Page 5 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter Five

Snowed In

Rhett

I should’ve turned around sooner.

The snow came in sideways now, thick enough that my high beams just bounced it back in my face like a damn blizzard strobe light.

I kept both hands on the wheel, easing the truck around the curve just past Miller’s Ranch, tires crunching over fresh accumulation.

Every few minutes, the wipers smeared ice more than they cleared it.

I was halfway home to Lucky Ranch when the screen on my dash lit up with a missed call.

Callie.

No voicemail. No text. Just a timestamp from ten minutes ago and a signal so weak it barely registered a bar. My stomach tightened, like it always did when anything about Callie showed up unexpectedly.

I hit redial, but it dropped before the first ring finished. Tried again.

Nothing.

I swore under my breath and slowed down, easing the truck toward a spot wide enough to turn around.

My headlights caught on a crooked fence post and a drift piling high across the shoulder.

I should’ve kept driving, let her handle it—whatever it was.

But that wasn’t who I’d ever been when it came to Callie.

It wasn’t who I wanted to be now.

As I turned the wheel, I remembered the way she looked standing in the cabin doorway—her lips parted like she wanted to say something but didn’t. The way her breath caught when I brushed that lock of hair from her face. She said Matt’s name as if it were a truth she needed to repeat until it stuck.

But she hadn’t believed it. Not really.

Wind gusted across the hood, rocking the truck slightly. I tapped the brake and steered around a fallen limb half-buried in snow, the tires slipping just enough to remind me this was risky.

Still, I kept going.

I remembered another night like this one—senior year, the night of the bonfire out at Jackson’s pasture.

She’d gotten lightheaded from the smoke and the cold, and everyone else had been too drunk to notice.

I’d walked her back to her car, holding her up with one arm, teasing her to keep her conscious.

She’d laid her head on my shoulder and mumbled something about the stars spinning.

And now here I was again, chasing a feeling that never fully went away.

The call might’ve failed, but I’d gotten the message loud and clear.

She needed me.

I gunned the engine just enough to climb the next incline. The trees leaned over the road like they were bowing under the weight of the storm. Every part of me was humming now—adrenaline, concern, something else I didn’t want to name.

Just before I reached the cabin road, I grabbed my phone again and texted Sawyer.

Me: If I don’t check in by morning, send help to Matt’s place. Snow’s piling fast. Tell the guys I’m not playing hero, just watching out for someone who matters.

I didn’t wait for a reply.

Not this time.

The snow clung to my windshield like it didn’t plan on letting go. By the time I turned into the narrow drive up to Matt’s cabin, the snow had accumulated into high drifts. The place looked quiet. Too quiet. No chimney smoke, no porch light. Just snow falling thick as lies around it.

I barely got the truck in park before the front door cracked open.

Callie stood in the gap, wrapped in a thick quilt like it was armor. Her breath fogged in the porch light. Her lips were pale. And even from ten feet away, I could see the tremble in her hands.

“I noticed you tried to call and text.”

“Yes, I didn’t know it’d run out,” she said before I could ask. “The propane. I didn’t check the tanks until the furnace cut off.”

Her voice was too calm, too even. That tone women used when everything inside was unraveling, but they refused to let it show.

I climbed the steps, brushing snow from my coat. “You’ve got a backup heat source?”

“I’ve got a camping stove. Matt left it from our trip this summer. Still had a little fuel. And a lighter.” She held it up like proof she was handling it. “I boiled water for tea.”

That shouldn’t have made me proud. But hell, it did. Even half-frozen, she was still trying to stand on her own two feet.

“Let’s get that fire started,” I said, shouldering gently past her. The cabin was colder than the inside of my damn walk-in freezer. I could see my own breath as I stepped into the living room. “Where’s the wood?”

Just then, a blur of fur darted across the hardwood floor and skidded to a stop near the hearth. A puffed-up cat hissed at me, tail high and twitching, before shooting under the couch like I’d personally offended it.

I blinked. “Was that… a cat?”

Callie sighed, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Yeah. That’s Pixie.”

“Pixie,” I repeated, looking at the couch like the thing might launch itself back out at me. “Of course it is.”

“She came with the place,” she added. “Matt has had her forever. Doesn’t really go anywhere. Just lurks.”

“Figures,” I muttered. “I’ve always been more of a dog guy. At least a dog would’ve greeted me—or hell, at least not tried to shank me in the dark.”

Callie let out a soft laugh. “She’s just particular.”

“Yeah, well… so am I. And cats don’t usually make the cut.”

For a second, something relaxed in her face. Not quite a smile—not nothing either.

I glanced around. “Where are the logs for the fireplace?”

“Stacked by the back door. I grabbed a few logs earlier, but…”

“I got it,” I said, already moving.

Once the flames were steady, I turned back to her.

Callie was making herself comfortable on the rug near the fireplace, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. The flames cast soft gold across her cheeks, chasing off the pallor. But the room still had a long way to go before it felt anything close to safe.

“You should sleep out here tonight,” I said quietly.

Her head turned. “Excuse me?”

I nodded toward the hall. “That bedroom’s an icebox. No gas means no furnace, no hot water. This fire’s the only thing that’s gonna hold warmth.”

She stared at me a moment too long. “I’m not sleeping in the same room as you, Rhett.”

“Didn’t ask you to. I’ll take the chair.” I stood and tapped the back of it with two fingers. “You get the couch. You’ll be closer to the fire, and you won’t freeze your damn toes off.”

Something softened behind her eyes. A crack in the defenses. She nodded.

“I don’t need babysitting,” she said, a whisper this time.

I didn’t answer. Just knelt to add another log.

I didn’t need to be wanted. I just needed to know she’d wake up warm.

That was enough—for now.

The wind howled outside like it was circling something it couldn’t quite touch, and inside, the fire cracked and popped, casting warm flickers of light across the cabin walls. I’d pulled the chair close enough to the hearth to keep from freezing, but far enough not to seem like I was hovering.

Callie curled up on the couch, her knees tucked to her chest beneath the blanket. She hadn’t spoken much since I got the fire going. Just quiet nods and half-smiles.

I didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just sat there, elbows on my knees, staring into the fire like it could tell me what the hell I was supposed to do now.

“You’re really staying?” she asked after a while with a soft voice, as if she didn’t want to disturb the silence too much.

I looked over. Callie wasn’t watching me—just the fire—but the question hung between us, heavier than the quilt she was wrapped in.

“Chair’s not the worst place I’ve slept,” I said. “Besides, I’m not leaving you up here with no heat and no cell service. Not happening.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

I poured the hot tea into the mugs I’d found and carried one over. When I handed it to her, our fingers touched—just a brush, not even long enough to count as anything. But damn, if it didn’t spark all the same.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

I sat back down before I forgot my place. Took a sip of the bitter tea and stared at the flames again.

“This wasn’t exactly how I pictured the night going,” she added.

“No?” I glanced over, arching a brow. “Did the fantasy involve more firewood and frostbite, or less?”

She gave a small, tired laugh. “Less.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. It was… something else. Like we both knew, if we said too much or looked too long, something would break loose that couldn’t be undone.

“I didn’t mean to call you,” she said suddenly. “I mean—I’m glad you came. But I didn’t want to need anyone. Not tonight.”

That landed right in the center of my damn chest.

I shifted forward in the chair, elbows on my knees again. “You didn’t need me,” I said. “You had it handled. I just… showed up.”

Her eyes met mine then. And whatever sat in that look wasn’t about needing anyone.

It was about not wanting to feel alone.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “Just for a second. When the heater cut off and the cold came in fast… I panicked. And Matt’s not here and?—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I said, shaking my head. “You called. That’s enough.”

She nodded again, quick and quiet. Then, Callie looked down at the mug in her hands like it held all the answers she didn’t want to say aloud.

We sat that way for a while—her on the couch, me in the chair. Nothing between us but the flicker of firelight and the storm swirling outside. And yet, the room felt small, like the air itself was thick with everything we'd ever said, done, or left unsaid.

Callie finally stretched out, blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed—lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

I stayed up a while longer. Listening to the wind batter the windows and the fire settle into a slow rhythm. Finally, I pulled the spare quilt over my legs and leaned back in the chair, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Because she was five feet away.

And every part of me wanted to be closer, but I wouldn’t allow myself to cross that line.

Not tonight.