“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is rougher than I intended.
“I—I was just reading,” she stammers, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “I must have dozed off.”
She stands up quickly, a little too quickly, and the book she was using as a pillow tumbles to the hay-strewn floor. We both crouch down at the same time to get it, our foreheads bumping with a soft, solid thud.
“Ow,” she mutters, rubbing her head.
“Sorry,” I grunt, my eyes landing on the book. It’s face up. I don’t catch the title, but I see the cover perfectly well. A muscular, kilted Highlander with a wild look in his eyes, hisarms wrapped around a woman whose flowing white hair is doing a poor job of covering her very naked, very ample assets.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Interesting reading choices, lawyer.”
Her head snaps up, and the blush on her cheeks deepens, spreading to the tips of her ears. I like it. I like it way too much. She snatches the book off the floor and clutches it to her chest like a shield.
“I’m heading inside,” she says, her voice prim and clipped, the momentary vulnerability gone, replaced by that icy demeanor.
“Okay,” I say, watching her. She turns to leave, but hesitates at the edge of the circle of light. Her back is to me, her shoulders stiff.
“Boone?” Her voice is quiet now, almost hesitant. “What happened to Blossom? My horse?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. I’ve been dreading this since the moment she drove back into town. It feels like the final, cruel nail in the coffin of the life she left behind. I straighten up, my own posture stiffening.
I take a slow breath, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “She got old. Her joints just… gave out last winter. It was time. She wasn’t in any pain.”
I made sure of that. I stayed with her until the very end.
I watch her shoulders hitch, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. She doesn’t turn around. She just stands there for a long moment, absorbing the news. When she finally speaks, her voice is a little shaky.
“Goodnight, Boone.”
And then she walks away, a small, solitary figure disappearing into the vast, dark night, leaving me alone in the barn with the ghosts of her past and the goddamn inconvenient ache in my chest.
Midnight watches me, his dark eyes tracking my movement as I back away from the stall. I give him a final pat on the neck, his coat warm and velvet-like under my palm. The barn feels different now. Hollow. The echoes of her presence have faded, leaving behind only the scent of hay, manure, and the ghost of her perfume hanging in the rafters.
I force myself to move through the rest of the nightly routine. It’s a script I know by heart, one that usually brings a sense of order to my day. I check the water troughs in the rear paddock, the automatic filler humming softly in the darkness. The level is high. Good.
I move to the tack room, scanning the shelves. Everything is in its place. The bridles are hung on their hooks, the saddles on their racks, the leather treated and gleaming dully in the moonlight that spills through the high window. I grab the heavy ring of keys from my belt loop and step out into the night.
The air is crisp, carrying the bite of the coming winter. It nips at my exposed skin, but I welcome the shock of it. It clears my head, or it tries to. I walk the perimeter of the corral, checking the latches on the gates. The metal is cold against my fingers, the bolts stiff. I rattle each one, ensuring they’re secure. The last thing I need is a spooked horse wandering onto the highway in the middle of the night.
Satisfied, I head to the main barn doors. They’re heavy, wood reinforced with iron bands. I slide the bolt home, the metal grinding against metal, a harsh sound in the silence. I pull the chain through the hasp and padlock it. The snap of the lock is final. The ranch is secure.
I turn and walk toward the cluster of cabins in the distance. Rhett’s place is dark, his curtains drawn. Knox’s cabin is silent, though I can see the faint glow of a cigarette ember on his porch. He’s probably brooding about the meeting, about Dalton, aboutthe mess his career is in. I don’t call out to him. I don’t have the energy.
My cabin is the farthest out, tucked into the tree line. It’s not much, but it’s mine. I climb the three wooden steps, the boards creaking under my weight. I unlock the door and push it open, stepping into the familiar darkness.
The air inside is still, smelling of pine woodsmoke and the faint, lingering scent of leather from my chaps. I don’t bother flipping the light switch. I know this space better than I know myself. It’s a single room, open and cluttered in a way that makes sense to me. To the left is the small kitchenette—a counter, a sink piled with a few dishes I haven’t gotten to, a mini-fridge that hums in the corner. The table is buried under a stack of mail, unpaid bills, and the latest issue ofBull Rider Weekly.
Straight ahead is the living area. A worn, brown leather sofa sits opposite a wood-burning stove. The stone floor is covered in a faded Navajo rug, the colors muted with age. Logs are stacked in a metal basket next to the stove, ready for the morning chill. On the walls, I’ve hung a few old photographs—Anthony and Henry standing by a truck, a younger me on my first bronc, Blue as a puppy. They’re the only decoration I have.
I walk past the sofa to the bed shoved into the far corner. It’s a simple metal frame with a mattress that’s seen better years. The quilt is a patchwork of browns and greens, thick and heavy. I sit on the edge, the springs groaning under my weight. I’m exhausted. It feels like the fatigue has seeped into my bones, weighing me down.
My boots hit the floor with heavy thuds as I tug them off, followed quickly by my socks, which I toss toward the corner hamper. The leather of my belt slides through the loops with a soft hiss before dropping to the floor. Shoving my jeans down and kicking them aside, I finally pull the T-shirt over my head.The sudden brush of cool air leaves gooseflesh prickling across my arms.
Clad only in my boxers, I collapse onto the bed. The mattress is firm, the pillow cool. I stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows play across the rough-hewn logs. The silence of the cabin presses in on me, but it’s not peaceful. It’s loud with thoughts I can’t silence.
I see her face in the barn. The shock in her eyes when she woke up. The vulnerability. The way she looked at me when I told her about Blossom. And then, the image that won’t leave me alone—the purple leggings. The bralette. The curve of her shoulder. The curve of her lips. The twinkle of her eyes.
I close my eyes, but it only makes the images clearer. I hate this. I hate that she has this effect on me. She is the enemy. She is the woman who left without a word, who came back only to sell the place I call home. I should be thinking about ways to get her to leave. I should be calculating how to save the ranch.
