IZZY
Monday dawns like every other day since I’ve been on the ranch—clear sky, bright sun, a promise of heat. It’s still early. That strange place where the sun is rising but a crescent moon and a scattering of stars are still clinging to the sky. But the crispness of the early-morning air is doing nothing to cool my mood. I glance toward the back door, expecting to see Dylan striding out with two cups of coffee in hand.
Where the hell is he? I check the time on my phone before I shove it into the pocket of my jeans and focus on attaching the horse trailer to Dylan’s truck, tightening the bolts until my hands ache. I told him last night we had to leave early for the rodeo auction if we want to get Willow and Logan’s foal registered in time for a good slot on the docket. The paperwork is time-stamped. Late arrivals get put to the bottom of the list.
Irritation circles my thoughts. Sure, he’s been great with Madison—really great—and he’s been showing up more on the ranch, taking control more. But he’s still unreliable. Still no closer to making an actual decision. About the horses. About the ranch. About anything. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s a no-show.
The days are slipping away so fast. Broken only by Madison’s weekend visits and the laughter and fun she brings. Football onthe field. Swimming in the lake. I had to bite my tongue every time she jumped with joy. Because now there’s only three weeks left and only two more weekends with Mad here. Then camp will be over and Mad will be back at school and I’m still no closer to finding more ranch work or a solution that isn’t moving to my parents’.
I’ve been trying to focus on the good with Dylan. On the way he’s started interacting with the horses—showing himself to be steady and intuitive. I don’t need to watch over him anymore. But I find myself watching for a whole other reason. The way his broad shoulders fill out those faded tees. The way he brushes down the geldings, strong and sure in a way that has me thinking about those hands on me. I lie awake every night, thinking of that one kiss—that moment of madness. The way it felt like something I haven’t let myself want in a long time, leaving me aching for more.For him. For that damn kiss and what it promised.
But then I watch him climb into his truck every afternoon and drive away. I know exactly where he’s going. I overheard him tell Mad. He’s watching the team practice. Can’t stay away. It’s a reminder that he’s kidding himself if he thinks the ranch is anything more than a distraction. And the truth is, anytime I soften toward him, I’m kidding myself too. Dylan Sullivan is still the pro athlete with the big ego who doesn’t give a damn about anything but himself.
I’d be a fool to forget that. A fool to think I have a place here even if he does keep the ranch.
I test the bolts on the horse trailer a final time before stepping back. The sun is climbing steadily, the temperature with it. Already I long to swap my black plaid shirt for one of my cooler tank tops, but it’s taken years of hard work to earn respect in this industry. To be known as a good ranch hand—one who’s skilled and reliable. I’m not about to undo that by wearingsomething revealing. It’s not unheard of for women to work on ranches, but it’s not exactly the norm either. Besides, word will have spread that Bill sold his horse stock to a pro athlete. My reputation and that of the horses is more important than ever.
A reputation that will mean shit if Dylan doesn’t actually join me for this auction. If he was even remotely serious about running this place, he would’ve joined me an hour ago when I checked the horses and fixed their feed. And now it’s already six thirty, and if we don’t leave for The Rocky Plains Foal and Yearling Sale soon, we won’t make it in time to put the foal into auction at all, let alone get a good place on the docket.
I stride across the drive and open the back door to the kitchen, half expecting to find him by the counter fixing coffee, but it’s Mama I find. She’s at the kitchen table with a laptop and an appointment book open beside it. I wonder if she ever sleeps.
She lifts her head and smiles a greeting. Despite her standing offer to help myself to coffee and anything I need, it’s never felt right to stroll in. I’ve only been using the washing machine on the weekends, because Madison insists.
“Morning, Izzy,” Mama says. “Finally taken up my offer of coffee, I hope.”
“Thanks, Mama. I was actually looking for Dylan. We’re supposed to be heading out to an auction.”
Her smile is replaced with worry, like she knows as well as I do that Dylan is lost between two worlds and the only one who can save him is himself. “You’d better go on up. Third door on the left.”
I slip off my boots and pad through the house. It feels awkward, like I’m intruding on Dylan’s space, but if he’d bothered to get up this morning, I wouldn’t have to be doing this. I step into the hall, passing a cozy-looking living room filled with mismatched furniture. There’s a pair of armchairs near a large fireplace, and a coffee table scattered with magazines and books.The dining room beyond is simpler: a sturdy oak table and high-backed chairs. Binders of paperwork are stacked in one corner. A room that looks like it’s used more as an office than a place to eat. Everything about this house feels lived-in and homey—the kind of ranch house I’ve always dreamed of owning one day. As if I’ll ever be able to afford it.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my eyes dragging to the wall of family photos. I see Dylan as a boy around Madison’s age, his gap-toothed grin half-hidden beneath a cowboy hat so oversized it practically swallows his head. The photo is almost enough to soften my irritation.
“Dylan?” I call his name as I take the stairs.
No reply.
I head straight for the third door on the left and give three confident knocks. “Dylan,” I call again.
There’s a muffled grunt that sounds like the audio version of his scowl. There’s nothing else for it. I push the door open. The first thing that hits me is the scent of rich leather, cedar, and something deeper, more distinctly male. It’s a scent I remember from the night at the bar, Dylan’s hands running over my body, my back against the wall. Heat creeps up my neck before pooling low in my belly, and it’s a fight to shove the memory aside.
The curtains are drawn. In the gloom there’s just enough light to see Dylan sprawled across the bed, lying on his back with the covers twisted low around a muscled torso that draws my attention like a magnet.
Shit. Does he have to be so damn hot?
“Dylan,” I say again, louder this time.
He groans, one hand reaching blindly to the nightstand where his phone is sitting.
“Dylan,” I snap. “If you don’t get up, we’re going to miss the auction.”
Finally, he opens his eyes, hair mussed from sleep. “What time is it?” he asks, voice like gravel.
“Time to move.” Despite the traitorous way my eyes linger on his body, annoyance pulses through my veins. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I yank the covers away from him—only realizing a second too late that he might be naked.
He isn’t.
But any relief is short-lived because my eyes go straight to the obvious: morning wood. Bold. Impressive. And straining against the fabric of his underwear.Begging to be?—
