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Her long, blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek braid, swinging side to side behind her as her slender hips swayed with each step. Thin, with legs for miles hidden beneath a pair of men’s Wranglers, and boots that had seen better days crunched powerfully over the gravel.

“I’m looking for Cassidy Duke,” she called out when she’d only made it halfway toward us. Her voice was silky, like chocolate and honey, but powerful like a bull who had been taunted one too many times.

Heart-shaped lips were pulled tight upon her soft face, cheeks flushed bright red with whatever storm she was running from. She was different, unique in a way that had me intrigued. Her nose crinkled as she raised her light-brown brows, stopping in front of Weston and me.

She tossed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is Duke Ranch, right? The sign said—”

“I’m Cassidy,” I answered over her, my mind finally whirring back to life.

“Good. I was told you can help me,” she replied, her voice cracking slightly as she slid her slender hands into her pockets. Her eyes bore holes into me, as gray as a stormy sky in the middle of spring. There was something like fear glinting behind the piercing doe eyes that she was attempting to narrow.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, leaning back slightly. “I got this,” I whispered to Weston, and he nodded once toward the woman before quietly walking away.

She sucked in a bottom lip; her lashes were bare from makeup, so golden blonde I barely noticed them fluttering over her eyes, which scanned slowly down my frame. Something I hated to admit I was doing to her, too; though, I doubted she was studying me for the same reasons I was tracing her figure. And I knew behind the oversized T-shirt tucked in her belt, hanging askew, she was trying to hide—not from me, but from whatever had her so terrified.

Lifting a hand to her lips, she chewed on a nail, glanced toward the drive she’d just come up from, and then back at me.

“Well,” I began, lifting a brow.

“Rooney sent me,” she hesitantly answered.

“Rooney?” I questioned and took a step closer.

Her eyes narrowed, warning me to stop moving, so I did. “Yeah, Rooney McCallister.”

My mouth parted slightly, hearing a name that I regretted admitting I hadn’t thought about in a long time. The very man that taught me how to weld, that had taken me in during my time away from the ranch. The very man who knew the one thing I’d never told anyone—not even Weston.

“You know Rooney?” I asked, and she nodded frantically.

“Look, he said you could help me with this horse. I’ve trained some, worked with plenty, but this is something I’ve never dealt with.”

“Normally, I’d say yes, but we are leaving in a few days to push the cattle up to summer pasture, and I haven’t worked with horses and only horses since—”

“Since you lived with Rooney. I know. He told me you’d probably refuse. But he also told me that you’re the best trainer he’s seen in years, even if he knows why you don’t leave to focus on just that.”

I swallowed stiffly, the smile falling from my face. “I can’t.”

“You owe Rooney.”

“Yes, but I don’t owe you.” I knotted my jaw together, sizing up this woman who seemed to be hiding her fear behind her pistol attitude. “I don’t even know you. Why wouldn’t you want a well-known trainer who’s guaranteed to give you the horse you want instead of me?”

“He says this is how you can repay him,” she answered, either purposefully ignoring my final question or choosing to not answer.

“How am I supposed to—”

She suddenly stalked forward and slapped a piece of paper against my chest. Instinctively, I placed a hand over hers, catching the sheet and her fingers between my body and palm.

And everything around us paused, as if time itself dared not disturb this moment.

She didn’t move, and nor did I. My eyes were wrapped up in the silver streaks that danced around her pupils, so similar to the stars that sparkled at night, right before the sun covered them in the gleaming rays of morning. My heart jumped into my throat, my gaze staying latched onto her stormy irises as desperation coated her fear, which hid behind a mask of aggression.

Slowly, she slid her hand down, out from my grip, leaving tingles at the lack of her touch. “He said to give you that,” she whispered, balling her fingers up and looking away from my gaze.

I pulled the paper away from my chest and glanced down at the scribbled writing, recognizing the skewed pencil lines that only Rooney could leave—seeing as he lacked two and a half of his fingers on his right hand from a welding accident years ago.

I need you to do this for me. This isn’t about you or me, this is about her. And she needs help that only you can give. Tell no one about her, or what she’s doing there. Have those livestock officer buddies you know on standby. I’m calling in your debt and when all of this blows over, you’ve repaid me.

—Rooney