Austin extended his hand to help her up. âSorry. Didnât mean to startle you.â
âTotally my fault.â Instead of taking his hand, she shoved herself to her feet.
He couldnât help how his gaze shifted to her wet T-shirt, which was plastered to her breasts.
Ella lifted her hands, palms out. âDidnât want to get you muddy.â She nodded toward the spigot. âSorry I used so much water, but I felt like a turkey roasting at Thanksgiving.â
âDonât give yourself heatstroke.â
She waved away his concern. âNothing a shower, a load of laundry and the biggest Coke I can find wonât cure.â
Donât think of her in the shower. Donât think of her in the shower.
âIâll be back in the morning, and Iâll bring you that ladder,â she said.
âOkay.â Did his voice sound as dry as his throat felt?
Thankfully, Ella slid into her truck and quickly shut the door, hiding the way her wet shorts were cupping her hips. As she drove away, he let out a slow breath, turned on the spigot and stuck his own head under the cool flow of water.
TRISH MILBURN writes contemporary romance for the Mills & Boon Cherish line and paranormal romance for the Mills & Boon Nocturne series. Sheâs a two-time Golden Heart>® Award winner, a fan of walks in the woods and road trips, and a big geek girl, including being a dedicated Whovian and Browncoat. And from her earliest memories, sheâs been a fan of Westerns, be they historical or contemporary. Thereâs nothing quite like a cowboy hero.
Chapter One
He couldnât do it. As Austin Bryant stared at the front of the older house where heâd grown up, his breathing grew tight. It was as if what lay beyond the front door was already suffocating him as it had threatened to do during his childhood.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of an engine. The early May sun baked him like it could only in Texas, albeit not with the urban type of heat that came from that same sun beating down on metal and concrete. Even though sweat trickled from his neck toward the middle of his back, his feet refused to move.
He took a deliberate deep breath. It didnât matter how long he stood in the front yard of his grandparentsâ house, the monumental task he faced wasnât going to magically disappear. With his grandfatherâs passing, the time that heâd dreaded for years had comeâcleaning out the house so he could sell it.
Austin inhaled another breath that felt as if it might scorch his lungs before he headed toward the front steps. He paused with the key in his hand, wondering if he could just walk away, sell the place as it was, let someone else deal with the cleaning and repairs. But that didnât feel right. Despite everything, this had been his home when he was young. His earliest memories and dreams were formed here. No matter how hard it was, this was his task and his alone.
He shook his head, telling himself to just get on with things. The sooner he started, the sooner he could put it all behind him and stop thinking about what might have been.
The doorknob squeaked as he turned it, already making itself an item on his to-do list. He stepped across the threshold and into his past, the one heâd fled when heâd gone away to college. All around him, piled to the ceiling, was...stuff. Old magazines sat side by side with clothing that hadnât been worn in decades. Shelves of ceramic dust-catchersâcats, cowboy boots, ladies in frilly dresses, bells and God only knew what elseâcompeted for space with chairs draped in more quilts and afghans than anyone in Texas should own.
He forced himself to take a few more steps into the house, but the farther he went the more he felt as if the piles of belongings were going to topple over and bury him alive. Heâd had that particular nightmare for years, still did on occasion, and his lungs constricted just thinking about it. He spun in a slow circle, so overwhelmed he had no idea where to start. The task of getting rid of years of his grandparentsâ hoarding felt like he was facing scooping away Mount Everest with a teaspoon.
His grandparents had never been able to satisfactorily explain why they found it impossible to throw away any of their possessions. Not even when theyâd passed the point of being able to know what items resided at the bottom of the piles. The one saving grace was that they hadnât been the type of hoarders who kept true garbage that attracted rodents or had dozens of cats. Still, it felt as if it was going to take the rest of his life to sort out what theyâd left behind. Everything around him seemed to close in on him.