MARY
He’s a storm rolling through my sunshine life.
That broody rancher is twice my age and three times as stubborn.
But I’m here to save his ranch, not catch feelings for my best friend’s dad.
Except the line between business and pleasure gets blurry every time he looks at me.
Everett Riggs keeps his grief locked up tighter than the barn at midnight.
He grunts. He glares. He smells like leather and rain.
I pitch marketing, he pitches resistance, but sparks keep flying across the dusty office.
Then his daughter—my old college roommate—waltzes back and the air goes thick as honey.
She hates that I’m here and hates the way I look at her dad even more.
Three hearts. One ranch fighting to survive.
If I let this forbidden fire burn, everything could go up in smoke.
But a summer storm is coming, and I think I’m ready to dance in the rain.
MARY
“I’m sending over all the paperwork and communication I’ve got,” my boss says.
His voice crackles through my car speakers, and the further I drive, the more his words are lost to static. The scenery flies by as I take the exit, leaving the packed lanes of the highway behind for twisting small town roads. The cityscape has long since melted into the distance, towering buildings and well-groomed pavement making way for thickets of trees and winding rivers. I’ve already been driving for almost three hours, and my GPS tells me I still have another half-hour to go.
“Great, thank you,” I say, forcing my voice to stay peppy. “And you’ve let the client know that I’m on my way? My service isn’t great out here, and I couldn’t get a call through to them.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice heavily distorted. “You’ve got a meeting with?—”
His response drops off in the middle of the sentence almost as soon as I turn onto the first of what I fear is going to be many dirt roads.The paint on my car isn’t going to like this.
“Mr. Jameson?” I ask, glancing down at the display.
The little screen says the call is still ongoing, but there’s nothing other than silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I try again. “Mr. Jameson? I can’t hear you, sir.”
In response, a loud beep from my speakers signals that the call has disconnected.
Great.
Not only do I get assigned the one project that absolutely no one in the office wants to take on, but I have no cell service, either. There are fields of wild grasses on either side of the road, and pretty much nothing else. The little single-story houses I pass every two miles or so would probably be advertised as having a rustic charm, but they just look like money pits awaiting endless repairs to me.
I may not be all that enamored with these sights myself, but it is funny to think that they are less than a half-day’s drive outside of city limits.
I follow the directions that my GPS spouts at me with the dubious hope that it’ll lead me back toward some semblance of civilization. It stubbornly leads me away from the paved roads of the town and further into undeveloped country. Every driveway that I pass now is at least a mile long, and most of the houses are either in total disrepair or attached to bustling farms of some sort. The scent of heat and agriculture seeps in, even through the firmly shut windows of the car, and I wrinkle my nose up at it.
Hopefully, the person I’m meeting will want to conduct business somewhere indoors.
My GPS announces my arrival just as I catch sight of a set of huge wooden gates, a wrought iron archway proudly proclaiming the name of the property on a swinging sign: Black Spruce Ranch, letters cut out of the metal, their edges starting to rust. The chains the sign hangs from look worn enough that I cringe slightly as I drive beneath it, half-convinced it’ll fall right on top of my rental.
Jesus Christ… I don’t know if my skills are good enough to help this place.
