Two
DAKOTA
The first thing I learn about Wild Vista Ranch?
No one exaggerates about Levi Winchester.
“Grumpy doesn’t even cover it,” Carson, the riding instructor, tells me over breakfast, sliding a plate of eggs across the long wooden table. “Man barely speaks unless he has to.” He’s classic cowboy. Square-cut jaw, intense eyes, clean shaven and dressed to impress.
“That’s not true,” Wes, the ranch foreman, chimes in. “He yells.”
I smile into my coffee. Can’t quite believe that. At least, not at Wes. The foreman’s a tower of muscle, taut and rippling. Just waiting for a cow—or human—to get out of line.
“He saved my life yesterday,” I say.
They both look at me, jaws dropping.
“Then you must be the new girl who walked into the barn like she had a death wish,” Carson says with a knowing smile.
“Accident,” I correct.
“Mm-hmm.”
I ignore that and glance out the window instead.
The ranch stretches wide and golden under the morning sun—rolling land, split-rail fences, horses and cattle moving slowand easy in the distance. It’s quieter than the city. Cleaner, somehow.
Like there’s space to breathe despite the dust and flies. Like maybe, for once, I won’t feel as if I’m chasing something I can’t quite reach.
“You’re working with Levi?” a new man chimes in. He offers a hand when I look up. “Garrett. I’m the blacksmith.” His forearms, which are the size of my thighs, attest as much.
“That’s the plan.”
All three exchange a look.
“Good luck with that,” Wes grumbles.
I take a sip of coffee, unfazed. “I don’t need luck.” I just need a chance.
I findhim exactly where I expected. The barn.
It smells like hay and leather and something warm and alive. Dust hangs in the light filtering through the slats. The kind of place that feels real the second you step into it.
Levi stands in the center aisle, back to me, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with quiet purpose as he checks a saddle.
He doesn’t turn when I walk in. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps working like I don’t exist.
I lean against the stall door and wait. It takes a full minute before he finally speaks. “You always sneak up on people like that?”
“I walked in through the front.”
“You didn’t make a sound.”
“Maybe you were distracted.”
He glances over his shoulder. That look again. Sharp. Assessing. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with me.
“I’m busy,” he says.
