Next came his holstered sidearm, the grip smoothed by years of use. He unbuckled it and laid both gun and gleaming badge atop the white porcelain of the washing machine. The badge caught sunlight and winked at him. He then kicked off his mud-caked boots. Clumps of dark earth fell to the floor with tiny thuds. It was rare for him to work on weekends, but he’d been called in to help another agent gather up cattle. Rawley didn’t mind. Anytime he could get in the saddle was a good day for him.
Emptying his pockets, he scattered coins, crumpled receipts over the top of the dryer, then peeled off his dust-encrusted T-shirt and jeans, followed by his boxer briefs. The cotton fabric, stiff from sweat and grit, came away in one motion. He reached onto a narrow shelf and lifted two bone-shaped biscuits from their tin, crisp, savory, flecked with parsley, and let the scent drift through the room. He looked over his shoulder to see the dogs sitting patiently, waiting. He tossed them each a biscuit. They caught them, then ran to the living room to eat them.
With wallet in one hand and phone in the other, Rawley ambled toward the open staircase in the kitchen. Each step creaked under his weight as he climbed to the landing, where he paused and looked out the window, then he walked up the rest of the stairs and strode along the hallway, the walls lined with sepia-toned photographs of cattle drives, his grandfather’s stern profile among them, and pushed open the door to his bedroom.
He sank onto the edge of the neatly made bed, sliding a hand over the quilted coverlet that smelled faintly of sun-warmed cotton. When his grandfather bequeathed him this land, with its miles of rolling pastures and grazing Black Angus with slick ebony hides, Rawley hadn’t known how he’d manage the ranch alone. His grandfather’s health had waned over the years, the old man’s voice growing fainter as time passed. Rawley had spent countless weekends rising before dawn, pitching hay, doctoring calves, and coaxing life back into brittle fences. Under his care, the grass grew green and thick again, the cattle thrived, and the ranch hummed with the steady lowing of contented beasts.
His grandfather left the property to Rawley, because he knew he was the only one with the grit and devotion to tending these fields and raising good beef. He balanced the duties of livestock agent, long days on dusty backroads, negotiating disputes and doing his best to find stolen livestock, with pre-dawn herd checks and fence repairs. It hadn’t been easy, but over the years he’d made it work.
Along with the property, he received a hefty inheritance from his grandfather that had funded the farmhouse’s restoration. The old clapboard house, built in the late eighteen hundreds and battered by storms and blazing summer sun, now gleamed fresh as new. Rawley and a handful of friends had stripped rotted beams, plastered walls, laid Mahogany planks for floors, and replaced every window. It took two years of sweat and laughter, and when they finished, the farmhouse stood proud under thesame wide-open skies. At the time, the house had six bedrooms and two bathrooms, along with two staircases. One in the kitchen, the other in the front foyer. It now had four bedrooms and three and a half baths.
Rawley gutted the smaller bedroom next to the primary bedroom and made it into a large bathroom with a standup shower, large jacuzzi tub, and a double-sided fireplace between his bedroom and the bath. He also made another bathroom from a small bedroom that had sat between two bedrooms. Another bathroom was in the hallway, and a half bath had been added under the front stairwell.
He rose, entered the bathroom, walked to the shower stall, pulled the glass door open, and turned on the water. Steam billowed around him as he walked to the sink and set his shaving cream and razor on the cool porcelain, then stepped into the stall. The overhead head sprayer unleashed a steady sheet of warmth against his shoulders. With a long, contented groan, Rawley closed his eyes and let the water wash away the dust and fatigue of another day on the job.
After washing his hair and body, he shut the water off, opened the door, and grabbed a thick, blue towel. He rubbed it over his hair, down his body, then wrapped it around his waist and walked to the sink to shave.
He swiped his hand across the steam-covered mirror, picked up the shaving cream, applied it to his lower jaw and neck, then shaved his scruff away. He had worked this morning with Killian on a case, but it hadn’t taken very long. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, but it was all because of the blonde from last night. Damn, he was still disappointed that he didn’t get to talk with her. He’d probably never see her again.
After he finished shaving, he splashed on aftershave. Removing the towel, he hung it over the shower door, picked up his phone, then walked naked into his bedroom.
He placed the phone on the nightstand, opened a dresser drawer, removed sweatpants, socks, and a T-shirt, then dressed. He picked his phone up, then headed downstairs to get some food in him. He shook his head when he saw the dogs stretched out in the middle of the floor.
“This is your house; I’m just living in it.” He chuckled when Hobbs raised his head, looked at him, sighed and put his head back on the floor.
Rawley slathered mayo on wheat bread, layered on turkey and Swiss cheese, then grabbed a frosty beer from the fridge. His phone weighed down his pocket as he headed for the living room, the worn hardwood creaking beneath his feet.
The recliner exhaled as he sank into its familiar embrace. He set his sandwich and beer on the mahogany end table.
After eating his dinner, he bounded up the carpeted stairs two at a time. He brushed his teeth, then dressed in his blue T-shirt, clean boxer briefs, faded jeans, and socks, then tugged on his distressed cowboy boots.
His dogs were out, so he whistled them inside. The pet door thumped shut behind them. As he opened the door, he grabbed his white straw Stetson and placed it on his head. He walked to the garage, stepped inside and climbed into his truck, the leather seat cool against his back. The garage door rumbled upward, and his engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk.
The dashboard clock glowed eight-thirty. Dewey’s was a thirty-minute drive, and the blonde might not even show. But the memory of her pulled him forward. If those blue eyes were there tonight, he wanted to do more than stare. He had to talk to her.
Chapter Three
The wall clock’s second hand clicked past nine as Skylar sat on a stool at the bar. She smiled at the bartender as she wiped the surface. Low lamplight cast a warm glow over the polished bottles lined behind the bar. A murmur of conversations and the distant clink of ice in glasses drifted through the air. She’d been here since seven-thirty, nursing her second whiskey sour so slowly it barely registered; she didn’t want to dull her senses, only to kill the hours until he arrived. But he hadn’t shown, and maybe he wasn’t going to. He could have had a date. Well, that sure stuck in her craw.
Skylar sighed and lifted the glass, watching the golden liquid slosh within. The scent of cologne mingled with the sharp tang of lemon in her glass. She raised a hand for another drink, her pulse already pounding with impatience, when a low male voice said beside her, “Hello.”
Her heart lurched, this was it, right? She spun around with a hopeful smile, but the face that met hers belonged to a cowboy in a dusty Stetson, his cologne clinging so strong, she wondered if he’d taken a bath in it.
“Hello,” she managed, voice neutral and looked behind him to see four other men standing behind him, with grins on their faces, egging him on.
“Mind if I buy you a drink?” his tone was polite but insistent.
She tightened her lips and shook her head. “No, thank you. I just ordered one.” She allowed the barest upward tilt to her lips.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe later, then. Name’s Axel.” He extended his hand.
Skylar bit back a sigh and accepted his handshake, a firm, calloused grip that made her shoulder ache. “Skylar McCoy.”
“Skylar, that’s a lovely name for a lovely woman.” He smiled.
Unimpressed, she murmured, “Thank you,” and stared down at her drink.
“Are you a tourist, or do you live around here?” he asked, leaning closer.
