Page 38 of Tempting Wyatt

“Just an observation,” he says, flashing me that infuriating grin before grabbing the empty bucket from me. “Come on, Hollywood. We’re burning daylight.”

And just like that, he’s off again, moving like this land belongs to him—because it does.

As I watch him, I can’t quite figure out if the land belongs to Wyatt Logan or if he belongs to the land. I’m beginning to believe that it’s both somehow.

By the time we finish feeding the cattle at the next stop, my arms are aching, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have hay in my hair for the rest of the day. Wyatt doesn’t seem the least bit affected. If anything, he looks more in his element than ever, like this is what he was born to do.

“All right,” he says, dropping the buckets off in a nearby metal tub. “Time to check on the horses.”

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the soreness. “Do they need range cubes, too, or is that just a cattle thing?”

“Just the cattle. Horses get mostly grain and hay. But the ranch hands stay on top of that. We’re just checking to make sure nobody’s got a limp or a cut, injuries or hygiene issues that need tending to.”

He starts walking again, and I jog to keep up.

The horse pasture is even bigger than the previous one, stretching out toward the tree line, where the rolling hills of the ranch rise and fall like ocean waves. A few horses graze in the distance, their coats gleaming in the midday sun, while others stand near the fence, ears pricked as we approach.

They watch us with quiet intelligence, dark eyes tracking us.

When a fawn-colored one moves closer, I lift my handcautiously over the fence, unsure if I’m about to make a mistake. “Is he friendly?”

Wyatt shrugs. “He won’t bite.” Then, after a pause, “Probably not anyway.”

I’m about to ask him for the actual odds on a horse biting me when a sudden blur of movement catches my attention. Something small and scrappy barrels out from behind the horses and makes a beeline straight for us.

“What the?—”

“Dammit, Jasper.” Wyatt sighs heavily, his brow wrinkling above the bridge of his nose like this is a headache he’s endured one too many times.

Jasper, as it turns out, is not a dog, as I first assumed.

Jasper is a donkey. A short, shaggy, wild-eyed donkey with a mind of his own and absolutely no concern for personal space.

He skids to a halt in front of us, his ears swiveling like radar dishes as he sizes me up.

“Aww. Who’s this little guy?”

“This,” Wyatt huffs out, clearly exasperated, “is the biggest pain in my ass on this ranch. No pun intended.”

“Until I got here, right?” I laugh, but Wyatt doesn’t look amused. “I take it he’s not supposed to be here?”

“He’s not supposed to be anywhere.” Wyatt folds his arms over his chest, eyeing the donkey like he’s about to start negotiations with a terrorist. “Jasper’s got a bad habit of slipping through fences, sneaking under gates, and showing up wherever the hell he pleases. We’ve pinned him up more times than I can count, but it never sticks.”

Jasper lets out a bray that is entirely too loud for his small size, as if he’s proud of his reputation. Then, without hesitation, he sticks his nose into my side and starts rooting around my jacket, like he’s looking for snacks.

“Whoa, buddy. Easy,” I say, stepping back.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Wyatt mutters. “He’s relentless. Probably thinks you’ve got treats on you.”

“I don’t.”

I pat my empty pockets for emphasis, but Jasper is unconvinced. He nudges me again, persistent and stubborn.

Wyatt shakes his head. “Go on, Jasper. Leave her be.”

I raise a brow at him as the donkey ignores him completely. “So he isn’t just supposed to have free reign of the land?”

Clearly, Jasper is under the impression the entire ranch is his domain.