"Well, I'd like to know who I'm changing a tire for."
"You're just loosening the lug nuts." She stands and brushes the dust off her jeans with sharp, irritated swipes. "I can handle the rest."
I crack the last one free and glance up at her, squinting against the sun. She's standing over me with her arms crossed and her chin lifted, backlit by the afternoon glare so that the loose strands of hair around her face glow like filament. "Fair enough. But I'd still like to know your name."
I position the jack under the frame and start lifting the truck while she considers whether I've earned an answer. The silence stretches long enough that I figure the answer is no.
"Why?" she asks.
"Just being neighborly." I work the flat tire off the hub and reach for the spare she'd already pulled from the truck bed. "I'm Charlie Hayden. My ranch is about five miles up the road."
Something shifts behind her eyes. Recognition, maybe, or the particular brand of irritation that comes from realizing the stranger you've been trying to get rid of isn't actually a stranger at all. "I know who you are."
That catches me mid-motion, the spare tire hovering an inch from the hub. "You do?"
"Everyone does." She tilts her head, and the afternoon light lands across her face, sharpening those blue eyes into something I can feel in my sternum. "You taking over the Morrison’s old place is all anyone's been talking about in town. The hotshot horse breeder from Kentucky, coming to put this valley on the map."
I let out a short laugh and slide the spare into place, threading the first lug nut on by hand before reaching for the iron. "I wouldn't say hotshot."
"That's what they're saying."
"And what are you saying?"
She doesn't answer. I can feel her watching me as I work through the remaining lug nuts, tightening each one in a star pattern the way my grandfather taught me, making sure the wheel seats flush against the hub. The silence between us has a weight to it that makes the back of my neck warm even though the sun is doing that job just fine on its own.
I lower the jack, give the tire one final check, and straighten up, holding out the tire iron. "There you go. Good as new." I let a beat pass. "Now, it seems only fair that you tell me your name, since I just changed your tire and all."
The corner of her mouth twitches, fighting something that wants to be a smile. "I only needed help loosening the lug nuts. I didn't ask you to change the whole tire."
"No, ma'am, you did not." I hold the tire iron between us, waiting for her to take it. "But I did it anyway. So how about that name?"
She reaches for the iron, and her fingers brush mine as she takes it. The contact lasts maybe half a second, barely enough to register, but it sends a current up my arm that settles somewhere behind my ribs and stays there.
"Thank you for your help," she says, sidestepping my question with the precision of a cutting horse. She tosses the tire iron into the truck bed, pulls open the door, and swings herself into the driver's seat in one fluid motion before cranking down the window.
I cross the distance before I can think better of it and rest my forearms on the door frame, leaning in just enough to hold her gaze. "Come on now. Just a name."
She looks up at me, and something softens in those blue eyes. The hard edge smooths into something warmer, something that might be amusement or a challenge, and I realize with a jolt that I'd happily stand on this shoulder all afternoon trying to figure out which one.
"I'm sure we'll see each other around Stone Creek, Mr. Hayden."
She starts the engine, and I step back as she checks her mirror and pulls onto the highway without a backward glance. I stand there in the settling dust, watching her taillights disappear around the bend, and I'm grinning like an idiot who just got turned down and enjoyed every second of it.
I shake my head and walk back to my rig. The horses whinny their impatience as I climb into the cab, all of them reminding me they've been cooped up since dawn and don't appreciate the detour.
"I know, I know," I tell them, firing up the engine. "But that was worth the stop."
I pull back onto the highway with five miles left to go and a mystery woman's blue eyes burned into my memory. Life in Hill Country is already shaping up to be a lot more interesting than I expected.
Chapter 2
Turning off the road, I pass beneath the tall wrought-iron archway, its elegant scrollwork spells out Twin Oaks Ranch. The metal catches the fading sunlight and throws long shadows across the caliche drive. The truck rumbles over the cattle guard beneath the arch, the horse trailer bouncing lightly behind, stirring up dust that billows in waves in our wake.
The long driveway stretches ahead, lined by white three-rail fencing that divides the land into neat parcels. To my right, the green pasture, dotted with trees, ponds, and small rises, lies empty and waiting. On my left, a massive outdoor training arena dominates the landscape, its sandy surface perfectly groomed and surrounded by professional-grade pipe railing that gleams in the fading light. Beyond that, I can make out the covered training facility and the smaller exercise pen, both positioned to take advantage of the shade from a cluster of mature live oaks.
The main barn rises ahead, twenty thousand square feet of purpose-built space with a red metal roof gleaming in the fading light and cream-colored walls freshly painted to perfection. Wide doors stand open at both ends, like an invitation to drive straight through.
To the left sits a second, smaller building that houses the equipment and maintenance shop. Its towering bay doors are large enough to accommodate tractors and horse trailers with room to spare. A covered wash rack connects the two structures, complete with hot and cold water and drainage that meets every specification Gran insisted upon.
