Page 17 of Wicked Cowboy

“You’ll know,” she says, setting a bowl in front of me. “Wrong fires eat you up. The right ones warm you.”

Footsteps cross the back porch. The door swings open. Cold air rides in on bootsteps and the rustle of a coat. Rhett fills the doorway and then the room. His hat low, jaw rough with early stubble, eyes tired in the way a man looks when he’s finished cleaning up a party he didn’t throw and doesn’t want to end. He smells like frost, woodsmoke, and the morning.

“Coffee,” he says to Martha, voice low.

She pours, but her eyes flick toward me like she’s measuring the weather. “Help yourself,” she says, and pats his wrist when he reaches for the mug. “And say good morning like you were taught.”

He glances over, only half committing. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I say, and hate the way it sounds like a word I need him to catch.

He takes the mug to the far end of the counter and drinks, looking out the window, one shoulder angled toward us, as if conversation might spook one of us. I feel the wall slide back into place and can’t tell whether it’s mine or his.

“How’s the yard?” Martha asks, unfazed.

“Fine. Trash is bagged. Maze signage’s down.” He clears his throat. “I’ll start on the north fence after I check the tractor chain.”

“I can help,” I say.

“You’ve done enough,” he says automatically—too quick, too clipped.

It shouldn’t feel like a slammed door, but it does. He must hear the thud of it because he finally looks at me, quick and careful, like he’s placing a fragile thing back where it belongs.

“Get some rest,” he says, quieter. “You don’t have to keep pitching in.”

Martha makes a noise that could be a snort or a prayer. “Lord save us from men who think rest is a love language.”

“I’ll be back for lunch,” he adds, already turning away. The door sighs shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind physically hurts.

Martha sets her spoon down and levels me with a look so kind it almost breaks me. “He’s retreating,” she states, as if discussing the weather. “You have to decide whether you are going to let him get away with it.”

“He told me to rest.”

“And you know that’s just him trying to keep his heart safe.” Her smile tilts, conspirator and saint. “Take him coffee when he pretends he doesn’t need it.”

I press my fingers to my mug, feel heat soak bone. “Is this where I admit I have no idea what I’m doing?”

She winks. “No one does. That’s exactly why you should keep going.”

I find him near the open doors, bent over the tractor hitch. His hands work with sure economy: pin, chain, check, tug. He doesn’t look up when I cross the concrete, but his shoulders hitch the tiniest bit like he can feel my shadow.

“I brought coffee,” I say, setting the thermos within reach.

“I’m cutting back.” He keeps his eyes on the work. “Caffeine makes me agreeable. Bad for my reputation.”

I lean against the stall door, ground my back against solid wood. “Do you always get this quiet the day after a good thing?”

That pulls his gaze. Green eyes hit me like they always do—steady, assessing, a little wild around the edges. “I’m the same every day.”

“Right,” I say softly. “Because fences never break and storms never happen and no one ever kisses you on a dance floor.”

He flinches so small I might have imagined it. He straightens, wipes his hands on a rag, and takes two steps away, enough distance to tell me this isn’t the conversation he wanted.

“Frankie.”

I wait.