Page 10 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

I turn slowly, each degree of rotation feeling like an eternity. My eyes strain to make sense of shapes in the darkness. There, by a cluster of trees, is something large. Bulky. It’s hunched oddly, as if leaning against a tree stump, and it’s holding a small shape that I can’t make out…

A bear , my brain supplies. Has to be a bear. Bears can use tools now, right? I saw a documentary once. Or was that about crows? Either way, this bear has clearly figured out tools and is about to use them on me.

“You should be careful offering snuggles so freely here.”

A male voice rolls through the darkness. Deep, masculine, with an edge that makes my stomach do complicated things that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with other four-letter words.

“Never know what might turn up on your doorstep.”

My brain finally processes what I’m seeing. Not a bear. A man. Sitting on a huge tree stump, glass catching moonlight in his hand.

Ridge.

“Holy sh—” I catch myself, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. “You scared me! I thought you were a bear!”

His laugh is low, rough, like he doesn’t do it often and his throat needs practice. “If you see a bear drinking whiskey from crystal, we’ve got bigger problems than a midnight kitten rescue.”

He stands in one fluid motion, sets his glass down on the stump, and strolls toward me. I notice the slight favor to his right leg. “You okay?”

The moonlight finds him as he steps from the shadows, and my mouth dries.

Black jeans fit him like they were tailored by someone who understood that cowboys are basically walking advertisements for Wrangler.

His leather belt sports a buckle that, now that I can see it clearly, depicts a bronco rider frozen in silver, hat flying, one arm up for balance, the other gripping for dear life.

It’s intricately detailed, the kind of thing you win, not buy.

Blue button-up shirt open at the throat—three buttons, not that I’m counting—revealing a triangle of tanned skin and the hint of a chain disappearing beneath the fabric.

The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing strong, powerful forearms. No wonder romance-novel readers are obsessed with cowboys.

His auburn hair, earlier hidden under that black hat, falls loose to his shoulders.

The breeze plays with it, sending strands across his face that he doesn’t bother to push away.

Without the hat shadowing his features, I see him more clearly, the sharp angle of his jaw with light stubble, the way his mouth naturally turns down at the corners, giving him a perpetual serious expression even when he’s almost smiling.

“Barn cats get out sometimes,” he states when he’s close enough that the night breeze carries his scent to me. Cedar, cinnamon, and whiskey. “Orange mama and her babies. They’re escape artists with a capital E . Been sneaking out for weeks now.”

“Maybe they prefer actual houses?” I aim for light, teasing, trying to ignore how my body wants to sway toward him like he’s magnetic north and I’m a very confused compass.

“You know, with walls and heating and a distinct lack of things with sharp teeth and appetites?” I scratch the kitten’s ears in my arm, and she just purrs back.

Ridge doesn’t respond immediately, simply watches me with green eyes like mine but darker, like forest shadows. There’s a weariness there, carefully hidden but visible if you know where to look. He’s studying me too.

“Careful out here,” he drawls finally. “Wild country. Wild animals.”

“Is that why you’re out here?” I adjust the kitten against my chest, needing something to do with my hands that isn’t reaching out to touch him. “Playing security guard for wayward city girls and escaped cats?”

“I can’t sleep sometimes.” The words come out clipped, final, like a door closing on further questions. But there’s something underneath, pain maybe, or memories that have teeth.

“So you drink whiskey on tree stumps in the middle of the night? ”

“Better than staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster.” He pauses. “Or watching shadows that aren’t there.”

There’s definitely a story there. Several, probably. But I don’t push. We all have our 3:00 a.m. demons.

A sound carries through the night, long, mournful, answered by another at a distance.

“Wolves?” I can’t help the way my body tenses.

“Coyotes.” He tilts his head, listening with the ease of someone who knows this land’s language. “Wolves sound different. Deeper. More…” He searches for words. “Primal. Coyotes are gossipers, calling to each other about their night. Wolves mean business.”

“Comforting.” The kitten shifts against me, tiny claws pricking through fabric. “Really making me feel better about my midnight adventure.”

He tips his head back, looking at the sky, and I follow his gaze. The sky here is nothing like Chicago’s orange-tinted dome. Stars crowd together in impossible numbers, so bright and close that I understand why ancient peoples thought they could read destinies in them.

“Ever really looked at the stars?” he asks, voice different now, softer.

“From my home roof once. Mostly I saw airplanes and what might have been Venus. Or a satellite.”

That almost smile quirks his mouth. “That pattern there…” He points with one hand, and I notice scars ac ross his knuckles. “Seven stars that look like a ladle. That’s the Big Dipper.”

“Oh, I know the Big Dipper,” I say, only slightly too excited.

“Did you know it’s part of Ursa Major? The Great Bear?”

“I… no.”

“The handle is the bear’s tail. The cup is its flank.” His voice takes on a different tone, like he’s sharing secrets. “Ancient Greeks saw a bear where we see a kitchen utensil. Says something about perspective. What we see depends on what we’re looking for.”

“How do you know all this?” I’m genuinely curious now. This is not what I expected from a taciturn cowboy who seems to brood more than he speaks.

“Books. Long winter nights.” He shifts slightly, that subtle favor to his right leg more noticeable.

“Started reading about them after…” He stops, jaw tightening.

“Just started reading. Got a telescope in my room now. One of those fancy computerized ones that find things for you. Cost more than my truck, but worth it.”

“A cowboy with a telescope.” I can’t hide my surprise or the warmth it brings. “That’s…”

“Not what you expected from a dumb ranch hand?” There’s challenge in his voice now, defensive, like he’s been judged before.

“Impressive,” I finish firmly. “Really, really impressive. And kind of romantic. Cowboy by day, astronomer by night. ”

He looks at me sharply, searching for mockery, but I mean it. There’s something deeply attractive about hidden depths, about tough men who study stars between dawn cattle drives and have expensive telescopes in their bedrooms.

“That cluster there,” he continues, apparently satisfied that I’m not mocking him, pointing to a different section of the sky. “Looks like a tiny ladle, or maybe a question mark. That’s the Pleiades. Seven Sisters.”

“I can only count six stars.”

“Most people can. Need perfect conditions and exceptional eyesight to see the seventh. The lost sister, Merope, who hid her light in shame for falling in love with a mortal.”

“There’s a story?”

“Always is. Greek myth says they were seven daughters of Atlas, pursued by Orion until Zeus took pity on them and turned them into stars for their own protection.”

“And Orion?”

He points to another section of the sky. “There. See the three stars in a perfect line? That’s his belt. He’s still chasing them across the sky, night after night. Doomed to always follow, never catch. Forever wanting what he can’t have.”

“That’s heartbreaking.”

“Most myths are. Gods were cruel in their mercy. Better to suffer for eternity than not suffer at all, apparently.”

We stand in comfortable silence, him teaching me constellations while I cuddle a purring kitten and try not to notice how the moonlight catches in his hair, turning auburn to copper and flame.

The night breeze picks up, carrying his scent stronger now, wrapping around me like invisible silk until I feel drunk on it.

“So,” I say when the silence stretches too long, when my awareness of him becomes too acute, when the space between us feels both too vast and not nearly vast enough. “Belle mentioned that you three aren’t really the settling-down kind.”

His shoulders tense, the relaxed atmosphere evaporating like morning dew under sudden sun.

“Not that I’m interested,” I add quickly, feeling heat flood my cheeks that has nothing to do with the cool night air.

“God, I’m not. That came out wrong. I just meant…

you have such a perfect setup here. Ranch, brotherhood, stability.

Seems like the kind of place you’d want to put down roots.

Maybe find someone to share it with. If you were into that.

Which you’re not. According to Belle. Who could be wrong. Is she wrong?”

Stop talking, Sophia. Stop talking right now.

He’s quiet long enough that I wonder if I’ve stepped on some invisible land mine, triggered some cowboy code violation about asking personal questions under starlight.

“Walker wants to settle down. Eventually. Cash is still having fun dating and stuff. But when the right person comes along, they’ll both know it.” He pauses, jaw working like he’s chewing on words that taste bitter. “Deep down, they both believe in that kind of thing. Forever. Mates. Family.”

“But not you?”

He turns to look at me fully, and even in the moonlight, the intensity of his gaze has me catching my breath. There’s something raw there, quickly shuttered but not fast enough. Pain, maybe a badly healed break.

“We don’t need an Omega here.” The words come out flat, decisive, like a judge passing a sentence. “Well, at least I don’t.”