He lowered himself onto the oak bench beside the door, muscles protesting after twelve hours of training, and toed off his scuffed cowboy boots and socks. The cool tile felt good underfoot as he crossed to the laundry room, peeling the sweat-stained shirt from his back.
The pet door flapped. Ollie came skidding across the kitchen floor and planted himself at Cole’s feet, tail going.
“Hey, buddy.” Cole scratched behind his ears. “How was your day?”
After shucking his dirt-crusted Wranglers and boxer briefs, he walked barefoot across the hardwood, the floor creaking in all the familiar places, Ollie padding behind him. In the bathroom he cranked the shower knob and, while waiting for warmth, laid out his grandfather’s straight razor, the ivory handle worn smooth from decades of use, along with the shaving cream and aftershave.
He hadn’t left the farm in a week. His three-day stubble had thickened into a coarse beard that would take serious effort to tame. Dark hair, silver creeping into his temples and sideburns, thick and stubborn. A Harrison family trait.
When steam began to billow, he slid open the glass door and stepped in, a deep groan escaping as the scalding water hit his shoulders. That chestnut mare with the white blaze had nearly yanked his arms from their sockets this morning, testing every ounce of his patience, responding to his commands with the reluctance of a teenager asked to do chores.
“Just like a female,” he muttered, his voice echoing off the tile. “Beautiful, smart, and determined to do exactly what she wants.” He worked shampoo into his hair, rinsed, then lathered up with soap.
Reluctantly leaving the steamy sanctuary, he wrapped a blue towel around his waist and swiped a hand across the fogged mirror. Tired eyes stared back at him. The face of a man who’d passed forty-three without much ceremony.
After a sting of aftershave, he shuffled to the bedroom and pulled on Montana State sweatpants and a cotton shirt worn thin at the collar. His stomach growled like an angry wolf as he headed to the kitchen, each step heavy with the bone-deep exhaustion that only honest work could bring.
He yanked open the fridge and stared into it. Nothing appealing. With a sigh, he grabbed the lunchmeat, made a sandwich, and carried it to the living room, sinking into his recliner with a groan. The news droned on while he ate.
He hoped tomorrow went better with the mare. She was catching on, but when she didn’t want to do something, she simply didn’t, and he was half convinced she had mule blood in her. Stubborn as hell.
His thoughts drifted to Aftyn. It had been a week since he’d seen her, and he didn’t know if she was still working at the diner. He’d find out tomorrow. Hehad a client meeting there for breakfast.
****
Aftyn exhaled as the bell above the door chimed again, its bright tinkle cutting through the clatter of dishes and the steady hum of the coffee station. The breakfast rush never let up, and she’d scarcely had a chance to rest her feet. Still, she couldn’t deny the warmth that bloomed in her chest whenever a familiar face stepped inside. She’d learned most of the locals’ names by now, and each nodded a greeting that felt like a small window into their morning lives.
Her pulse quickened whenever cowboys strolled in. Broad shoulders in denim, dust-streaked boots, and hats. So many of them hovered on the verge of breathtaking. She glanced discreetly at their ring fingers and cursed her racing heart whenever she spotted a wedding band. Lucky bitches, she thought with a rueful smile.
She wiped her hands on her apron and peered through the passthrough at the row of hats lining the counter. Straw, leather, felt, each sitting low on a forehead. She bit her lip to keep from sighing.
“You doing all right, hon?” Connie’s cheerful voice preceded her through the swinging kitchen doors; a tray of coffee mugs balanced in her hands.
Aftyn tilted her head toward the counter. “If you love cowboys, you’ve come to the right place.”
Connie chuckled, setting the tray down. “No truer words. They’re a magnet for this town. Plenty of women come through during tourist season and end up planting roots with one of them.”
“I can see why.” Aftyn sighed dramatically. “Every single one at that counter is droolworthy.” Shecaught Connie and Owen exchanging an amused glance.
Owen handed her a plate piled high with scrambled eggs glistening with butter, crispy hashbrowns, golden toast, and sausage links. “Here you go, Aftyn.”
“Thanks, Owen.” She studied the ticket. “Does this say Trick?”
“Trick Dillon,” Connie said, leaning closer. “Beside Preston. White straw hat, red T-shirt.”
Aftyn nodded and carried the plate along the counter. “Trick?”
He looked up, and she nearly stopped breathing. Strong jaw dark with stubble, eyes so deeply brown they were almost black, holding a quiet intensity.
“Yes, ma’am?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, and he offered a slow, rueful smile.
“Your breakfast.” She set down the plate and lifted the carafe, refilling his mug. Steam curled up, rich with roast and cream.
“Thank you.” He touched the brim of his hat with a polite nod, and Aftyn felt the world tilt a fraction.
“I’m Aftyn.”
“Trick Dillon.” He removed his hat briefly, revealing black hair that gleamed blue under the lights. “Nice to meet you.”
