But this morning I’m concerning myself with my own personal business, and that is all work that I can do in my home office.”
“Okay,” she said, feeling a little bit like she’d been punched in the head. “I can figure out all the stuff out here.” She waved her hand somewhat wildly, as if he needed the gesture to understand that she meant all of the tasks spread about across the property.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll show you around. But I do need a shirt before I go outside.” He turned away from her slightly, then back. “Come in?”
“I’m good,” she said resolutely. She pressed her weight more firmly down toward the soles of her feet, completely determined to stay right where she was standing.
He said nothing. Instead, he turned away, closing the door behind him, leaving her standing there alone.
What exactly had she gotten herself into? Maybe she was crazy. Maybe Lane was right.
No. You’re reclaiming. It’s important. Essential.
Yes, it was. Protecting the part of the world that she had carved out for herself was the most important thing. Her home, her shop. And dammit all, her pride. She hated that she had accepted handouts from him without knowing it. She just needed to... Well, much like she needed to wipe her brain clean at the end of the day, she felt like she needed to wipe the slate too. Or she would never be free of it.
It would loom. And so would he. The monster she would never be able to vanquish.
She was here. She was vanquishing.
The door opened again, and this time, thankfully, he was wearing a tight black T-shirt and a black coat. “All right,” he said, “come this way.”
She followed him down the steps, down along a dirt road that led around back of the house. She wasn’t really sure if she was supposed to make conversation with him. Then, she decided she really shouldn’t care what she was supposed to do. There wasn’t a protocol for the situation. And it wasn’t on her to make him comfortable.
Of course, it would be nice if she could make herself comfortable, but that might be a step too ambitious.
“The horses are down this way,” he said, gesturing toward a stable that was clearly visible. “If you wouldn’t mind feeding them and taking care of the stalls, that would be helpful.”
“I’d like to come by in the evenings and ride too,” she said. “To make sure that they’re getting some exercise.”
“How often do you work your store?”
“Five days a week,” she said.
“And you want to come here every day and do some work?”
“I was working in the store seven days a week until recently. The fact that I get time off at all is kind of a strange new situation.”
“It seems like a lot.”