Tethered (The Stables Trilogy #2) (4 page)

drive whichever pony girl he was training. They perfected walks, runs, and trots. He made them execute tight, elegant show turns. All while wrapped in tight harnesses, their faces bound in bridles, large bits between their teeth. And the ever-present tail, which swished as they pranced around the stable.

J.B. didn’t just punish. He praised. That was when Maple forced herself to stop listening. It made her sick to her stomach.

Maple knew that Tony had mistreated her. He’d taken advantage of her naivete and beat her down relentlessly until she submitted. She couldn’t deny, though, that there had been an honesty to their relationship, too. There had been truth in the pain. The pain had made her body
sing
.

It had been necessary. It still was. But this J.B., this trainer… he wasn’t using pain. Yet the pony girls were often beaming when he sent them to Maple, their cheeks pink apples. Sometimes, when washing them, she discovered their arousal.

How could that be? How could his contented clucks and soft-spoken praise be so satisfying for them?
Where was the J.B. who’d frightened her? Who’d mauled her in the stable that day, fevered and cruel?

The discontent ate at Maple, keeping her at odds with herself.

And always, always hopelessly enamored of J.B.

Chapter Four

“Boss man asked to see you.” Jones led Mesa into her stall and started slipping off her saddle.  He didn’t say anything else.

Maple knew he didn’t say much at all, so it didn’t bother her.

They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not anything beyond him saying a quick comment or two about the way she’d braided a girl’s hair or if she didn’t clean up enough for his approval. On those few occasions, he didn’t look at her. It was an off-the-cuff comment and then he’d be gone.

This… this was a summons.

“Where is he? What’s he want?”

Jones shrugged. His weathered, tanned-like-leather face betrayed no emotions. If he knew what it was about, he wouldn’t tell her anyway.

Maple took her work gloves off and plopped them on a bench. She was sweaty, despite it being winter. The sun had been out that day, and Justice had a stomach bug or something, because she’d been shoveling a lot of shit. It didn’t bother her, but it had made her dripping hot.

Wiping her palms on her jeans, she set out.

The red dirt stuck to her boots as she made her way to the house. It hadn’t started yet, but Tim said there was a winter storm heading their direction. When she’d made her way to the stable that morning frost was coating the ground and sparse vegetation. It made the ranch beautiful, ethereal. The white crispness of the frost battling with the rich, muddied crimson of the soil. Heaven and hell.

Once inside she took off her boots. The walk to her room was short, but if she was going to see J.B., she didn’t want to tread dirt through the house.

Looking down at herself, she had to wonder about the effort. Her jeans were caked in filth. Her shirt stuck to her, damp and wrinkled. The walk to the house had chilled her substantially, and the skin on her arms was heavily dotted with goose bumps. Evening was fast approaching, the short winter day casting shadows in the house before dinner.

It was eerily quiet as she padded toward his office. Maybe she should have checked the other stable first? It was early for J.B. to be in there. He’d as much as told her that now that he had her help. He only spent nights out there.

She passed through the gallery. The paintings had been one of her first connections to J.B. and to the ranch. A way to find some stability in the new job. It still amazed her that J.B. had painted the larger abstracts.

They were hauntingly beautiful. If he chose to sell, he could easily have shows and some level of fame in the Texan artist community, if not nationally or even internationally. His choice in color was subtle and dark. Graduations of grays and blacks. Slices of navy. Cuts of eggplant and crimson.

They were evocative, the paint layered in thick slashes.

When she looked at them, she felt like she was being cut open, the darts of color mimicking her exposed insides.

When did he have the time? What fueled the paintings?

She hadn’t seen a new one since she’d started her job. If that was the case… why had he stopped?

At the end of the living area and gallery was J.B.’s wing of the house. On the day she’d started, he’d told her not to open any closed doors. This whole hallway was filled with closed doors. Including his office door, which is where she’d expected to see him.

Frowning, Maple tiptoed down the hall to make sure. There was his office door (closed). The bedroom, where she’d recovered from the rattlesnake bite. That door was closed, too, and she was grateful. That room shamed her, reminded her of how base she was. How depraved her needs were.

At the very end was a door that wasn’t closed. It wasn’t open, either. A sliver of light peeped from the crack in the door. Behind it she heard… grunting?

Cheeks burning, she inched herself closer. Fingertips rested on the doorframe for balance. Peering in, she tried to see what J.B. was doing. Afraid of what she might find.

The grunts came again, and she saw a flash of skin.

Maple held her breath.

Gently, she prodded the door open another inch. It allowed her to see a topless J.B. He was standing in front of an enormous canvas. She didn’t notice that at first, though.

Because all Maple could see was his muscular, gorgeous back. The sinewy muscle rippled beneath tanned skin. These were many small muscles, like the back of a rock climber or yoga instructor or a fighter. These couldn’t be built in a gym. They glistened with sweat in the low light of the room, emphasizing his sleekness.

She sucked her breath in between her teeth.

He was painting. The wide brush was in his hand. When he hit the canvas with it, it wasn’t a gentle stroke. It was a ragged sweep. He wielded the brush like a sword. Elegant lines formed both in his body and on the canvas.

While Jones had told her he wished to speak to her, witnessing him paint felt like an intrusion. Deeply personal and not for her eyes. Yet she couldn’t walk away or announce herself. Or, for that matter, contain her curiosity.

Pushing the door a little more, she hovered halfway in its entrance.

The painting was dark, like the others. But his past works were works of pleasure as well as pain. A mix of sorely bitter sewn through with elation. This, though. Coated in inky black, layered so thickly it was only broken up by its texture. This painting was angry. Frustrated. The peeking colors, green and yellow, spoke of fear instead of pleasure.

It was beautiful.

It was gut-wrenching. Visceral.

When he stood back to stare at his work, her knuckles lightly wrapped at the door.

“J.B.? I can leave if this isn’t a good time--”

“Come in, Maple.”

She felt awkward. Her body suddenly felt bumbling and unsure, like a fresh-born foal. This was new territory. A room she’d never seen. Watching J.B. had been like witnessing something private. A secret shared, even.

“Jones said you wanted to see me?”

“Are you tellin’ or askin’, Maple?”

She winced, but there was enough mirth in his tone she knew he was teasing.

Teasing. That was new, too. Like… they were friends?

“I guess I’m tellin’,” she retorted, laying on the drawl she usually reserved for people in her hometown or strangers.

“If you guess at something, that’s not much better than your unsure questions. Be definitive.” Sterner this time. He met her eyes, and his gaze was dark and enigmatic.

“Yes, Jones sent me here. What did you want to talk about?” She forced her shoulders back, straightening up.

At his feet were several large paint pans filled with oils. The air smelled of turpentine. Its piney, sweet tang was familiar, and she realized she’d smelled it before-- on him. At the time she’d been on his bed, her body in turmoil as it fought the venom and antivenom. Her body had itched to the point of insanity, and when he’d caught her scratching, he’d pinned her down.
The smell was nostalgic, and her body reacted immediately with yearning. It was different than his usual leather-and-sweat odor. It was made sexier by knowing what caused it.

“You’ve been working in the stables awhile now.”

Um… “Yeah?”
“You seem to be getting on well.”

She relaxed, but only a little. “Sure! The horses are sweet and easy. And I know you’ll get mad and tell me we can’t talk about Bane, but--”

“I’m not mad, not yet, but we aren’t discussing Bane. And I wasn’t referring to the horse stable.”

Oh. She’d been cold in the house, the air from outside making her sweat-soaked shirt an icicle, but this line of conversation made the whole room seem as if it were burning. “Yes. Well. It’s pretty much the same work.”

The corner of his mouth tugged into the smallest smile. Maple felt the irresistible urge to lick it. “It is, that’s true. But the ponies like you.”
 

There was something being left unsaid. Not knowing what it was made her nervous. J.B., whether sensing this or not, stepped closer. She saw that he was barefoot as well. Just those low-slung jeans that hugged his bulging thighs, worn thin at the knees…

Her heart made itself at home in her throat as he moved directly in front of her.

She should say something.

“Is that a good thing?” Her voice sounded tight in her own ears, and she tried (and failed) to relax.

“It is surprising,” he countered. And took another step closer. Maple needed to tilt her head back now to look at him. The negative space between them was finite and terribly obvious. Tangible. “I didn’t expect you to come to it so… naturally.”

Her eyebrow quirked and her palms were soaked. “I thought you knew what kind of person I am. You should’ve know I’d fit in well.”

“No,” J.B.’s hand brushed her cheek as it tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re talking about being one of the girls. I’m talking about handling them. You are startlingly good at it. So much so that I’m taking you with me in a couple of weeks to the Bazaar. You’ll help me as I sell the ponies.”

This was unexpected. Her eyes widened as she considered what he was saying. “Who do you usually bring?”

“No one, Maple. I’ve done this by myself the past few times.”

“Who helped you before--”

He cut her off. “Maple, I’m giving you a goddamn compliment. I didn’t think you’d adapt so well. I expected you to quit by now.”

This shocked her and she took a half-step back. “What? Why would you think that?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’d hoped it. I’d hoped that by now you’d be safe at home in Silt Springs, helping daddy with the steer, or off to college, or anywhere but here.”

Ice was forming in her veins, tiny crystals of hurt growing on top of one another. “Why would you hope that?”

His face gentled, lines easing slightly. “Because it would be easier.”
Wetness threatened her eyes, but she stayed stoic and shed no tears. “Well it isn’t easy. It’s fucking hard as hell, J.B.”

His body tensed for a moment like he wanted to step closer. In the end, though, he shrugged. “Yep.”

As soon as he moved back toward the painting she felt his absence acutely. It left her reeling, wanting to follow and fall at his feet. Not ready for the moment to end, because the air felt full of change, she took a small, hesitant step toward his work in progress. “What’s it titled?”

“I don’t name my work.”

“Hm.” She expected that. None of his hung work had titles. Her arms folded as she looked at it from the closer viewpoint. The jagged slashes of black seemed even more confrontational. The greens and yellows were perverted by the inky paints they struggled under. She shivered.

“What do you think of it?” He was guarded as he asked.

The last time she’d analyzed his work, she hadn’t known it was his. Trying to interpret her boss’s work? Especially as she felt wrought out with sexual frustration and wounded by his mixed signals? This felt dangerous.

“I think…”

“It’s okay, Maple.”

She paused longer, though, holding a finger out. Her mind raced, trying to not just take apart the art, but also the conversation so far. It was searching for clues, arguing, screaming because she didn’t know what was happening.

“I’ll tell you if you’ll answer one question.”

“I don’t make deals, Maple.”

She pushed anyway. “The other paintings are sensual. They are about finding beauty in the shadows. Reveling in it. This, though,” she gestured to the painting, the oil still wet and malleable, “is about reluctance. Running from demons.”