old GTO and tugged on the shoulder straps of the jean overalls she’d had to dig from the back of her closet. She’d spent most of the previous night at the hospital with Jed, who’d ended up needing fifteen stitches to mend the huge gash on his thumb. Throughout it all, he hadn’t once railed at her for causing the injury or cursed her for being so ungrateful when he’d presented her with the sweet gift.
At some point during the evening, she’d had to admit she may have been wrong about him. Maybe the flowers weren’t a Trojan horse but a simple gesture from a man interested in a woman. She grinned. Damn, it felt good to be that woman.
Her boots crunched on scattered gravel as she made her way toward the barn. Jed had around twenty assorted animals, and though Abigail had little experience as a farmhand, she was determined to help him with chores until his hand healed. It was the least she could do. Mucking stalls, moving bales of hay and carrying buckets of water would be next to impossible for the man without the use of both hands.
Any time after ten a.m. in mid-July was hot as hell in Tennessee and today was no exception. The heat amplified the smell of the barnyard to a pungent level. She had no idea how anyone could get used to it.
Crossing the threshold onto the packed dirt floor of the barn, Abigail was surprised by the pristine state. It was obvious Jed had kept the place in good repair since inheriting the property. Very few cobwebs decorated the high rafters and the floor was swept clean. The stall fronts were all wood on the lower half and a series of black iron vertical bars on the upper portion so you could see inside from the hallway. A row of eight stalls stood on either side, each one she passed was open and had a thick bed of clean, pale sawdust coating the floor inside. She paused at one and peered inside, the pleasant scent of sawdust filling her nose. A fresh bucket of water hung from a hook on one wall and a nylon net stuffed with dark-green hay hung from another.
She shook her head and continued on to the back of the barn where a wheelbarrow was parked outside the last stall on the left.
Typical male. He better not have ripped those stitches.
A clatter echoed through the barn, followed by a muffled curse. She stepped around the half-filled wheelbarrow to find Jed kicking the handle of pitchfork.
His back was to her, his bare back. A sheen of sweat slicked his broad shoulders and a couple of drops rolled lazily down the tanned, muscled planes before collecting at the small of his back and disappearing below a pair of low-slung jeans.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat and her mouth went dry. Damn, but the man was fine. The steampunk spur she’d tattooed on his back was mostly healed and surrounded by a collection of other unique tattoos decorating his skin. There was something seriously sexy about a tattooed, pierced cowboy.
Now, if he’d just turn around, she could get a peek at those nipple piercings that would turn her dry mouth to watering.
She cleared her throat.
Jed spun around, his injured hand covered by a worn leather glove and cradled against his stomach. He quickly dropped his hands to his sides as if embarrassed by the show of weakness, his eyes shifting around the stall as though he was looking for an escape.
Abigail shoved her hands into the pockets of her overalls and rocked back on her heels. “You’re not supposed to be using that hand.”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s work to be done and it’s just a little cut. I managed fine.” He gestured to the other fifteen cleaned stalls.
She raised an amused brow. “Then why were you beating up on that poor pitchfork? Did it say something you didn’t like?”
His eyes narrowed, though he didn’t look angry at her impromptu appearance and needling. “Did you come all the way out here to reprimand me for mistreating my tools?”
“Nope. I came to help.” She allowed a grin to stretch her lips. Then her gaze
At some point during the evening, she’d had to admit she may have been wrong about him. Maybe the flowers weren’t a Trojan horse but a simple gesture from a man interested in a woman. She grinned. Damn, it felt good to be that woman.
Her boots crunched on scattered gravel as she made her way toward the barn. Jed had around twenty assorted animals, and though Abigail had little experience as a farmhand, she was determined to help him with chores until his hand healed. It was the least she could do. Mucking stalls, moving bales of hay and carrying buckets of water would be next to impossible for the man without the use of both hands.
Any time after ten a.m. in mid-July was hot as hell in Tennessee and today was no exception. The heat amplified the smell of the barnyard to a pungent level. She had no idea how anyone could get used to it.
Crossing the threshold onto the packed dirt floor of the barn, Abigail was surprised by the pristine state. It was obvious Jed had kept the place in good repair since inheriting the property. Very few cobwebs decorated the high rafters and the floor was swept clean. The stall fronts were all wood on the lower half and a series of black iron vertical bars on the upper portion so you could see inside from the hallway. A row of eight stalls stood on either side, each one she passed was open and had a thick bed of clean, pale sawdust coating the floor inside. She paused at one and peered inside, the pleasant scent of sawdust filling her nose. A fresh bucket of water hung from a hook on one wall and a nylon net stuffed with dark-green hay hung from another.
She shook her head and continued on to the back of the barn where a wheelbarrow was parked outside the last stall on the left.
Typical male. He better not have ripped those stitches.
A clatter echoed through the barn, followed by a muffled curse. She stepped around the half-filled wheelbarrow to find Jed kicking the handle of pitchfork.
His back was to her, his bare back. A sheen of sweat slicked his broad shoulders and a couple of drops rolled lazily down the tanned, muscled planes before collecting at the small of his back and disappearing below a pair of low-slung jeans.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat and her mouth went dry. Damn, but the man was fine. The steampunk spur she’d tattooed on his back was mostly healed and surrounded by a collection of other unique tattoos decorating his skin. There was something seriously sexy about a tattooed, pierced cowboy.
Now, if he’d just turn around, she could get a peek at those nipple piercings that would turn her dry mouth to watering.
She cleared her throat.
Jed spun around, his injured hand covered by a worn leather glove and cradled against his stomach. He quickly dropped his hands to his sides as if embarrassed by the show of weakness, his eyes shifting around the stall as though he was looking for an escape.
Abigail shoved her hands into the pockets of her overalls and rocked back on her heels. “You’re not supposed to be using that hand.”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s work to be done and it’s just a little cut. I managed fine.” He gestured to the other fifteen cleaned stalls.
She raised an amused brow. “Then why were you beating up on that poor pitchfork? Did it say something you didn’t like?”
His eyes narrowed, though he didn’t look angry at her impromptu appearance and needling. “Did you come all the way out here to reprimand me for mistreating my tools?”
“Nope. I came to help.” She allowed a grin to stretch her lips. Then her gaze
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