Page 104 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“I’m not really in the mood for an adventure.”

“Good thing I said fresh air and food, then.”

She stares at me. “You think food is the answer to everything.”

“Almost everything.”

“This is deeply on brand.”

“Thank you.”

I hold out a hand, not because I think she needs help standing, but because it gives her something simple to decide.

After a second, she takes it.

I pull her to her feet and let go right away, because if I remain I’ll think too hard about how right her hand felt in mine, even for half a second.

“You’re taking me into town,” she says slowly. I guess she still can’t decide if I’m a saint or a problem.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

Because if you sit in this tack room any longer, your thoughts are going to eat you alive. Because being still isn’t always restful when you’re scared.

Because the world gets smaller when you’re hurting and I want to widen it back up a little.

Because I like you so much it feels stupid and inevitable and I’d rather have you angry in a diner booth than crying alone between saddles.

I shrug instead. “Because the Old Mill serves pie till closing and I’m not above weaponizing carbohydrates.”

“Fine,” she says with a small smile. “But if I regret this, I’m blaming you.”

“Sweetheart, that was already happening.”

The Old Mill Café at night is so much fun.

The front windows shine gold against the dark street, and the little creek behind the building catches slivers of moonlight between the trees. Inside it smells of coffee, butter, cinnamon, and soup that’s been simmering all day.

Low music hums from somewhere near the kitchen. A couple sits in the far corner sharing a slice of pie and not talking. Tommy’s niece is behind the counter tonight, half-buried in a paperback until we walk in.

She grins when she sees me. “You’re out late.”

“Scandalous, I know.”

Her gaze slides to Annie and immediately softens in that observant way women in small towns have perfected over generations. “Kitchen’s still open for a bit.”

“Bless you,” I say.

Annie murmurs a hello and follows me to a booth by the window.

She’s still fragile around the edges, but not in immediate danger of dissolving, which I’m counting as a win.

I slide into the booth across from her and hand her a menu.

“What are you having?” she asks.

“Depends. Are we in a fries emergency or a grilled cheese emergency?”