Page 32 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“No.”

“Hot chocolate? Broth? That weird herbal liquid Sherry keeps in the back of the pantry and swears is calming?”

Annie finally looks at me properly, gray eyes tired and bright in a way that says she’s running on adrenaline and stubbornness alone. “Do you have iced coffee?”

I stare at her. “In this weather?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “It helps.”

I breathe out a laugh through my nose. “That’s the least sensible answer you could’ve given me.” I point toward the house. “Come on.”

She doesn’t move. “Duke⁠—”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not in a barn. Come inside.”

From the nearest stall, Sergeant lifts his head at the sound and stares with all the solemn disappointment of a retired school principal.

“See?” I say. “We’ve got an audience here.”

Annie glances at the horse, and the corner of her mouth actually does lift this time. Barely. But enough.

That’s all I need.

I snag my Thermos again and start toward the door, slow enough that she can choose to follow instead of feeling herded. After a second, I hear the soft scuff of her boots behind me.

Good.

The walk back to the house is hushed, but not awkward.

There’s a difference. Awkward is when silence bulges and sweats. This silence just feels tired. The kind you don’t need to fix right away.

Still, I can’t help glancing at her every few steps.

Annie Wright has a face made for being underestimated. Too expressive to look guarded at first glance. Too observant not to be.

Storm gray eyes, blue hair, all those piercings that make people assume rebellion before they ever think defense. Most people will look at her and see the effort of her edges before they ever notice how careful she actually is.

Their loss.

I noticed.

The kitchen is empty when we slip in, sunlight pouring across the counters and making the copper pots over the island shine. There’s still heat in the room from breakfast cleanup, rich smells of bacon, fresh bread, and coffee hanging in the air.

I gesture grandly. “Welcome to my kingdom.”

Annie huffs a little breath through her nose. “This is a kitchen, not a kingdom.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never watched grown men nearly cry over my peach cobbler.”

“I feel like that says more about the men than your cobbler.”

“Blasphemy.”

She leans against the edge of the island while I move for the fridge, and I notice the way she keeps one hand wrapped around her camera strap even now.

I pull out the big glass bottle of cold brew I keep hidden behind the milk because Silas thinks my caffeine habits are excessive, and Cody thinks I don’t label things clearly enough, which is rich coming from a man who color-coded spices once and then denied it.

“Glass?” I ask.