Page 6 of Saddles and Snowstorms (Sagebrush Cowboys #4)

Brooks

I stared at my calendar, dreading the note I’d left for myself.

It was horse vaccination day, and that meant Dr. Walsh had to come back out to my ranch.

Him and his stupidly handsome face. It was easily the most annoying thing about him, that and those personal questions he liked to ask all the time.

But the horses needed their checkups, and he was the only vet in town.

Calling in another from somewhere else would cost me double.

I supposed I could put up with him for a couple hours.

All I had to do was keep busy and forget he was there.

That was easier said than done of course.

Rowan had awoken something in me that I thought I’d stamped out long ago.

I took a long swig of my coffee, hoping it might prepare me for the day ahead.

I’d already spent the morning readying the horses for Dr. Walsh’s arrival.

I should’ve been out there waiting for the vet, but I found myself lingering in the kitchen instead, listening to the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

The sound of tires on gravel made my stomach tighten.

I peered out the window and saw his truck pulling up, dust billowing behind it.

Dr. Walsh climbed out, looking irritatingly fresh in a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. Those damn forearms. He grabbed his medical bag from the passenger seat and headed toward the barn .

I cursed under my breath and stepped outside, forcing my face into what I hoped was a neutral expression.

“Morning,” he called, that easy smile spreading across his face. The scar on his jaw caught the sunlight. I needed to ask him about that at some point, but I was doing everything I could not to be friends with the guy. Better to avoid temptation before it could even begin.

“Dr. Walsh,” I nodded, keeping my distance.

“Come on, Brooks, we’ve been through this. Call me Rowan.” He adjusted his bag, those green eyes of his catching mine and holding them for a beat too long. “Unless you’re planning to keep this strictly professional for the rest of our lives.”

I cleared my throat and looked away, focusing on the barn door as if it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. “The horses are ready. I’ve got them in separate stalls, just like you asked.”

“Appreciate that.” He followed me into the barn, and I could feel his presence behind me like a physical thing. The scent of his cologne—something woodsy and clean—mingled with the familiar smells of hay and horse.

Inside, the morning light filtered through the high windows, casting golden beams across the straw-covered floor. My mare, Penny, nickered softly when she saw us.

“Hey, beautiful,” Rowan murmured to her, setting his bag down and approaching her stall. The gentleness in his voice made something twist in my chest. He had the same tone when he spoke to nervous animals and reluctant ranchers alike.

I leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. “I’ve got three more after her. Think you’ll be done by noon?”

“Eager to get rid of me already?” Rowan glanced over his shoulder with that half-smile that made the scar on his jaw curve slightly. Damn that thing for always catching my attention. He ran his hand along Penny’s neck, soothing her as he prepared the vaccination.

“Got work to do,” I muttered, looking away. Truth was, I had rearranged my entire day around his visit, but he didn’t need to know that.

Rowan worked efficiently, his hands moving with practiced precision. I tried not to stare at the way his shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he reached up to check Penny’s eyes, or how his forearms tensed when he held her steady.

“How’s the herd doing?” he asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us.

“Fine.”

“Just fine? And the new calf is doing well too?”

I shifted uncomfortably. I really didn’t want to be having more conversation with him than I needed to. But I hadn’t left the barn yet either, so it was my own damn fault.

“He’s fine. Still can barely keep the damn thing in the barn though,” I scoffed. “He wants out onto that pasture.”

Rowan nodded. “They’ve got a lot of energy at that age. There’s a bit of a cold snap on the way, so probably best to keep him inside until it passes. He’ll be grumpy, but I’m sure he’ll thank you for the warmth.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

Rowan moved on to the next horse, and I found myself following along instead of heading out to check the fences like I’d planned. Something about the way he worked—confident but gentle—kept me rooted to the spot.

“You know,” he said, preparing another injection, “most ranchers I visit can’t stop talking about their livestock. You’re a man of few words, Brooks Callahan.”

“Not much to say,” I replied, watching his hands. Those damn hands. “Animals don’t need much conversation.”

He chuckled, a sound that traveled right down my spine. “Fair enough. But they do need care.” He glanced at me. “Like that little calf. Your herd’s small, but healthy. You’ve got good instincts.”

I wasn’t used to compliments, especially not from someone like him. City boy turned country vet, with those educated ways of speaking and that careful precision. Everything about him was deliberate, measured. The opposite of me.

“Been doing this a while,” I muttered, shifting my weight. “Nothing special about keeping animals alive.”

“Disagree,” Rowan said, moving on to the third horse. “Plenty of ranchers with twice your experience don’t have half your touch. These animals trust you.”

I felt heat crawl up my neck at his words. Compliments always made me uncomfortable, especially from someone whose opinion shouldn’t matter to me. But it did, and that was the problem.

“Just doing what needs doing,” I mumbled, adjusting my hat lower over my eyes.

Rowan worked in silence for a moment, his hands steady as he checked the horse’s gums. The morning sun had fully risen now, streaming through the barn windows and catching in his dark hair, highlighting strands of auburn I hadn’t noticed before.

“You know,” he said casually, not looking at me, “I’ve been in Sagebrush for nearly three weeks now, and you’re still the only person who calls me Dr. Walsh.”

“That so?” I leaned against a post, trying to appear indifferent.

“Even Mrs. Henley calls me Rowan, and she’s ninety-two and calls everyone ‘young man.’” He glanced up with that half-smile that went straight to my groin.

“Mrs. Henley would call the devil himself ‘darlin’, if he showed up with fresh-baked cookies,” I muttered, shifting my weight again.

Rowan laughed, a genuine sound that echoed through the barn and made the horses’ ears prick up. “You’re probably right about that.” He moved to the last horse, a gelding named Buck who was notoriously skittish around strangers.

To my surprise, Buck didn’t flinch when Rowan approached. Instead, he lowered his head, almost nuzzling against Rowan’s chest. Something tightened in my gut at the sight.

“Well, would you look at that,” Rowan said softly, stroking Buck’s muzzle. “Seems like I’m winning someone over, at least.”

Our eyes met over Buck’s head, and I couldn’t look away. Those green eyes of his held mine, steady and unafraid, like he was looking right through all my carefully constructed walls.

“He’s just being friendly ‘cause you’ve got treats in your pocket,” I said, breaking the moment.

“No treats today,” Rowan replied, still holding my gaze. “Just patience. Animals can sense when you’re genuine.”

I looked away first, focusing on a cobweb in the corner of the barn. “You about done?”

“Almost,” he said, his voice softer now as he prepared the last vaccination. “Buck here just needs his shot, and we’re all set. ”

I watched as he worked, his hands gentle but confident as they moved over my horse. Buck, the traitor, seemed to be enjoying the attention, leaning into Rowan’s touch like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

“There we go,” Rowan murmured, stepping back from the stall. “All done.”

He packed up his equipment with practiced efficiency, and I found myself wishing he’d take longer, which was exactly the opposite of what I should’ve been wanting. I followed him out of the barn into the bright Texas sunshine, squinting against the glare.

“Your horses are in great shape,” he said, stopping by his truck. “You’re doing a good job with them.”

“Thanks,” I said, the word feeling awkward in my mouth. Something about Rowan always got me tongue-tied and shy when I should’ve been confident and detached. “I’ll settle up with you next time I’m in town,” I finished, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from fidgeting.

Rowan leaned against his truck, studying me with those penetrating green eyes. “No rush. I can bill you.” He didn’t make any move to leave, just stood there looking at me like he was trying to figure something out. “You ever come into town for anything besides supplies, Brooks?”

I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with the personal question. “Not much reason to.”

“There’s a decent little bar I just found the other day. The Rusty Spur. Nothing fancy, but they’ve got cold beer and good burgers.”

My heart thumped harder against my ribs. Was he suggesting what I thought he was suggesting? “I know the place,” I said carefully.

“I’m usually there Friday evenings.” He opened his truck door but paused before getting in. “In case you ever want company with your dinner.”

The invitation hung in the air between us. I should’ve brushed it off, made some excuse about being busy with the ranch. Instead, I found myself nodding slightly. “Maybe.”

Something flickered in Rowan’s eyes, a sense of knowing and recognition that filled me with dread.

The corner of Rowan’s mouth twitched upward. “Maybe’s better than no. ”

He climbed into his truck, the door creaking shut behind him. I stood there like a damn fool, watching as he started the engine and backed up, raising a hand in farewell before driving down my long dirt driveway.

I didn’t wave back. Couldn’t make my arm work properly. My whole body felt like it was running on different wiring than usual, circuits crossing and sparking where they shouldn’t.

When his truck disappeared in a cloud of dust, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The silence of the ranch settled around me again, but it felt different now—emptier somehow.

“Goddammit,” I muttered, kicking at a stone.

Inside the barn, Buck whinnied as if he was laughing at me. I shot him a glare through the open door.

“Traitor,” I called out. “One handsome vet with gentle hands and you’re putty. Have some self-respect. Why don’t you be miserable like the rest of us?”

I stalked back to the house, boots heavy against the packed earth. The invitation to the Rusty Spur hung in my mind like a burr in my sock. Impossible to ignore and irritating as hell.

I slammed the screen door behind me and stood in my kitchen, the ticking of the clock suddenly too loud. Friday was two days away. Two damn days to decide if I was going to make the biggest mistake of my life or continue on as I had been—alone but safe.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of chores.

I mended fences, checked on the new calf, and mucked out stalls with more force than necessary.

By sunset, my muscles ached and my hands were raw, but my mind was no clearer.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rowan’s face, that little half-smile, the scar on his jaw catching the light.

I heated up a can of beans for dinner and ate standing at the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky. The ranch was quiet except for the occasional lowing of cattle in the distance. It had never bothered me before, the silence. Now it felt like it was pressing in on all sides.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, tossing the empty can in the trash.

I was acting like some lovesick teenager, and all because a handsome vet asked me to get a beer.

I’d avoided this kind of trouble for years, kept my head down and my life simple.

No complications. No heartache. Just me and my cattle and this little piece of land that belonged to me and no one else.

I poured myself two fingers of whiskey and took it out to the porch.

The evening was cold, stars beginning to dot the darkening sky above the prairie as my breath billowed visibly in front of me.

I sat in my old rocking chair, the one that had been my father’s, and let the familiar creak of wood against wood soothe me.

The whiskey burned going down, warming my chest. I thought about Rowan—Dr. Walsh—and the way he’d looked at me.

Like he knew something about me that I wasn’t ready to admit to myself.

The way his fingers had moved so confidently over my horses, gentle but sure.

A man who knew what he was doing with those hands.

“Shit,” I muttered, taking another swig as the front of my jeans tightened once more. This was exactly the kind of thinking I needed to avoid.

The night air carried the scent of sage and dust, the essence of this land I’d called home my entire life. I took another deep pull of whiskey, letting the burn chase away thoughts that had no place in my world.

Two days. Two days to decide whether I’d be sitting at my kitchen table Friday night or driving into town to that bar.

The Rusty Spur wasn’t much—wooden floors sticky with spilled beer, a jukebox that played mostly country music from twenty years ago, and locals who’d known me my whole life but still didn’t know me at all.

Not that I’d ever let them get that close.

The whiskey was gone too quickly. I considered pouring another but decided against it. Early morning would come whether I was ready or not, and the cattle didn’t care if their rancher was nursing a hangover because he wasn’t much of a drinker.

I went to bed with the windows cracked, letting the cold night air seep in.

Of course, it did nothing to stop my thoughts from wandering back to Rowan and the way his strong hands would feel against my bare skin.

I did my best to ignore the tented sheet in front of me as I attempted to force myself to sleep.

It had been nearly ten years since I’d shared an intimate moment with another person.

And if I had my way about it, that wasn’t going to change.

I just hoped I could resist Rowan Walsh before it was too late.