I glance down at myself, at the towel that’s barely clinging to my hips. “Right. Clothes.”
I turn and retreat to my cabin, my heart pounding. I can feel her eyes on my back, and I have to resist the urge to turn around, to see if she’s watching. To see if she’s affected by me the way I’m affected by her.
Inside, I rifle through my drawers, pulling on a pair of worn jeans and a plain T-shirt. My hands are shaking slightly, and Icurse under my breath. This is not how I expected my day to go. This is not how I expected to meet the new owner of the ranch.
When I emerge, she’s standing exactly where I left her, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s still angry, still wary, but there’s something else there too. Curiosity, maybe. Or confusion.
“The coffee’s brewing,” I say, gesturing toward my cabin. “It’ll only take a minute.”
She follows me inside, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. I can feel her presence behind me, a warmth that has nothing to do with the Wyoming sun. Her scent fills the small space, vanilla and honey and almond, and I have to physically stop myself from turning around and burying my face in her hair.
My cabin is simple, rustic. A couch, a table, a small kitchenette. It’s not much, but it’s mine.
She stands awkwardly near the door, clearly uncomfortable in this unfamiliar environment. I pour two mugs of coffee, adding sugar and cream to one without asking. I don’t know how I know she takes it that way, I just do.
“Here,” I say, handing her the mug. “It might help with the residual burning.”
She takes it, her fingers brushing against mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I see her flinch slightly. She felt it too.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer now. She takes a sip, her eyes closing briefly. “Why are you here? On my grandfather’s ranch?”
“I told you,” I say, leaning against the counter. “He rented me this cabin. I’m a bull rider. I needed a place to train between events.”
“A bull rider? Like in the APBRA?”
“That’s the one.” I nod. “Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate, then decide there’s no harm in telling her. “There’s trouble with the association. Jack Dalton, one of the heads, has gone missing. No one knows if the season is even going to happen this year.”
“Missing? As in, disappeared? Or just unreachable?”
“Both, I think.” I shrug. “No one’s saying much, but it doesn’t sound good.”
She nods, her mind clearly working, processing the information. I watch her, fascinated by the way her expressions change, by the intelligence in her eyes. She’s not just beautiful, she’s smart. A combination that’s dangerously appealing.
“And the other cabins?” she asks, bringing me back to the present. “Who lives there?”
“Boone, in the one next to mine,” I say, watching her reaction carefully. “And Rhett, in the third. He’s the ranch manager.”
“Boone,” she says again, and this time there’s no mistaking the pain in her voice. “I can’t believe he’s still here.”
“He’s been taking care of the place since your grandfather died.”
She looks away, her jaw tight. “I see.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken questions and history I don’t understand. I want to ask what happened between them, why she left, why she came back.
But it’s not my place.
Rhett
The truck kicks up a cloud of dust as I turn onto the main ranch road. The sun is high, beating down on the cab, the air conditioning doing little to fight the Wyoming heat. The cattle are tagged, vaccinated, and moved to the south pasture.
It’s a good day’s work, the kind of physical labor that clears my head better than anything else. I left the pack life behind for a reason, and days like this remind me why. No drama, no politics, just the land and the animals and the satisfaction of a job well done.
As I approach the cluster of cabins, I see Boone leaning against the porch railing of his place, arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching something down by Knox’s cabin.
