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After Hattie steps into the legs of the coveralls, she tugs the top up and slides her arms into the sleeves. Then she brings her manicured hands to the zipper, but with her shiny pink fingernails she can’t get the tab pulled up. “I think it’s stuck.”

Still kneeling, I gently push her hands away, then slide the zipper up to her neck effortlessly. I stand quickly, giving the zipper a hard tug just to be annoying. This causes Hattie to lose her balance, and she falls against my chest with an oof.

My hands reflexively fall to her waist to steady her. I don’t withdraw my hands as quickly as I should, and even with the thick coveralls, her body beneath my hands has my blood heating. I look down into her green eyes, and her mouth pops open in surprise.

We stand there like that for a beat too long before I grit my teeth and force myself to step back.

This is nothing more than a primal reaction to an attractive woman. There’s nothing particularly special about this one—besides that she smells extra nice. She’ll head back to her palace in California after her visit here, and I’ll never think about her again.

A pretty blush appears on her freckled cheeks. She sniffs, then dusts off the front of her coveralls like she needs something to do with her hands.

I could think of several things she could do with her hands. Lincoln, you pig, stop with the filthy thoughts.

I can still feel the sensation of my hands around her waist, the feel of her is stamped into my brain. Her sweet perfume wafts around me. I want to close my eyes and inhale, try to memorize it.

No. What I need to do is shake her off. I busy myself by grabbing my sister’s boots and dropping them in front of Hattie’s feet.

“You know how to put boots on, right?”

“Hm, I’m not sure,” she muses, planting one hand on her hip. Er, I’m assuming it’s her hip, hard to tell under all that fabric. “Do you know how to not be a dick?”

Not wanting to laugh, I bite the insides of my cheeks. That was a decent comeback. And I deserved it.

Hattie pushes her feet into the boots and pulls the bottoms of the coveralls over the tops of them. Then she turns, opens the front door and leaves without another word.

I follow, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous she looks. Poppy is taller than most girls, so the coveralls bunch up on Hattie’s legs, and the sleeves completely cover her hands.

The woman clomps across the ranch toward the small barn that holds the broodmares, and I follow closely behind with a smirk on my face.

When we make it inside the barn, we find Hank and Otto in Anita’s stall where Hank is holding two hay rakes and a pair of work gloves. Bandit and Bronco rush over to greet us, tails wagging. Hattie reaches down to give them each a pet as Hank watches, smiling at his daughter when he sees her in all her Carhartt glory.

“My, my. You look like a real rancher now!” He throws her the gloves. “Now put these on.”

She catches the gloves even though her hands are covered by the canvas fabric of her coveralls. “Uh, thanks. It’s pretty comfortable,” she admits. “And much warmer than my other clothes.”

Hank chuckles. “We’re going to give the girls fresh hay. This was my favorite job when I was a kid.” He hands her a rake and walks over toward the large, fresh bale of straw that Wayne brought over from our farm. We grow milo and wheat, then harvest it into bales then store it in the barn and sell it to surrounding ranchers—by we, I mean Wayne.

Hank leads by example, showing Hattie how to poke the rake in and grab the straw, then layer it on the ground in Anita’s stall.

The pregnant mare, already excited about the new hay, clomps over and sniffs at it. Hattie pats her rump with a grin. “You’re working hard, Miss Anita. You deserve a comfortable place to rest.”

Anita turns and leans into Hattie like they’re old friends. All the horses seem to take to Hattie. I haven’t seen her with Rocky yet, and he’s the surliest horse on the ranch. I won’t count her as a horse whisperer just yet, not until I see her with the stallion.

Hank and his daughter—wow, that’s still weird to say—continue filling the pen with hay until the round hay bale is about half gone.

Otto grins at Hattie. “You wanna drive the tractor, hon?”

Hattie’s face lights up. “Hell yes, I do!”

Otto laughs and tosses her the keys to the small John Deere tractor with a bale attachment. They already secured the bale onto the two rods that extend from the attachment, so all she has to do is drive the bale to the pen next door for Barbara.

The three of us walk alongside the tractor, following her as she drives. I study the back of her head as she sits on the tractor seat, and I must admit that I’m surprised by the woman. She’s in dusty coveralls, and there’s hay sticking out of her normally pristine ponytail, but she hasn’t complained.

She slowly backs the tractor up, careful not to hit the fence that surrounds Anita’s side of the barn, then drives the bale toward Barbara’s enclosure. Hattie parks the tractor and turns it off.

Hank beams. “She’s a natural.”

“Isn’t she though?” Otto agrees.