Page 4 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

Five minutes on the road and I pass the electric-blue Dodge.

It’s pulled to the side, the man-bun boyfriend even angrier as he kicks at a flat.

I think about flipping him the finger and driving on, but it’s not my style.

So I ignore my buzzing phone and pull over to help.

Twenty minutes later, a hug from the not-so-angry boyfriend and another from Kelly, I’m back in my truck.

Based on how eager Kelly was to slip me her digits on the back of a Starbucks receipt, I don’t think she and the boyfriend will last the rest of the season.

I chuckle to myself and drop the receipt in the door to throw away later.

Even Kelly and her lace bra and her cowboy boots can’t take away my yearning to be home now.

I hit the gas and leave the city behind.

In the mirrors, the setting sun is hitting the glass high-rises in the city, but ahead it’s all wide-open space.

Another turn and the peaks come into view.

Low at first. Craggy dark ridges pushing up from the land, glowing orange in the setting sun.

Beyond them, far in the distance, is James Peak and the other snowcapped mountains of the Rockies.

I turn left on a dirt track and a few minutes later the ranch house—a sprawling property with a large red barn and rolling green paddocks—comes into view.

Through the rich green spruce trees is a crystal-clear lake we swim in during the summer.

There’s not another ranch or building for miles.

All that surrounds us is land and the foothills leading up to the mountains.

Like always, I feel the familiar pang of sadness when I see the empty paddocks. One day , I tell myself. One day, when football is over, I’ll fill them with horses and pick up where my dad left off, breeding and training horses for the rodeo.

The horses were always Dad’s joy. Mama’s was football.

A year after she sold the horses, she turned the back paddocks into a football field with goal posts and gridlines.

Dylan, Chase, and I were out there every hour we weren’t at school.

Dawn until dusk in the summers, before girls came along anyway.

We still play together on the Fourth of July when Mama cooks a turkey and declares it our own Thanksgiving, seeing how we’re always with our teams, playing football, on the real holiday.

I kill the engine and open my truck door, filling my lungs with air that smells of my childhood—spruce and pine and dewy grass. My feet hit the dirt driveway and just for a moment I feel all the tension in my body unravel.

Then my three-year-old yellow Labrador retriever, Buck, is charging out the back door to greet me, ears flapping in the wind, tongue hanging out. I bend down and run my hands over his yellow coat, catching the stench of his seriously bad breath.

“You’re gross, Bucky.” I laugh and he barks his agreement, dancing around my legs as I head to the open back door.

The house has changed over the years. I always think of it as having grown with us.

A kitchen extension on the back and another bedroom and bathroom above it when we got too big to share.

When I’m in the city, I think of getting an apartment there again.

But when I’m at the ranch, I think of building my own house on the edge of the land.

Getting those horses I always dream about.

I think my dad would like that. A connection to a man I wish I’d known better, wish I’d had more time with.

People liked to tell me as a kid that time heals all wounds, but they were wrong.

I might’ve learned to navigate my life without my dad, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt any less that he’s not here to see it.

That I don’t have a chance to make him proud.

Becoming ranchers like Dad is something Dylan and I used to talk about doing together when we’re too old to keep chasing our dreams. When I’m on the field and the ball is in my hands and I’m flying toward the end zone, feeling invincible, those horses seem far in the future.

But on days like today, it doesn’t seem so distant.

The kitchen smells of chili as I step inside.

A woman I don’t recognize is sitting at the end of the bench, a purple notebook already open on the long table that stretches the width of the kitchen.

This must be the reporter. I knew she’d be here, but I still find myself taken aback.

She isn’t what I expected. Buck scampers over to her and flops beside her pointed-toe stilettos. Traitor.

My gaze snags on those shoes. Patent black, high, and sexy as hell.

Then my eyes travel up her body, along a pair of tanned long legs, a cute ass wrapped in a tight pencil skirt, and a silk blouse just tight enough to hint at the kind of breasts that make a man weak at the knees.

I keep going. Her hair is as sleek as the rest of her and rich brown, the exact color of chestnuts.

Full lips, cute button nose, big Bambi eyes.

But her gaze on me is cold. Why does it feel like she already hates me and we haven’t even started yet?

Her eyes are screaming “don’t even try,” and that suits me just fine.

Mama is by the stove, stirring a pot. She might be the fiercest person I know, but she’s also tiny.

She’s barely reached my bicep since I was a teen.

Not that her height ever stopped her giving me a grilling when she thought I deserved it.

One of these days, Jake, your carefree attitude is going to land you in the sort of trouble I won’t be able to get you out of.

It’s a variation on the talk she’s given me for the best part of fifteen years.

Only now do I wonder if we’ve finally reached that point.

My stomach knots. I’m still living the dream , I remind myself. I just have to keep it that way.

“Just in time,” Mama says as I kiss her cheek. She’s pissed I’m late alright, but she knows to give me a minute.

“Sorry, Mama,” I say in her ear.

She nods before waving a spoon toward the table. “Jake, this is Harper Cassidy, the reporter from Sports Magazine .”

“I guess Kevin wasn’t available,” I say loud enough for Harper to hear as I steal a chunk of fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

Mama shoots me a hard glare and I mouth another sorry.

It was a dick comment, but Harper’s unflinching dagger gaze makes my balls want to leap up into my body, and I wanted to even the playing field.

If my comment hits, she doesn’t show it.

Instead she stands, holding out her hand for me to shake.

It’s so formal. If the next five weeks are going to be like this, I’m going to be pulling over at a lot more broken-down Dodges.

“Shall we get started now you’re finally here?

” she asks, cocking an eyebrow like she’s daring me to carry on being a dick.

Happy to oblige, I throw a glance back to the stove. “Sorry, sweetheart.” I grin, guessing she’ll hate the endearment, and by the narrowed eyes I’m right. “The plates aren’t out yet. I’ve got time for a shower.”

“Excuse me?” Her look is pure disbelief, but I’m already by the door and Mama is coming to my rescue.

“House rules, I’m afraid,” Mama says, flashing Harper a sympathetic smile. “They can shower if I haven’t plated dinner. Believe me, raising three boys, you’re grateful when they wash. Besides, there’s plenty of time now that you’re staying here.”

I flinch. “Staying? At the ranch? You’re kidding, right?”

Mama shakes her head. “I don’t joke about business, Jake.

You know that. Harper is here to go behind the scenes and get to know the real you so she can write a feature which will go a long way to saving your ass.

She’s hardly going to do that grabbing a few minutes with you after practice.

So I invited her to stay. She’s in Chase’s room. ”

I sigh and disappear into the hall and up the stairs before the reporter can give me another of her glares. How the hell has this gone to shit so fast?

If my football career is hanging in the balance with only Harper Cassidy and this feature to save it, then I’m in a whole world of trouble.

Because one thing is for sure—based on the looks she just fired my way, Harper already thinks she’s got me all figured out.

I really need to get out of this interview…