Page 4 of Wicked Cowboy

“Boys,” Grandma warns. “Let the poor girl get warm before you start sparring.”

Luke flashes Frankie a wink. “Welcome to Brush Creek. Sorry about the entertainment.”

“Honestly?” She grins. “It’s better than cable.”

Upstairs, the old staircase creaks under our boots. I can hear the rain pelting the roof, the steady hum of the wind through the rafters. Frankie follows closely, clutching her coat around her. She’s quiet now, which feels strange after the chaos of the pumpkin stand.

“This place is incredible,” she says finally. “It smells like cinnamon and feels so homey.”

I shrug. “Grandma and Luke are baking again.”

“Lucky you.”

The hallway’s dim, lit by the old iron sconces along the wall. I open the second door on the right. The guest room is small but cozy. There’s a patchwork quilt, fresh flowers on the dresser, and a window overlooking the barn.

“You can use this room,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s through that door. Hot water comes fast ande the handle sticks.”

She sets her bag down and looks around with a small, relieved smile. “It’s perfect. Thank you, really.”

“You should get out of those wet clothes before you freeze.”

Her gaze flicks up, amused. “Are you always this charming?”

“Only when rescuing pumpkin vandals.”

She laughs, quietly and warmly, then starts to unbutton her coat. I catch myself watching the movement before I can stop, then force my eyes to the wall.

“I’ll, uh… get you something hot to drink,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Coffee’s great,” she says. “Or tea. Whatever’s not poisoned.”

“I make no promises.”

Her laughter follows me down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Grandma’s got a tray ready before I even reach her. “Cocoa and cookies,” she says. “Take them up to her. Girl needs something sweet after that mess of a day.”

Luke leans against the counter, smirking. “She’s cute.”

“Don’t start,” I warn.

“Hey, I’m just saying. You spend all your time talking to tractors and cows. A little conversation won’t kill you.”

“She’s a tourist. She’ll be gone in the morning.”

Grandma clucks her tongue. “Storm says otherwise. Roads are already icing. She might be here awhile.”

“Then she can rest. That’s all.”

Grandma gives me a long, knowing look. The kind she’s perfected since I was a boy caught sneaking pie before dinner. “You’re so afraid of feeling anything again, Rhett Carson, you wouldn’t know a blessing if it danced naked in your pumpkin patch.”

“Grandma.”

Luke barks a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

“I’m going to shower,” I mutter, grabbing a towel from the laundry stack.

“You do that,” Grandma says sweetly. “Maybe scrub off a little of that attitude while you’re at it.”