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GRACE

A delayed flight, six hours of driving, three gas station bathrooms, two cups of liquid tar masquerading as coffee, one questionable sandwich, and approximately nine million square miles of nothing that hums with a silent warning.

I’ve officially reached the middle of nowhere. Or the end. Who the hell knows?

The GPS gave up twenty minutes ago, and my cell signal died an hour before that. Now I’m crawling down a dusty road that looks like it leads to the end of the earth or maybe into the heart of a true crime documentary.

The rental SUV rattles like it’s got whooping cough, and my heels have passed out in the passenger footwell, abandoned in favor of my ‘emergency pumps.’ They’re still too city for this place. Everything here is too big, too wide, too dusty, and too damned quiet .

Then, the Cooper Hill Ranch comes into view.

It’s a sprawling two-story farmhouse, with the paint faded to soft white, hunter-green shutters, and an expansive wraparound porch that belongs in a country song or a whiskey ad.

The roof is tin, the fence is wire and wood, and the whole thing looks like it’s been through hell and heartbreak and come out stronger.

There’s a tire swing in the front yard, a half-filled clothesline of man-sized shirts and tiny, brightly colored clothes, and a porch swing swaying eerily even though there’s no wind.

And boots.

So many boots.

At least eleven pairs lined up like a battalion across the porch. Jumbled. Well-worn. Scuffed by work, not for fashion.

It’s the most lived-in-looking home I’ve ever seen.

I step out of the car, and the wind kicks up a puff of dust that sticks to my calves and gets into my hair and scarlet lipstick. The air smells like hay, dry earth, sunbaked wood, and something vaguely smoky, like a fire pit or a wood-burning stove.

Then I hear it.

Laughter.

Low, masculine, and warm .

And kids.

Little voices that screech and whine at max volume.

The front door creaks open, and one by one, the occupants of this remote home emerge.

Some are wearing flannel. A few are in T-shirts marked with sweat and dirt.

One has a bandana hanging from his pocket, and another grips a wooden spoon as if it were an extension of his arm.

Three are shirtless, their crumpled upper garments tucked into their belts or discarded somewhere along the way.

They look like trouble. Sun-kissed, slow-smiling, muscle-built, hat-wearing trouble, lining up on the porch like some kind of sexy cowboy calendar: eleven men, enough for January to November, all height and denim, broad chests, ropey forearms, thick thighs and God help me, confident smirks with appraising gazes and jaws that belong on paperback covers .

And then, in perfect synchronization, they say, “Afternoon, ma’am.”

I blink.

Okay, this has to be a cult. A well-organized, attractive, possibly shirtless cult.

Before I can move, the door burst open again, and five kids explode into the yard and dash at me like I’m made of candy, rainbows, and iPad chargers.

They’re a blur of bare feet, tangled hair, and sticky fingers, existing somewhere between feral and absolutely adorable.

One has marker on his face and no shirt.

There’s a girl in sparkly cowboy boots dragging a dirt-smudged doll behind her.

The smallest one, who’s maybe three, wraps herself around my leg like a koala and doesn’t let go.

A taller, freckled boy with serious eyebrows squints up at me, but I’m distracted by the chicken in his arms.

And a dark-haired girl with solemn eyes asks, “Do you know how to make pancakes?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I am officially under siege.

They smell like syrup, dirt, and something suspiciously barn-related. They talk over each other. They pull at my clothes.

I’m frozen in my ballet flats, close to an existential crisis, when a little voice pipes up, “Are you our new momma?”

And I freeze.

I’m used to kids. I’m used to their questions, but not ones like these that break your heart. I’m especially not used to dealing with miniature humans while a porch full of suntanned, muscular cowboys watches me try to remember how to breathe.

“Uh…” I glance at the porch. “A little help?”

A man steps forward. He’s older than the others, in his late thirties, maybe, with silver at his temples and a gaze sharp enough to slice bread. He’s calm in a way that makes my pulse kick.

Conway. I remember his name from the background research. He’s the oldest and the unofficial leader. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look cold, either. Just calm and confident, like nothing surprises him. “You must be Grace,” he says. “We appreciate you coming all this way.”

I nod, still one kid deep in leg-cling.

“Are they always like this?”

He shrugs. “You’re a woman. You’re new. You brought big-city energy and shiny shoes. They’re curious.”

One of the kids tugs my hand. “Can you play dolls with me?”

“Uh. Yes? I guess…”

Before I can say a word or even pry the toddler off my ankle, another of the men steps down from the porch and crosses the distance like he owns every inch of ground his boots touch.

He’s broad-shouldered, tan, with shaggy brown hair curling at the ends and an easy, heartbreaker grin that could start trouble in all seven continents. He stops beside me, eyes warm, posture loose, and pheromones pumping like Texas oil.

“Need a hand?”

I gesture helplessly to the rolling suitcase abandoned behind me. “I’d settle for someone grabbing my bag.”

He chuckles and grabs the handle, lifting it like it’s empty and putting my chicken-wing biceps to shame.

“Cody,” he says. “Welcome to our mess.”

He tips his hat before turning to carry my luggage toward the porch.

Another cowboy steps forward. He’s slightly taller and darker, with stubble and deep-set brooding eyes like storm clouds that scan me like he’s cataloging weak points.

His hair is black and a little too long, with pretty curls that women pay exclusive hairdressers a fortune to replicate.

Combined with a jaw sharp enough to draw blood, he’s in a quandary .

“Jaxon,” he says simply, then nods once and steps back like that was already too much talking.

Okay. Broody cowboy with a sexy name. Noted.

The next one has kind gray-blue eyes, freckles, and a quiet presence that makes the screaming kids fade into background noise.

He folds his lean, wiry frame into a crouch next to the toddler still attached to my leg and gently says, “All right, sweetheart. Let’s give Miss Grace a second to breathe, huh? ”

The kid lets go. Miraculously.

He rises and offers me a smile that feels like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer. “I’m Nash. Don’t worry. You’re doing better than most already.”

Then comes the flirt, winking before he’s even introduced himself. He’s got dimples you could drown in, sandy blond hair teased into messy, been-rolling-in-the-hay perfection, an impressively bare chest I struggle not to gawk at, and mischief practically radiating off him.

“I’m Levi,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand, then raising my knuckles to his lips like we’re the main characters in a goddamn Regency romance novel.

I blink. “Is this how you greet all your visitors?”

“Nah,” he says with another wink of his ocean-blue eyes. “Only the pretty ones.”

Someone groans from the porch, and Levi rubs his hand over his perfect washboard abs absentminded but maybe purposeful. I already wouldn’t put anything past him.

The next man is toweringly taller, with dark buzzed hair, scarred forearms like tree trunks, and a silence that feels intentional.

“Dylan,” he says. That’s it. Just his name before turning and walking toward the barn.

No nonsense. Zero fluff.

I don’t hate it when combined with all that rugged intensity.

Then, a leaner man with glasses steps forward, crossing his arms like he’s here to evaluate my résumé .

“Harrison. I manage logistics and records.” He eyes me, tipping his head to the side. “You’re not what I expected.”

I blink, taken aback. Is it my outfit? Should I have worn a ball-breaking suit? “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, which feels like the emotional equivalent of pending review .

Next is a cowboy with soft brown eyes and a slow, tired kind of smile. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a baby monitor clipped to his belt. He runs his hand over his velvet hair like he’s dusting off cobwebs, then offers me his broad hand, the one that isn’t holding the wooden spoon.

“Corbin,” he says. “If you’re looking for quiet, you came to the wrong place. But we provide a mean breakfast as part of the service.”

He’s followed by a tall, serious-looking man with calm written all over him. His shirt’s tucked in. His boots are clean. There’s not a single strawberry-blond hair out of place.

“Lennon,” he says, offering a polite handshake. “I do a little of everything. Keep things running.”

I barely manage a nod before another voice jumps in—

“And I’m McCartney,” says the one with paint on his forearm and a pencil stuck behind his ear.

“Yes, like the Beatles. I play guitar, and I paint and build furniture. And fix things.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it, noticing the ‘All You Need Is Love’ tattoo that stretches in elegant cursive up his forearm.

Conway’s been watching all this radiating quiet power, like nothing happens in this house without his approval.

His deep-set hazel gaze, almost the same color as mine, assesses me like he’s trying to decide if I’ll break or hold it together, weighing the contents of my soul against perfection and finding me lacking.

He pats the last man on the shoulder. He’s stocky with thick, messy dark hair, a five o’clock shadow that looks like a permanent fixture, and a blunt intensity to his face that makes me instantly wary.

His arms are folded across his chest, and his dark eyes are guarded.

Before he can introduce himself, Levi says, “That’s Brody. He’s a mule and a mute.”

Brody fixes Levi with a look that could wilt a cactus, finally giving me a nod of acknowledgment. The bare minimum.

Conway doesn’t force the issue. “You’ll stay in the big house,” he says, like I have no choice in the matter.

I open my mouth to protest or ask what the hell the small house is, but he cuts me off gently and firmly.

“We’ll explain everything at dinner.”

Then he turns and walks inside.

I’m left surrounded by kids, dust, cowboys, and the sharp, sinking feeling that nothing in my life will be the same again.