Page 17 of Over the Line
Slowly, Sydney shook her head.
“But the things that scare you are debilitating.”
With determination, she shoved aside his direct hit. “There you go with the psychoanalysis again.”
“That’s just casual observation. I’ll let you know what I see when I really have the chance to study you.”
Before she could respond, he moved off. As her window slid closed, she took her foot from the brake and followed him.
As they wound their way down the dirt road, lights came on, obviously all equipped with motion sensors.
Off to the right were a number of buildings, a barn among them.
His home finally came into view, and he lowered his window to point to a place for her to park near a large pine tree.
The moment she shut off the engine, he was there to help her, something she appreciated with her sandals and the uneven dirt parking area. “This outfit isn’t exactly the best for ranch wear,” she said, closing the vehicle door.
“Are you kidding? It’s perfect.”
In the distance, she heard an occasional moo and something that sounded like the bleating of a goat. While she also lived in the mountains, it was as if she and Master Michael occupied two entirely different universes.
After cupping her elbow for support, he led her toward the house. A huge yard was also fenced, but with horizontally notched wooden rails interlaced with vertical ones. Though it was likely practical, it was also artistic.
With one hand still on her, he opened yet another gate, taking time to ensure it latched securely behind them.
“To keep Chewie out,” he said.
“Chewie?”
“Long story. She’s a Nigerian dwarf goat.”
“I thought ranches had cows.”
“I run cattle, yes,” he said. “But Chewie is more of a pet. Actually, she qualifies as a pest. She would eat all the grass and the flowers and the trees if I allowed her near the house. Well, and anything else she could find.”
“And the fence stops her?”
“It’s supposed to. I’m thinking of putting up a surveillance camera. Somehow the gate gets opened far too often. Last I checked, she had hooves rather than opposable thumbs, but I wonder…”
The sight of columbines and other wildflowers surprised her. “Are you the gardener?”
“No. That’s thanks to my sister, Melanie. They were my grandmother’s flowerbeds, and my mom continued the tradition. Mel doesn’t visit often, but she plants, I don’t know…stuff. Annuals. Perennials. Bulbs. Seeds. Bushes. Shrubs. As if I’m supposed to know the difference? The goat is hers, and the girls have a horse here, too. The ranch has a few hands who live on-site in the bunkhouse over there.” He pointed toward the distance. “Don’t worry. We’ll have our privacy. And it won’t matter how long or how hard you yell—no one will come running to save you.”
She looked up. He wasn’t smiling, and there’d been no hint of a tease in his tone, which all sent another illicit thrill rocketing through her.
After opening the front door, he ushered her inside.
The home was rustic, with exposed-beam ceilings, hardwood floors, hand-woven rugs, and oversize leather furniture. A stone fireplace dominated the living room, and wood crisscrossed in the grate, waiting to be lit. Dozens of photographs, some in black and white, crowded the mantel.
Just that detail highlighted the differences in their priorities. She had a single picture of her parents. In the small, framed snapshot, she was about a year old and asleep in the pack on her dad’s back. They’d been on a pilgrimage in Spain—if she remembered the story correctly.
Her condominium lacked the homey touches that his home had. Hers was impersonal enough to be a hotel room. Until now, she hadn’t really noticed.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
She followed him into the kitchen, aware of the staccato sound of her shoes on the rustic floors. “Water is fine, thank you,” she said as she placed her purse on the counter.
He poured her a glass from a pitcher stored in the stainless-steel refrigerator.