Page 4 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

I pour Diesel’s grain into his trough and hang the bucket on its hook. “Found her in the meadow. She hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Looked two steps from falling over.”

“So you offered her a job.”

“Yeah.”

“Eli.” The way Sloane says my name carries the weight of four years of friendship, of knowing exactly which ghosts I’m still carrying. “You can’t save everyone.”

The words land hard. I force my shoulders down and unclench my jaw. “I’m not trying to save her. I’m offering her a place to land.”

Sloane studies me for a long moment, then nods. “She’s in the lodge. Louanne’s feeding her. You should probably go make sure she actually eats instead of pushing food around her plate.”

The main lodge glows warm against the darkening sky, windows spilling yellow light across the porch. I take the steps two at a time and pull open the screen door. The hinges creak, although Cash keeps meaning to oil them. The sound announces my arrival before I’ve crossed the threshold.

Inside, the great room opens up: stone fireplace, leather furniture, the long harvest table where we take family-style meals. Jessie sits at the far end, a plate in front of her piled with Louanne’s cooking. She’s showered. Her hair is damp, darkening the shoulders of her shirt. The neckline is wide and keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone and a scatter of freckles I didn’t see in the meadow. Yoga pants cling to the swell of her hips, and the combination of clean skin and soft fabric sends blood rushing south so fast my vision tunnels.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Her gaze lifts when I enter, fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widen fractionally. The pulse point in her throat jumps. I track the movement, cataloging her response, fear or awareness or both. Want and claiming coil low in my gut.

I cross the room and drop into the chair across from her without asking permission. “You’re eating.”

“I—yes.” She glances down at her plate as though she’d forgotten it exists. The fork in her hand trembles slightly.

“Have you had water?”

Her spine straightens. “Some.”

“That’s not an answer.” I nod at the water glass. “Drink.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink anyway.”

For a second, I consider pushing it. Her jaw sets, her shoulders tense, and I can see the nurse in her, the woman used to being in charge, used to giving orders instead of taking them. Then her expression crumbles. She takes a sip, then spears a piece of baked chicken and brings it to her mouth.

I lean back in the chair and let her chew. Swallow. Reach for her water glass again with a hand that’s steadier now than it was in the meadow. The T-shirt slips farther off her shoulder, and I force my eyes back to her face before I do anything stupid.

“Sloane says you’re from Ohio.”

“Columbus.” She takes another bite mechanically, her body going through motions it’s forgotten how to feel. “I worked at Mercy General for fifteen years.”

“That’s a long time in one place.”

“It was.” Past tense. Whatever she left behind, she’s not planning to go back. “What about you? How long have you been at Granitehart Ranch?”

“Four years. Came west from the Shenandoah Mountains in Virginia after I left the fire squad.”

Her fork pauses. “You were a firefighter.”

“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the house fire or the family or the mother’s question I still can’t answer. I don’t need to spill my ghosts on the table between us when she’s already carrying enough of her own.

She nods slowly, and understanding moves across her face. She knows what it means to leave a job that takes pieces of you. Knows what it costs.

“Why Texas?” she asks.

“Cash and Sloane needed help getting the ranch operational. I needed—” A reason to get up in the morning. A place where my hands could build instead of fail. “A change.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Through the windows, lightning flickers across the horizon. The storm I’ve been tracking all afternoon is finally rolling in. Sloane appears from her office, phone in hand, her expression tight.