Page 3 of Marked by my Protector (Inked and Possessive. Rugged Mountain Ink #3)
Sloane
This is a mistake. The ride out to this ranch has been insanely, awkwardly, hauntingly quiet. I don’t think he’s a psychopath, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to be bothered. He drives like he’s trying to outrun a thought, and I’m the cart that got hooked to his tailgate he can’t shake off.
I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, watching the tops of pine trees blur past as I try to make sense of where my life is headed.
This is so different than the city. I mean, I’ve traveled to the mountains before, but my parents never let us go off the beaten path.
I’ve never been in a little house nestled in the woods.
I’ve never been this close to actual pine trees.
I’ve never watched a smokestack rise from a little cabin chimney and smelled the burn at the same time.
It’s magical, like a storybook come to life.
That said, I can’t stay with Tank forever.
Ideally, not more than a night or two, but where do I go after that?
I can’t start over with a hundred bucks, I can’t withdraw money from my account without everyone knowing where I am, and I’m skilled at nothing.
Hell, I don’t even know what I’m passionate about anymore.
I’ve spent so long trying to meet everyone else’s needs that my own sort of… disappeared.
Finally, the giant turns down a long gravel driveway that crunches beneath the tires.
I’m not sure what I expected, but his ranch is sort of nice.
There are two gray barns at the corner of the lot with horses out in the field.
In the forefront is a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a swing that blows back and forth in the afternoon breeze.
“You like steak? Had a cow butchered just last week. Freshest Angus beef around.” His voice is smooth and worn, like leather.
“I can throw a couple on the grill and get you fed. Bet you could use somethin’ solid after the day you’ve had.
” He parks in front of the farmhouse and turns toward me, his wide palm brushing down over his thick salt and pepper beard. “That sound good?”
“Yeah, but again, I don’t want to be trouble. I can cook while you do whatever you need to. Let me actually earn my keep.”
He stares at me for a long moment as though he’s thinking over my request. “Seems funny. I usually cook for guests.”
“It’s fine. Really.” I press to cook the meal though I don’t remember the last time I cooked a thing.
Honestly, I don’t remember a single time.
My parents have people that cook for us, and I never took much interest in learning, but I don’t share any of that.
I want to look capable of whatever he needs considering I’m invading his space.
He gives me a raised brow, then slides from the truck and nods.
“Okay, I won’t fight you. I’ve got about two hours’ worth of chores in the front barn.
” He tosses me the keys to the house. “You go ahead and make yourself at home. Everything is where you think it would be. You can take the room at the end of the first hallway. Del likes staying there when she visits, so everything is fresh.”
I hook the loop of the keys onto my finger and nod as he wheels my bag up the front steps.
“Help yourself to anything. I’ll be in soon.” With that, he hops down and strides toward the barns, his broad back shifting with each step, muscles taut beneath his shirt as the dirt path swallows him into the golden haze of the late afternoon sun.
Okay then, it’s time for more from the day I wasn’t expecting.
I’m entering a stranger’s home in the middle of nowhere, and I’m about to cook him dinner.
The people out here are trusting as hell.
That’s also something I’m not used to. I’ve been taught since birth that folks with dirt on their hands are trouble.
So far, I’ve found that to be the furthest from the truth.
Sliding the key in, I push open the door and step inside the expansive farmhouse. The kitchen is front and center with solid oak floors, a ceramic sink, wood countertops, and appliances that look like they’re fresh out of the fifties, but rather they’re new with a vintage feel.
It’s homier than I’d expect for a man living alone. It smells better too. Still masculine, but not bad. Like fur, feed, some kind of working oil, and something sweet like aged cedar.
I move down the hallway, floorboards creaking.
On the left, a door is half open, revealing an office space with a long desk, a recliner, and a TV mounted to the wall.
He obviously spends a lot of time in here.
There’s still a glass sitting on the table half filled with what looks like flat beer.
A guitar leans in the corner, and a stack of old western VHS tapes sits on a bookshelf above it, though I don’t see a VCR.
I want to go into the room and snoop until I’ve put together the pieces of this very private man.
Until I know his story better than my own.
Until I figure how a guy this handsome is alone.
I stand in the doorway, leaning forward as though I’m willing myself to be the dirty little sneak I know I want to be, but I hold steady instead, hoping the threat to be bad subsides.
There’s a frame on his desk. It’s a photo of him taken recently with a dog and a fishing pole.
They’re both grinning. Another hangs on the wall that’s featuring him and a man that shares the same jawline, though he’s much older.
His father, maybe? Or it could be his grandpa.
I don’t know because it’s none of my business.
I straighten up and redirect the temptation to snoop down the creaking hallway past more family photos. Some in black and white, others color. I recognize Delilah in a few, and Tank in others. The older man with the matching jawline is a frequent costar.
At the end of the hall, I push open the guest room door and step inside the space, breathing in the cedar that’s followed me through the house.
The room is clean and simple, with a floral duvet, a vintage poster-style bed, and matching bedroom suite.
It’s the kind I’d bet has been passed down through generations.
The kind that makes my heart ache for a life I’ll never have.
The kind of life where rooms carry stories.
The kind where walls remember arguments and laughter.
The kind where it’s easy to see how a family has grown and lived for years in this space.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the farmhouse window, watching from a distance as the giant man lifts a saddle with ease, his broad shoulders flexing beneath a faded flannel shirt.
He pauses to stroke the horse’s muzzle, and she leans into him as though they’ve done this hundreds of times, and she trusts his hand.
It’s patient and tender in a way that catches me off guard for a man his size.
I’m not sure why, but I figured the giant hands and tattoos meant he’d be rough, but he’s not.
He shifts, adjusting the saddle without effort, the muscles in his forearm rippling with strength shaped by hard work.
Why can’t I look away?
I should turn around, cook dinner, stop watching a man saddle a horse like it’s a sacred ritual…
but I don’t. I stay rooted on the edge of the bed, watching like it’s a private show just for me.
His movements are deliberate, practiced.
There’s a quiet grace in the way he handles the saddle, and the way his fingers skim the horse’s flank with respect.
His strength isn’t showy, it’s earned. Built from years of labor, lifting, hauling, and surviving.
He's like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
The horse leans into him like she knows he won’t rush her, like she’s safe in his hands. I feel it too. That steadiness. That quiet pull that makes me forget who I was before I knew him.
It’s ridiculous. Every part of this. He barely speaks, and yet something in me responds to him like a tuning fork struck against bone. Like my body recognizes something my mind hasn’t caught up to.
He’s older, late forties maybe, but there’s something timeless about him. Something again that makes me wonder how a man like that ends up alone.
Maybe he chooses solitude. Maybe he likes the quiet peace of the creaking floors and the old cowboy movies. Maybe he likes the drama-free mornings out in the pasture with the animals.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of his patience. His strength. His quiet devotion.
How would it feel to be the woman who softens the edges of his armor?
I blow out a sharp, shaky breath and finally tear my gaze away from the window. It doesn’t matter. I’m only here for a few days. Whatever this man is, whatever he stirs in me, isn’t mine to want.
Unfortunately, my body wholeheartedly, absolutely, and without a doubt disagrees.