Page 8 of Daddy’s Firm Hands (Saddle Up)

I smirk at how reactive he is. A simple order has him as red as a summer tomato.

The darker part of me wants to see just how hot and bothered I can make him, but the part of me with good sense reminds me that he’s going through something.

The last thing he needs is an old, washed up cowboy thirsting after him.

I want him to feel safe in my home—he shouldn’t feel obligated to give me anything to stay here.

I clear my throat to break the tension. “Breakfast looks delicious. Haven’t had something this good on a weekday in years.”

“You need a hearty breakfast if you’re gonna chase all your bovine besties,” he sasses me, sipping his coffee with a raised brow. The red stain on his face is disappearing and I miss it already.

“It’s called herding, smartass. You only chase the stray cows to get them back to the herd.” I eat a piece of English muffin dipped in runny egg yoke. “Bovine besties?”

“You spend an unnatural amount of time with cows. You must have some Doctor Doolittle kind of powers by now, right?”

“Christ, you’re a piece of work,” I huff, trying my hardest not to laugh. He could be a part-time comedian. Maybe I should bring him to Willy’s for Stand Up Comedy Night next week.

We enjoy the rest of our meal in a comfortable silence, our eyes meeting occasionally over his laptop as I read the news on my phone. Or at least try to read it. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s sitting across from me.

He brings his plate to the sink, and I note the rumpled pajama pants he’s wearing. His limp is still there, and he yawns as he sits down again.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I woke up around 2:30, then got to work on picking a software. I already built a framework for organization. Now I’m setting up parameters for revenue forecasting.”

I cross the table, standing behind him to see what he’s working on. I lean down, and Milo describes everything to me, his voice more animated than it’s been the entire breakfast.

“These are your weekly profits for the past two years, broken down by revenue stream,” he explains, dragging the cursor over different colored lines on a graph. “The dotted line is a prediction for the next month based on current trends.”

Milo continues showing me different things the program can do, and despite how impressive it is, the only thing I can focus on is how near he is.

The slope of his neck. His square shoulders.

How he smells like the bath products I put in the guest bathroom—the same ones I use.

The waviness of his silky hair and how it’s the perfect length to grip.

Each thought leads me further down the rabbit hole, until I’m thinking some truly dirty thoughts about the young man sitting at my kitchen table.

It’s as if Milo can read my mind. He turns around, bringing our lips centimeters apart.

Our eyes connect, and those warm amber orbs look like they’re begging me to kiss him.

To take him here and now at this table, dishes and laptop be damned.

To show him how good I can make him feel and how beautiful he’d look with my marks all over his skin.

“Stone,” he whispers, his voice pleading. His Adam's apple bobs, and I want nothing more but to nip at it, then sink my teeth into his throat.

God, I’m a fucking animal. He ran away from home covered in bruises with a giant gash on his forehead, and all I can think about is giving him more?

My obsessive tendencies are already getting the best of me, and it hasn’t even been a week.

I need to fight this pull harder. Put some space between us.

I clear my throat again, backing away to give him some space.

“Looks great. Keep up the good work.”

He smiles at the compliment. It’s toothy and slightly crooked. Fuck, praising him feels too good, for both of us.

“I gotta go. The cows won’t herd themselves,” I blurt out, moving toward the door.

“What time should I have dinner on the table?” Milo asks.

Every second I’m in the kitchen with him, I get pulled closer and closer to him. He’s cast an invisible lasso around me, and eventually I won’t be able to resist his pull.

“I’ll let you know.”

The confused tilt of his brows and frown as I leave stay with me as I practically run from the house to the stable. What am I doing? Would kissing him have been that bad? It didn’t feel wrong…until I reminded myself of the consequences.

“Who has you so deep in thought, boss?” Doc asks as he takes Noodle out of his stall. I notice he said who, not what.

“Nothing.”

I don’t want to have this conversation with him, because I know what he’ll say.

Doc isn’t a man of many words because he has nothing to say.

It’s because he’s constantly gathering information, taking in every detail and cataloging it for later.

He’s perceptive to a tee, almost like he can read minds.

“Be careful with him. He seems like a nice enough kid, but he’s hiding something,” Doc warns me.

“He’s definitely running from something,” I comment.

“Yeah, hopefully whatever he’s running from doesn’t come after him here.” Doc tightens the straps on his saddle, then hoists himself onto his horse.

What–or who–is Milo running from? Who used him as a punching bag? Growing obsession aside, I need to know. It’s my responsibility to keep everyone on this ranch and everything my family spent generations building safe.

“I’ll meet y’all out in the front paddock,” I tell Doc.

I take my phone out of my pocket, and call someone I haven’t talked to in a while. Sunny, my old Army buddy, answered on the third ring.

“Hey Lieutenant Hannigan. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Sunny. We’re all good at Ironstride. Can I ask you a favor?”

“Nothing I do for you is a favor. You know I’m always here for you. What’s up?” Sunny says in his usual cheerful voice, hence the nickname.

“I need you to do some research on a guy I just hired. His name is Milo Miller. He’s from New York City.”

“Can you text me a picture of him?” I can hear the scratch of a pen and paper on his end of the line.

“Yes I can.” I may have taken some candid photos of Milo when he wasn’t looking…because as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m already starting to obsess over him. Hopefully they’ll be good enough for whatever Sunny needs them for.

After a few more questions about Milo, I end the call and head out to the front paddock. About half the ranch hands are waiting for me, while the other half are off on their assigned projects for the day.

“Alright, let’s move this herd out to pasture!” I shout.

My stomach feels uneasy for the rest of the day. Something in the back of my mind tells me I made a huge mistake calling Sunny. But Doc is right—I need to know who Milo is. He might be a threat to the ranch.

Or he’s a young man in a bad spot right now, who needs support. Just like the rest of us have at some point in our lives.

Sunny is worse than a dog with a bone. Eventually, he’ll tell me everything about Milo. Whether I want to know it or not.