Page 1 of His Big Hometown Cowboy (Bigger Is Best #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Wyatt

Fences don’t fix themselves. Not even on a Sunday.

That’s what my father always said, his voice echoing in my head even now, three years gone.

“A good rancher never leaves a job half-done.”

Since his passing, those words had become both compass and burden. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever feel like more than just a caretaker of someone else’s dream, steering this land through sweat and sheer stubbornness.

I shifted in my saddle, the familiar burn already deep in my thighs from riding fence lines since dawn. The Texas sun beat down, relentless, baking the smell of dust and horse right into my clothes.

Pepper, my stubborn quarter horse, snorted below me, flicking her ears as if sharing my fatigue. A low buzz of cicadas pulsed in the simmering air.

“Just a few more miles, girl.” I patted her neck, the leather of my gloves sticking slightly. Squinting, I scanned the horizon where heat waves rippled above the parched, dusty grass of the south pasture. “Then we can both take a break.”

Pepper had other ideas. She suddenly veered left, ignoring the subtle pressure from my knees and the tug on the reins.

“Whoa, what’s gotten into you?” I asked, pulling her up short. Then I spotted what had caught her attention. Brogan Creek glimmered in the distance, the deep shade beneath the cottonwoods a stark contrast to the bleached landscape. A tempting reprieve.

I couldn’t blame her. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, a damp trail running down my spine, and my hat band had soaked through hours ago. A quick stop wouldn’t throw the schedule off too much.

“Fine, you win.” I guided her toward the creek, the promise of cold water a welcome distraction as I mentally recalculated how much more I had to do today.

As we approached the water’s edge, my gaze snagged on a figure perched on the large flat rock that jutted out over the deepest part of the creek. Shirtless, legs dangling over the water—but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. Even broadened, leaner than I remembered, they had a familiar set.

Timmy Prescott. Travis’s little brother.

There was nothing little about him anymore, except his height. The teenager who’d devoured books, graduated college early, and gone off to California four years ago had filled out. Nicely.

Lean muscle defined his back and arms, like a swimmer’s build, compact and efficient.

His exposed skin had bronzed to warm gold, surprisingly dark for someone supposedly living under coastal fog.

Not just Travis’ nerdy kid brother anymore.

The awkward energy was gone, replaced by a quiet stillness I didn’t recognize.

Pepper whinnied softly, announcing our presence. Tim turned, surprise registering on his face before it broke into a wide smile that hit me like an unexpected shove.

Unexpected, and unsettlingly potent.

“Wyatt Walker?” He shaded his eyes with one hand, looking up. “Is that you under all that dust?”

I swung down from the saddle, the impact jarring through my boots. Pepper dipped her nose toward the water. I let her reins hang loose. I looked down at him, summoning a confident grin. “In the flesh. Didn’t know you were back in town, Timmy.”

His smile twitched at the corners, a flicker of the old annoyance I used to deliberately provoke. “Most people call me Tim now.”

“Well, they haven’t known you as long as I have.” I removed my hat, wiping my forehead with my forearm, feeling the grit scrape against my skin. I might have flexed my bicep just enough. Old habits. “You still killing it in Silicon Valley?”

He popped a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “I needed a breather.Four years of working in a startup can wear you out.”

I led Pepper closer to the water’s edge so she could drink properly. “Your brother mentioned you were doing well out there. Some kind of computer genius now?”

“Product design, not programming.” He laughed, a quick, easy sound. “Though I appreciate the promotion.”

Now that I was closer, the changes were starker.

His jawline had sharpened, definite stubble dusting the skin where soft peach fuzz used to be.

His eyes, those were the same. Hazel, flecked with green, always a little too knowing, like he saw more than he let on.

Right now, they were doing an unmistakable once-over, slow and deliberate, from my worn boots up to my dusty hat and back down.

“You haven’t changed a bit, cowboy.” His tone held something new, an undercurrent I couldn’t quite place.

“Rancher,” I corrected, adjusting my hat, settling it back on my head. “Cowboys are for rodeos and postcards.”

“And calendars.” Tim smirked, gaze lingering for a fraction too long on my chest before flicking back to my face. “The sexy kind they sell in gift shops.”

Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun.

Flustered. Shit.

“Didn’t realize tech bros were so interested in the agricultural aesthetic.”

“We appreciate a good view.” His eyes met mine, direct and unwavering. “Some things just don’t change, no matter how far you go.”

That damn undercurrent again, stronger this time, pulling like the creek’s own flow.

Timmy wasn’t a kid anymore. Not even close.

And the way he was looking at me now wasn’t childish curiosity. It was something else entirely. Something that saw right through the ‘responsible rancher’ facade.

I crossed my arms, trying to regain control of the situation, of myself. “Well, some things do change. You look?—”

I never finished the sentence. Pepper, having drunk her fill, chose that exact moment to nudge her head against my back.

Hard.

Hard enough to send me stumbling forward on the slick mud of the bank. My boots lost purchase, and before I could even curse, I pitched headfirst into Brogan Creek with a loud, undignified splash.

The water wasn’t deep, maybe chest-high. I surfaced sputtering, spitting water, my hat floating serenely downstream. My boots felt like concrete anchors.

Tim’s laughter rang out, echoing off the water. Deep and genuine, not mocking, just pure amusement. “Smooth move, Walker!”

I pushed wet hair from my face. “Glad I could provide some entertainment.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, still chuckling. Then, without warning, he stood up on the rock, kicked off his canvas shoes, and—in one fluid, surprising motion—stripped off his shorts.

My mouth went dry. He stood there in nothing but snug black briefs that left very little to the imagination. For a guy who wasn’t tall, he was perfectly proportioned. Compact, strong lines, zero softness. Just lean muscle and smooth, tanned skin.

“What are you?—”

Before I could finish, he launched himself off the rock, cannon balling into the water beside me, sending another wave sloshing over my head. He emerged with a whoop, water streaming down his face, plastering his short hair to his scalp.

“Damn, that feels good!” He shook his head like a wet dog, droplets flying everywhere.

I snatched my hat before it floated all the way to Fort Worth and slogged toward the bank, soaked clothes heavy and clinging, boots squelching with every step. I watched him float easily on his back, sunlight catching the water droplets on his chest and stomach.

“You’re insane,” I said, but the words came out with an unwilling smile.

“Life’s too short not to jump in.” He flipped over with barely a splash and swam toward me with smooth, efficient strokes. “Though I’m guessing those clothes are pretty uncomfortable right now.”

He stopped a few feet away, treading water.

Close enough that I could see the individual water beads clinging to his eyelashes.

Close enough that if I reached out, my hand would land right on the curve of his shoulder, where a specific freckle I remembered from years ago still marked his skin. The thought sent a jolt through me.

“They aren’t great,” I admitted, the wet denim feeling rough and heavy. “But I’m not stripping down in broad daylight.”

“Why not? No one around for miles.” His eyes glinted with challenge, a familiar spark I hadn’t seen in years. “Unless you’re shy all of a sudden.”

Shy wasn’t the word. Wary, maybe.

Standing half-naked near Tim Prescott, with four years of distance suddenly evaporated between us, felt like playing with faulty wiring. Dangerous.

“Some of us have a reputation to maintain,” I said instead, running a hand over my jaw.

“Right. The serious rancher.” He splashed water at me playfully, droplets hitting my face. “God forbid anyone see Wyatt Walker having fun.”

That did it.

I lunged, grabbing his shoulders, aiming to dunk him.

He came up laughing, twisting in my grip, hands slippery on my arms as he wrestled back.

It was like sparring when we were younger, clumsy and laughing, except everything felt different now.

His strength surprised me, meeting mine despite the obvious size difference.

The brush of his slick skin against mine wasn’t kid stuff anymore. It felt good, was electric. Sparking something I’d kept banked for too long.

Water dripped between us. Our faces were just inches apart.

His hands gripped my waist, fingers pressing into the soaked fabric of my shirt.

Mine were clamped on his shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath his skin.

Our breathing was the only sound, harsh and uneven.

His pupils dilated, his gaze dropping unmistakably to my mouth.

“Wyatt—” His voice was rough, deeper than I remembered.

My carefully constructed walls nearly crumbled. I released him abruptly and stepped back, nearly tripping over a submerged rock in my haste. The cold water felt like a necessary shock back to reality. “I should get out. Dry off.”

Tim blinked, the intensity fading slightly. “Right. Yeah.”