Chapter one
Big City Exit, Small Town Trouble
Avery
The armadillo was just the beginning.
One stiff, sun-bloated warning sign that this ranch, and the man standing beyond it, were going to be a whole lot more trouble than I planned for.
I hit the brakes a little too late, my SUV fishtailing in a puff of gravel as the Texas heat distorted the air above the cracked dirt driveway. The thing was already long gone, stiff and sad in the middle of the lane like a roadkill welcome mat. But the real problem? He was standing just beyond it, arms crossed, wearing that same god-awful scowl I remembered from gym class.
Cash Bennett.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.
“Mommy, what’s that smell?” Emmy pipes up from the backseat, nose wrinkled.
“That, baby girl, is the scent of cow crap, disappointment, and masculinity in denial,” Harperanswers before I can. She’s in the passenger seat, sipping her iced coffee like we haven’t just stepped through a time warp.
Painted Sky Ranch. My dad named it after the sunsets we used to chase, fiery streaks of pink and orange smeared across the sky like watercolor dreams. It used to mean dusty summers and long rides with him, chasing daylight through the hills, our laughter echoing off canyon walls. Now the name sits on my tongue like a dare I didn’t mean to take. Like a memory that’s been waiting in the heat, aching to be touched.
The driveway stretches ahead of us like a scar through the weeds, lined with dry mesquite trees and patches of wild sunflowers struggling to thrive in the baking heat. Fence posts lean at odd angles, held together by rusted wire and the occasional patch job of baling twine. A pair of buzzards sit atop the entrance arch, eyeing us like they know drama is about to unfold.
The house appears through the heat shimmer, an old two-story farmhouse with peeling paint that once might’ve been cream, now a faded shade of regret. The porch is half-collapsed on one side, its support posts sagging like tired shoulders. A wind chime made from old spoons and washers tinkles faintly in the breeze,eerily cheerful against the backdrop of abandonment. Weeds vining around the porch posts like they own the place and not letting go.
I cut the engine. No one speaks.
This place used to feel bigger. Alive. Now it looks like it's holding its breath, waiting to see if I’m going to run again.
I suck in a breath as the gates to the barn yard come into view. I hadn't been back here since I was seventeen, since the day I swore I was done with this place for good. My hands grip the wheel tighter, knuckles pale against the leather. There’s a memory right at the edge of my mind, riding shotgun, me and Dad riding the fence line, my laughter tangled with the wind as he taught me how to steer with my knees.
I shake it off. Nostalgia is a liar.
It looks even smaller than I remember. Drier. Sadder. The house leans slightly to one side, like it's exhausted from trying to stay upright all these years. The wooden fence circling the yard is warped, the paint sun-bleached to a color somewhere between "weathered dreams" and "abandon hope." The porch shingles sagging like they've been holding their breath since the day I left.
And then there's Cash.
Same faded Stetson. Same rigid jawline. Same intimidating build in a T-shirt that probably started the day white and is now a work-stained roadmap of hard labor and attitude. His eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, track every move I make.
Harper whistles low. “Damn. Black Stetson, broad shoulders, and those dark brown eyes? He looks like the cover of a cowboy calendar, July, to be exact. That man could hurt feelings without even opening his mouth. Like, emotionally damage someone with a smirk.”
She leans closer to the window. “And that walk? Swagger for days. If you weren’t already enemies, I’d be throwing you at him like a lasso in heat.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks heat. “Don’t encourage the enemy.”
“Too late,” she mutters. “I’m already mentally writing fan fiction.”
He hasn’t moved an inch since we pulled up.
I open the car door, swinging my feet out onto the dirt, and immediately regret not changing into boots. My designer flats are about to get an intimate relationship with cow pie. Emmy’s already bouncing to get out ofher car seat, her tiny hands slapping at the window in excitement.
“Stay here with Harper for a second, Em. Mommy needs to handle something,” I say, shooting Harper a look that saysplease keep her alive and also maybe protect me from a cowboy brawl.
I shut the door, adjust my sunglasses, and march across the yard like the city girl I absolutely am. Cash doesn’t speak until I’m ten feet away.
“You’re late.”
My laugh is sharp. “And you’re still an ass. Looks like some things haven’t changed.”
