Bigger smile. “I wish that were the worst of it. I literally have to keep Clarence away from children because he definitely has no filter. And yeah, sometimes bites.”
“And Clarence lives on your ranch?”
She shifted the tote bag back up her shoulder and took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, but it’s a pretty nontraditional ranch. Pawsitive Connections is an animal rescue and training facility outside of town. It’s—well, it’s a lot of things. Service animals, therapy animals, rehabilitation. We work with veterans, kids, trauma survivors. We also have an alpaca named Al Pacacino, so, you know. Prestigious operation.”
Something in my chest loosened half a degree. I didn’t mean for it to. Everything about her pulled me in, not with charm exactly but with the sheer momentum of her. “Al Pacacino and Clarence-the-sailor parrot? I would say so.”
“Are you new in town?” she asked.
“Passing through.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Well, passing through Garnet Bend takes about forty-five seconds, so you’re already behind schedule.”
I looked at her. She was bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, this low-level restless energy that seemed to come from somewhere she couldn’t turn off. Her hands hadn’t stopped moving since I’d handed her the flyers. Adjusting the tote strap, shifting the coffee cup, tucking a loose strand of hair that immediately fell back out.
The paper was still curling at the corner, the pushpin barely holding. I reached over and pressed it flat against the board, pushing the pin in the rest of the way with my thumb.
“Thank you,” she said. “Again. You’re very helpful for someone who’s passing through.”
“Seems like you needed the help.”
“I always need the help. I just never admit it. Ask anyone.” She said it lightly, but something moved behind her eyes when she said it, a flicker that was there and gone before I could name it. Then the smile was back, full wattage, and she stuck out her hand. “Lark Monroe.”
I took it. Her grip was firmer than I expected, and her hand was warm.
“Logan Stroud.”
Chapter 3
Lark Monroe
His hand was warm and his grip was careful. Not gentle—careful. Like he knew exactly how much force he was using and had made a deliberate choice about it.
“Logan Stroud,” he said.
I held on for the standard amount of time, maybe a beat past it, because my brain was already doing its thing. Cataloging. Sorting. Filing away everything the handshake told me and everything it didn’t.
He was tall. Well over six feet, broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that had nothing to do with a gym membership. He held himself with a particular kind of stillness that most people didn’t have, every muscle aware of where it was in space, ready to move in any direction without warning. Calm. Solid. A man who didn’t rattle easily—or at least didn’t let anyone see it when he did.
I recognized it because between Warrior Security and Resting Warrior Ranch, damned near every adult male in this town gave off the exact same vibe.
But Logan was different.
He was exhausted. Not one bad night or even a bad week. This was the kind that settled into the bones, the hollows under the eyes, the set of the jaw. The kind that no amount of Lena’s coffee here at Deja Brew was going to fix.
His eyes were alert—scanning the room, tracking the door, clocking the counter and the window and probably every exit—but they had a distance to them. Part of him was paying attention to something regular people didn’t think to look for.
I’d seen that particular combination of hyperawareness and bone-deep fatigue more times than I could count in the veterans that came through Pawsitive for therapy sessions and service dog placements.
I let go of his hand. “So, Logan. You always rescue women from office-supply disasters, or is this a special occasion?”
“Depends. Is there usually an audience, or do I just have good timing?”
I laughed. He had a dry delivery that caught me off guard, flat and understated and so deadpan I almost missed it. “No audience. Lena behind the counter has seen worse from me, trust me. Last month, I knocked over an entire display of local honey jars. There was a sticky situation.” I waited a beat. “That was a pun. I need you to acknowledge that was a pun.”
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I’m choosing not to.”
“Fair enough. So, are you in the market for a ranch hand job, or are you just being polite to the woman who nearly took out a coffee shop with office supplies?”
