Page 35 of Paper Horses

I took her shoulders and turned her to face me. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Olivia. I know you’re not. I think you’re spoiled. That you stopped doing anything that you consider work, anything that makes you average like the rest of us. Anything that makes you…vulnerable.”

She tilted her head. “Cutting tags off clothes is vulnerability?” The tug of her lip matched her teasing tone.

“Give me those,” I said, pulling the scissors from her hand.

“But I’m not done being vulnerable.” She meant it as a joke, but it came out flat and too heavy. Her lashes fluttered as she dropped her eyes.

Lifting her chin, I forced her to look at me, losing myself in the myriad of hues in her irises. “You never have to hide your vulnerable moments from me, Olivia. Ever.”

She swallowed, her eyes growing large before she swiveled away from me. “Just let me have the scissors,” she said, her voice shaky.

With a sigh, I handed them back to her.

“I don’t know anyone who wears this stuff.” She held up the shirt I had picked out for her. “And this…this will look terrible on me. Where am I supposed to wear this?”

“To the festival,” I blurted out before thinking. “You’d look good in it.”

Shit, what was I doing? She wouldn't be here that long. Even if the storm washed the roads out, the river would recede in a few days. The storm was supposed to bring an unseasonably warm spell, and the road would dry up quickly. She’d be gone by mid-week, and I’d be back to my grumpy, lonely life. But would I ever be the same now that I’d seen her again? I wasn’t inclined to think so.

She remained quiet, continuing to clip and mumbling about having bought too many things. Moving right past my comment because we both knew it was out of place. A slip of the tongue. A reminder of a time when our conversations flowed easily and comfortably.

“Now what?” she asked, piling the tags in her hand.

I walked over and grabbed the trash where she tossed them before handing me the scissors.

“You throw the clothes in the washer, and we go back to discussing the ranch.”

Replacing the trash can, I moved past her toward the kitchen. I grabbed my beer and heard her say, “Hudson?”

A glance back at her had me dropping the beer on the counter and rushing to her. The sheer terror in her eyes sent my protective instincts rising. It wasn’t unusual for a bear to come wandering onto the porch or for a snake to slide through an open door.

But none of those things were near her, and I halted my frenzied haste and slowed up, seeing her with the clothes hugged to her chest, confusion written in her expression as she chewed her lip.

“Please don’t tell me you don’t know how to do a load of wash.” I rubbed my temple, wondering how I was going to survive the next few days.

“I don’t wash my clothes, and most of what I have is dry-clean only. Everything I have goes into a basket that the maid service takes to have cleaned.”

I gaped at her. “Even your underwear?”

“Well, of course.”

“But you did your wash at school.” And then I remembered having to show her how to use the washer and dryer. Teasing her about how spoiled she was.

“But that was so long ago, and this,” she gestured to the machine, “is so different.”

Technology had changed, and she was right. This wasn’t the twist and push a button kind of machine they had at the university. This was all digital. I took a calming breath and returned to her side.

“Here,” I said, lifting the lid. “Put them in. Usually, you separate whites from darks, but these are all dark.”

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a thirty-seven-year-old woman.

She tossed the clothes in, and I pulled a detergent pod from the container and handed it to her. Turning it in front of her, she poked it several times and mumbled, “It’s so squishy.”

My eyes jumped to hers, seeing a spark of playfulness in them. My Olivia. Not the spoiled rich woman who pouted about wearing jeans, but the one who saw beauty in the world and marveled at the small things. Things that were normal for me but had always seemed brand new to her. Like a detergent pod.

I shook my head and opened the drawer, gesturing for her to place it in. She leaned over, studying it, and I could see her mind working it out as she dropped it in.

“Now close it up and shut the lid.” She followed my directions, her hand wavering over the display. I took it, my hand wrapping over hers, and a rush of familiarity battered me. Leading her through the last steps, I stepped back to watch as she rested her hands and stared into the washer.