I hum in response just in time to see a barn come into view. A wide, rust-colored structure with weathered sliding doors and a low overhang that casts long shadows across the field next to it. The wood almost blends in with the setting sun. Copper and honey intertwining with the sky in a way that it’s nearly hardto tell where the boards end and the horizon begins. Like it was made for this place.
Finally, we roll to a stop in the gravel drive between the barn and the house. Beau cuts the engine and leans back in his seat. “Not what you expected, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I admit quietly.
Instead of responding, he hops out of the Jeep and quickly rounds the hood before opening my door and holding out his hand in my direction. I eye it suspiciously, and he chuckles. Not taking offense to my scrutinizing stare. “Better get used to it, Darlin’. Pretty ladies don’t open their own doors. Not ‘round here.”
“You call everyone that, or am I just special?” Admittedly, I hope it’s the latter, because something about it makes something flutter inside my chest.
“Nah. I save the nicknames for people I really like.”
I can’t help it. A sarcastic laugh tumbles from between my lips. “Really like me? You hardly know me.”
His thumb gently strokes the back of my hand that he’s still holding. “Call it a gut feeling then.”
Without another word, he lets go, opens the back door, and grabs my backpack and duffle. When I move to take it from him, he closes his eyes, pinches his lips, and slowly shakes his head. “Let me guess, better get used to that too.”
“See, you’re catchin’ on already.” He nods in the direction of the house. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone, then we’ll get ya all settled for the night.”
Suddenly, a ball of nerves settles in my gut at the prospect of meeting them. Because for some reason,nowis the first time it’s dawning on me that I’m about to be staying in a house with four men I don’t know. And after everything that’s happened, the thought of being in such close quarters is… unnerving to say the least. Beau has been such a warm person, but they all can’tpossibly be like him, right? There’s no way they’re all as easy-breezy about the prospect of some woman on the run that they don’t even know interfering with their lives.
When the porch light flickers on and the heavy wooden door swings open, the cheap cookies I ate on the flight threaten to make a reappearance. The air around me shifts—thickens somehow—as a man, broad enough to fill the doorway, steps out onto the porch.
Unlike Beau, he wears a black felt cowboy hat that shadows his face, though his dark curls manage to escape from beneath it. The first thing I notice when I catch a clear look at him is how the evening sun glints along the faint scar running the length of his jaw. It’s subtle but impossible to miss, even beneath the rough stubble covering his skin. From here, his eyes look nearly black as they narrow on me from under the brim of his hat, studying me as intently as I am him.
When he reaches the top of the steps, his presence hits me. Commanding, steady, and somehow both nerve-racking and oddly grounding. I can’t look away as he folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. His button-up, the color of dust and a long day’s work, pulls tight across his shoulders, and the rolled sleeves reveal an intricate tattoo winding along one corded forearm.
My gaze trails lower, following the powerful line of his legs filling out a pair of worn dark blue jeans, down to his weathered square-toe boots. Everything about him radiates authority. The kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be understood. And with that intensity, he almost undoes the calm Beau worked so hard to create on the drive here.
“That’s Lawson,” Beau murmurs beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. “He owns the ranch and runs, well, pretty much everything around here. Don’t worry, he’s all bark and no bite. I promise.”
Instead of waiting for us to come to him, Lawson steps down from the porch, meeting us at the bottom of the stairs.
Once we reach him, he removes his hat with one hand, drops his chin, and says, “Ma’am,” before placing his hat back on.
Beau really wasn’t kidding about those manners, was he?
“Hi,” I reply meekly.
“Lawson Taylor, I trust Beau’s been on his best behavior on the way here.”
Lawson. The name sounds sure and steady when spoken in my head. It fits him.
I spare a glance up at Beau, and he winks at me yet again. I smile softly and look back at Lawson. “Very best.”
“When am I not?” Beau asks with a mischievous grin.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Lawson deadpans.
“I’m Abigail, by the way. Abigail Adams.” I say the new name with as much confidence as I can muster as I reach out to shake his hand.
Lawson looks me up and down one more time before wrapping his hand around mine, squeezing so gently it’s as if he’s afraid he’ll break me. “Yes. Yes, you are.”
His rough hand feels hot beneath my touch. But it’s the kind of warmth that could feel addictive if I let it. The kind of warmth I’d want to wrap myself up in and never let go. He must feel it too, because all too soon he clears his throat and lets go. “Well, welcome to Willow Creek Ranch, Abigail.”
Chapter four
Lawson
