Page 11 of Wicked Cowboy

“I don’t yell at our horses,” Rhett says.

“Sure you don’t,” Luke says, grinning.

I grab my coat, smiling. “I’m good with manual labor. Or moral support.”

“Fine,” Rhett mutters. “Meet me out front in ten.”

Outside, the air smells like wet earth and pine sap. The sky is blue again, the kind that looks freshly washed. The porch boards creak as Rhett steps out beside me, hat low over his eyes.

“You ready?” he asks.

“For what exactly?”

“Surveying storm damage. Fixing what’s broken.”

I smile. “You say that like it’s therapy.”

“Sometimes it is.”

We walk side by side toward the pasture. The grass shines with dew, the fence line glinting silver in the sun. Cows graze lazily in the distance, and a hawk cuts across the bright horizon.

“So,” I say, breaking the quiet, “was last night a thing that happened, or a weather-related hallucination?”

His mouth twitches. “You tell me.”

“I’m not sure. I was struck by lightning-level charm.”

That earns me the smallest laugh, low and rough. “You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough.”

He stops walking and turns to face me. “Have you always been this fearless?”

“No,” I say honestly. “But something about this place makes me feel like I can be.”

He studies me for a moment, eyes searching mine, then looks away toward the hills. “You should be careful what you let it make you feel.”

“Why?”

“Because once it gets under your skin, it’s hard to leave.”

The way he says it, soft, resigned, tugs somewhere low in my chest.

I step closer, brushing his arm with mine. “Good thing I don’t want to leave yet.”

He exhales slowly, almost like the confession surprises him more than it should. The silence that follows hums with something alive and unspoken. He finally clears his throat. “You ever fix a fence before, city girl?”

“Nope, I don’t think I’ve ever even touched a fence.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, small and real. “Come on. I’ll teach you all about them.”

By the time we head back toward the house, the sun’s high and the air smells like hay. My hands ache, my jeans are streaked with mud, and Rhett’s laugh has become my new favorite sound, rare, rough-edged, and entirely worth chasing.

Martha and Luke are waiting on the porch when we return, mugs in hand, wearing identical grins.

“Well,” Martha says, “you two look mighty productive.”

Luke elbows Rhett. “Translation: you’ve got dirt on your face, man.”