Page 3 of Ride Me Cowboy (Coyote Creek Ranch #1)

Chapter Two

Beth

I ’M NOT AFRAID OF him biting. I’m not really even afraid of him, as much as I am the ghost of my husband. Which is really stupid, because Christopher is dead—he has been for three months. He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m safe.

I’m safe .

The thing is, it doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that, how much I replay the moment of his death, and the fact it equaled my freedom, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop looking over my shoulder. Once you’ve gotten used to living like that, it’s a hard habit to shake.

The man standing across the island bench from me is so handsome he looks AI generated.

Like if you typed in ‘square jaw, moss green eyes, stubble, tan cowboy’, you’d get something like him.

He’s built, too: strong. He looks like he could choke one of those huge bulls I saw across the paddock on the long drive to the house with his bare hands, but that doesn’t mean he will.

First impressions can be deceiving—that’s a lesson I learned again and again and will never forget.

Before Christopher, I would have looked at this rugged man mountain Cole Donovan and probably felt my stomach fill with butterflies, because he’s absolutely gorgeous, with all those pure alpha male vibes, from the way he fits out those faded, old jeans to the button down shirt, the fact he tipped his hat like a real cowboy, and removed it the second we stepped indoors, to the way he stands, all tall, proud and broad.

Yeah, a few years ago, I would have given him a bright smile and flirted with him in the hopes he’d ask me out.

I might have asked him about his ranch and his life, and I might have had some fun with the whole thing.

But that version of me is like a whole other person, one I haven’t known for years.

Not since I was twenty-one, met Christopher and learned that letting your guard down with the wrong person—who could be anyone—can lead to disaster.

So I stand here, arms braced at my side, and try to think of something to say in response to his reassurance.

“Coffee?” He slides it across the bench to me, like he knows it’s my Achilles’ heel. The dog near his feet lifts his head a little.

“Thanks.” It smells good. Nutty and strong. I take a sip, closing my eyes and letting it work its magic.

“So, Raegan told you what the job is?”

“Keeping the books straight,” I say with a nod, glad to be on solid conversational group. Numbers I can talk about. Numbers I’m good at.

“Right. She’s pretty fussy about it, so she has some systems?—,”

“I’m sure I can work it out.”

His eyes hold mine for a second, speculatively, like he’s trying to see something I usually keep hidden. I make sure to keep my face passive, revealing nothing. I’ve had a lot of practice with that. One wrong look at Christopher could set him off, so I’m careful out of habit.

“Reagan seems to think so; she reckons you’re over-qualified for the job. So why come all this way, Beth?”

The way he says my name sends a warm breath down my spine.

Not a shiver—I know the difference. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end though, but in a way that I like.

I tamp down on the feeling. “Why not?” I say with a careless shrug, like any other twenty-five-year-old woman might shrug to signal she’s footloose and fancy free. No one here needs to know the truth.

No one here needs to know I’m a widow.

That I was married to a man who took out his anger on me.

That I fell in love with someone who didn’t exist, who was a lie, designed to trap me.

“It’s a long way from New York.”

“That was part of the appeal.”

“Because you want to be in an episode of Yellowstone?”

My lip twists into an approximation of a smile. “Something like that.”

His lip furrows. “Ranch life isn’t something you just stroll into.”

“I’m not planning to.” I try to resist the impact of his words, the way they make me doubt myself.

It’s not hard. If you live with someone who tells you, all the time, that you’re not good at anything, it really starts to take hold.

I draw in a deep breath. “I’m here to keep your books, not go throw a rope around a horse, or whatever. ”

I’m suddenly tired. Wearier than I can say. Three months of playing the part of the grieving widow, protecting the awful truth of Christopher’s abuse even after his death, has taken its toll. “If you show me where the office is, I’ll get started.”

His eyes narrow thoughtfully but before he can respond, the door slams and I jump halfway out of my skin.

I feel Cole’s eyes linger on me and wish I’d been able to disguise the reaction, but my nerves are permanently frayed.

Another AI cowboy strides in. He’s got darker hair and darker eyes but the same square jaw, chiseled cheekbones and broad shoulders.

“Hey bro,” he says, whacking Cole hard on the shoulder, his eyes trained on me. “I didn’t know you were entertaining or I woulda knocked.”

Cole throws him a sidelong glance. “Beth, this buffoon is my brother Beau. This is Beth—Reagan’s replacement.”

Beau makes a show of looking me up and down.

“Not from where I’m standing,” he says, chewing on something on the side of his jaw, so a deep dimple digs into his stubbled cheek.

He comes around the counter and I have to take a deep breath to stop from stepping backwards, from putting space between us.

I’m safe. I’m safe.

But he’s so big, just like Cole—strange that Cole’s presence is sort of reassuring, despite his size. Maybe because Reagan spent so long extolling his virtues, I feel a little like I know and like him already.

Beau holds out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he says in what I’m pretty sure is an exaggerated drawl.

I hesitate a few seconds before lifting my hand to his, letting him shake it, and then quickly pulling it away, putting it behind my back, feeling like I might crack under the intense scrutiny of these two ridiculously handsome men.

I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. “Um, yes. You too.”

His grin only widens. “You don’t sound too sure about that, now, but that’s only ‘cause you don’t know me yet. How ‘bout we work on that later today?”

My eyes widen. Is he…flirting with me? I toy with my necklace, before I can hear Christopher’s voice telling me to stop fidgeting. My heart is in my throat though—like it always is when Christopher’s voice floods my brain.

Maybe Cole sees the color drain from my face because when he next speaks, it sounds like a growl. “Leave her alone, man. She just got here.”

Beau winks at me. “Reckon she can speak for herself, don’t you?”

Cole stares down his brother though, and I realize there’s something about Cole that Beau yields to. Strength, authority or the fact he’s older, I’m not sure, but Beau shrugs, shoots me another grin then moves over to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup.

“So, where you from, Beth?”

“New York,” I say, a little softly, then, louder, “Manhattan.”

Beau lets out a low whistle. “Fancy.”

I force a smile, like it’s a joke and I’m in on it, but the truth is, my old life was fancy. Upper-east-side-penthouse-apartment fancy. On-the-board-of-multiple-charities fancy. A wardrobe-full-of-couture fancy.

I shudder, because that might all sound really nice but let me tell you, it came at way too high a price.

“Why don’t I show you your office,” Cole offers, his voice less growl now, more gentle. But there’s still a rawness to it that makes my pulse tremble.

I nod, curling my hands around my coffee, reluctant to relinquish it.

“You can bring it with you,” he says, like he’s read my mind. “Reagan pretty much always has a cup at the desk. Hell, she usually takes the whole damn pot, which, to be frank, we don’t love.”

My smile feels less forced now. “Got it. No stealing the coffee pot.”

He nods, rather than smiles, and even though there’s a brusqueness to him, a cool distance, I’m way more comfortable with that than Beau’s over the top friendliness.

“You can take the coffee pot, Manhattan. We can always come find it.”

I throw Beau a wave as we walk out of the kitchen, into a long, wide hallway with more terracotta tiles on the floor and cream-colored walls.

The photos that adorned the entrance way are conspicuously absent here, and I find myself wondering about that.

It’s a great canvas, an enormous blank space that would look so nice with a splash of color, some wallpaper and prints.

It’s naturally bright, though, courtesy of the sky light, and there’s an overall warmth to the house.

We pass a large family room with well-worn brown leather sofas, a low coffee table, big TV and a huge bay window that looks out onto the rose garden, and then approach a darkly wood-paneled room lined with books.

There’s another window in here overlooking the same roses, and a small desk is placed right there.

A larger desk sits on the wall at a right angle.

“This is the office,” he says, hands in his pockets as he nods toward the space. He’s left his hat in the kitchen, but it doesn’t matter. I think I’ll always see Cole as I did when he first got out of his pickup and swaggered toward me, like a cowboy fantasy brought to life.

Suddenly my mouth is dry as I remember what it was like to shake his hand, and I take a step into the office just to escape the overwhelming maleness of him.

Only, this room is sheer ‘guy’. From the Arizona Cardinals calendar on the wall to the selection of ranching magazines to the heavy, dark wood, I can feel Cole’s presence in here as though he’d breathed himself all over the walls.

I move to the smaller desk, guessing—correctly—that it will be mine. Which means…

“As in, we’ll share an office?” I ask, wishing my voice would come out a little less tentatively.

“I’m mostly in here at night,” he says with a nod. “So don’t be worrying about me getting in your way.”