The alarm on her nightstand was going off, and she reached over to snooze it. Chores started early, and she was excited to go wake up the girls. Chris and the bunk boys took care of most of them, but they left the small chores for the girls. Silo Springs Ranch was a fair size. There were mainly horses, and cattle for grazing and slaughtering. There was a cow they used for milk, and that would be a fun chore, but the chicken coop and gathering the eggs had always been her favorite.
She went to her suitcase to pick an outfit and sighed with relief as she reached in and grabbed what she needed. There was not one stupid dress in the entire bag. The little country girl she'd always been grinned at herself in the mirror as she tied her hair in two braids that hung behind her ears. She slid on a pair of Levi’s and a white tank top, then placed her favorite trucker hat on her head—giving it a little wiggle for good measure. Tying her jacket around her waist and tucking her pants into the high top boots she’d brought, not bothering to tie the laces, she marched down the hall to grab her two little friends. As she opened the door to Addie and Evie’s bedroom, she saw them sleeping soundly. She didn’t have the heart to do it.
Tomorrow.
She told herself the girls had gotten up early every day for months to meet the bus on time—it was summer. What was one more day of sleeping in? She could gather the eggs on her own. She remembered how.
Blythe tiptoed down the stairs and walked out onto the wrap-around porch she loved so much. Hopping down the steps, she headed off toward the chicken coop. When she got to the wired door, she made sure to unlatch it carefully and shimmied her way in, so she didn’t let any of the hens out in the process. She clicked the latch one more time to close the door and spun her jacket around her hips, turning it into an apron of sorts, and started reaching for eggs.
“Excuse me, ladies. How many eggs do you have for me this mor?—”
“Now who might you be?” came a voice from the lowest register she’d ever heard.
The moment the first word hit her ears, she screamed—flinging the three eggs she’d already gathered in her jacket straight up into the sky. Her instincts whipped her around, tripping over the shoe lace she neglected to tie, and falling flat on her ass.
Damn shoe lace!
Like a bolt of lightning, the stranger was inside the coop, reaching down and picking her up and out of the dirt.
“Shit, I’m sorry! I should make more noise. My grandma always told me that stealth was my weapon of choice.” He chuckled, trying to make the situation a little less awkward than it was.
Blythe tipped her face up to look at him. Damn, he was tall—much taller than any man she’d been around in a while. She guessed about six feet three inches. Max was short in comparison. Five foot eleven barely came to this man’s nose. His arms were like solid rocks as she rested her weight on them. He had large, broad shoulders, and she could only imagine what type of muscle was under that black T-shirt he was wearing. His face was shaded by his ball cap, but she could see there was a handsome layer of stubble lining his jaw. She could tell he wasolder than she was, much older. His thirties maybe? She didn’t know a man in his early twenties with a build like this guy. There was also a maturity in his posture and his voice that didn’t belong to a younger man.
“Justin Forge, nice to meet you, uh…”
“Blythe, Blythe Harri…I mean Harper!”
Phew, that was a close one. She’d been calling herselfHarrisonto get used to it since her engagement to Max. She wanted nothing to do with his name now, didn’t want his name touching her or Silo Springs within a thousand miles.
“Nice to meet you, Blythe. Is your bum alright? You landed pretty hard.”
How embarrassing. Not only did she fall in front of a stranger, she fell in front of a drop dead gorgeous one. Her thoughts were scrambled.
Poker face. Poker face. Poker face.
“I’m fine, Mr. uh—Forge, did you say?” She tried to rip her eyes from him and pointed toward the mess she’d made. “But maybe next time you could stomp the ground a little or whistle while you’re walking by so I don’t waste three good eggs in the dirt.” She reached behind her to dust off her back side, her jacket apron still hanging around her waist and over her thighs.
“Of course, I’ll remember that.” He grinned with a wink. “I was just on my way to put a new set of shoes on a couple of horses in the barn. Would you…like to come with me?”
A bold offer coming from a complete stranger. Blythe stared at him, trying to see what color his eyes were under that hat. He wore it low, and she wondered why.
You've watched way too many FBI shows, girlfriend.
“I don’t know, Justin, that hat is riding suspiciously low. I can’t see your eyes. What if you’re really not the horse shoeing guy, and instead plan to take me into that barn and pull some freaky Criminal Minds stuff?”
The laugh that came from his chest as he threw his head back echoed in her ears. “Miss Harper, if I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have said a word. I would’ve kept my stealth and stolen you out of this chicken coop without bruising your poor little behind.”
“Fair enough, but I need to finish gathering the eggs.”
The girls were probably already scrounging around the kitchen for the breakfast she was supposed to be making by now. She turned, exaggerating her annoyance, and shuffled back to the nesting boxes.
Gosh, why couldn’t he have been one of the old man ranch hands, or one of the more homely looking cowboys?
Justin stared at the fine ass bent over in front of him. Damnit, he should probably look away. But before he could, he noticed it wasn’t completely dusted off. His eyes started to twinkle, and the corner of his mouth lifted with mischief. He didn’t know this woman from Adam, and she was already accusing him of being a perv for inviting her into the barn with him—or a serial killer. Maybe both? What had he been thinking? But the urge to do what he was about to was irresistible. He quietly advanced toward the woman he knew by now would probably bite his head off, but impulse wouldn’t allow him to stop—consequences be damned.
He gripped the brim of his hat, swiped it from his head, then reached out and fanned it back and forth—dusting off the pockets of her painted on jeans. A scream, a jump, and a hard slap to the cheek was what met him next.
“What in the actual hell do you think you’re doing?” She was stunned like a deer in the headlights. “My uncle is going to hear about this, and I swear he’ll fire you!” She moved to push past him, but he grabbed her arm.
