Page 26 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

I pace the length of the guest room, my phone pressed to my ear as Suzi, my coach of six years, unleashes her predictable lecture.

“This is exactly why I tell you to travel with a training schedule, Mia! Consistency is everything at your level.” Her voice has that crisp, no-nonsense quality that normally centers me.

“Trust me, this wasn't planned Coach,” I reply, glancing out the window at the vast Texas landscape. “One minute I was headed to Maine, the next I'm stranded in cowboy country without my passport.”

“Excuses don't win medals,” she shoots back. “What's your access situation?”

I sigh, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “There's supposedly an Olympic-sized pool in the next town over. My... host offered to take me.”

“Host?” Suzi's tone sharpens with interest. “I thought you were in a motel.”

“It's complicated,” I mutter, not wanting to explain the whole plumbing disaster and how I've ended up living under Grant Taylor's roof. “But the pool access isn't guaranteed yet.”

“Then find alternatives. I need you doing at least two hours daily, Mia. Your qualifying times were good, but not good enough to slack off.”

Her words sting, but they're true. I've worked too hard to let a detour derail my Olympic dreams.

“What about open water?” I ask, as I recall Grant's mention of a river on the property.

“If it's safe and you can measure distance, sure. Resistance training is actually good for your stroke power.” She pauses. “Just don't get eaten by anything.”

I laugh despite myself. “I'll try not to become alligator food.”

After hanging up, I slip out the back door, determined to at least scout the river before Grant returns from whatever ranch business called him away after breakfast.

The mid-morning sun is already brutal, the heat shimmering off the ground as I follow what appears to be an overgrown path toward the sound of running water. The landscape is beautiful in a wild, untamed way–so different from the coastal towns and crowded cities I typically write about.

I find the river where the land dips down, shaded by massive oak trees. It's wider than I expected, the water clear enough to see the rocky bottom in some places. The current looks manageable – strong enough for resistance training but not dangerously so.

I kneel at the edge of the water, the grass damp beneath my knees. My fingers stretch out and skim the surface. The water is cool, smooth, familiar in a way that knocks the air from my lungs. It flows over my skin, that triggers a cascade of memories I usually keep carefully locked away.

Closing my eyes, I feel the sun warm on my face, and just like that, I’m not here anymore.

I’m eight years old, and my mom’s laughter, sharp and sparkling, fills the air as clearly as if she were right here beside me.

Feeling her soft skin under my little hands and gentle kisses on my cheek—my arms locked tight around her neck, as we drift through the bay near our house.Her perfume always something light and sweet, but in the water, she just smelled like home.

She’d always let me hang on, even when I was too big to be carried.

The memories flow into my mind of how she’d hum a little tune under her breath, off-key and cheerful, as she taught me how to float.

“Float like a starfish, my love,” she’d coax with a smile, her hands cool and steady beneath my back. “The water wants to hold you. Just let it.”

And I believed her.

Because she said it with the kind of certainty that made the world feel safe, like all I had to do was listen to her voice and I’d be okay.

Even when my chin dipped under and I gasped in a mouthful of salt and fear.

Even when I panicked about nothing at all.

She never once flinched. She’d lift me with calm, sure arms, push the wet hair from my cheeks, and say gently, “You’re alright. I’ve got you, my love.”

And she always did.

She’d hold me tight and whisper “Even brave girls still get scared,” her lips close to my ear. “The difference is—they try anyway.”

I try to hold it together, but that memory—those exact words—scrape against something tender in me.

A tear rolls down my cheek and falls into the water, bringing another part of me, closer to her.

And now, kneeling at the edge of this lake, I swear I can still hear her humming—just faintly, just beneath the breeze. It curls around my heart and squeezes.

Her memory moves through me like a tide I can’t resist—fierce and soft and filled with love that still lives inside every molecule of water she once swam in.

She’s gone.

But somehow, here, she doesn’t feel so far away.

I open my eyes and tilt my head back, soaking in the sun as it filters through the trees. I take a deep breath. This spot feels like her. Safe. Familiar. Full of love.

“You've found the swimming hole.” I startle at the deep voice behind me, nearly toppling into the water. Grant stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable as he watches me.

“Sorry,” he says, taking a step closer. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's fine,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to slow my racing heart. “I was just checking it out.”

Grant nods, his eyes moving from me to the water and back again. There's tension in his shoulders I haven't noticed before.

“You swim here sometimes?” I ask, rising to my feet.

Something flickers across his face – pain, maybe – before he masks it with a casual shrug. “Not anymore.”

Before I can ask what he means, the sound of hoofbeats draws our attention. Lily appears on a chestnut horse, leading two others behind her.

“Perfect timing!” she calls out, her grin bright in the sunlight. “I was just about to ask if you'd like a tour of the property, Mia? Best way to see it is on horseback.” She beams with excitement.

I hesitate, looking between the siblings. “I haven't ridden since I was a kid.”

“Don't worry,” Grant says, a hint of challenge in his voice. “We'll start slow, and I won't let you fall.”

Our eyes lock, and there's a weight to his words that has nothing to do with horseback riding. I feel that now-familiar pull toward him. And for one dangerous second, I wonder— what if I stopped fighting this? What if, I was scared, but tried anyway?

“Okay, Trouble,” I hear myself say, my voice far more casual than I feel. “Show me this ranch of yours.”

That crooked smirk appears like I just said something filthy instead of vaguely flirtatious. He crooks his elbow, all mock-chivalry, and I slip my arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world—even though it feels anything but.

The bank is a gentle slope, but he doesn’t let go. His hand hovers behind my back like he’s expecting me to trip, like he wants to catch me.

Spoiler: I wouldn’t hate it.

Reaching the top of the embankment, Lily introduces me to a gentle palomino named Sunshine.

“She’s our sweetheart. Doesn’t spook. Total princess energy.

You’ll get along great.” Her golden coat gleams in the Texas heat.

She's gorgeous and gentle and exactly what I need right now to mentally sprint away from the man beside me that’s making my nerves jump.

Grant moves behind me, and before I can overthink it, his hands settle on my waist. Big.

Firm. Warm. His thumbs graze the curve of my hips, and I barely hold in a gasp, as he boosts me up, and into the saddle, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary and I swear on all things holy, I feel that contact all the way down to the soles of my brand new boots.

The heat of the afternoon is nothing compared to the wildfire currently torching its way through my bloodstream.

But I smile. Breezy. Collected. Like I didn’t just imagine what his hands would feel like on my skin without a layer of denim in the way.

Because denial? Is a full-time sport.

And I’ve always been competitive.

“You nervous?” he asks, his eyes searching mine as he adjusts my stirrups.

“I don't get nervous,” I scoff, though my white-knuckle grip on the saddle horn suggests otherwise.

His smile is knowing. “Sure you don't.”

He mounts his own horse—a powerful black mare that seems to match his personality—with practiced ease. The movement draws my attention to the play of muscles in his thighs and arms, and I quickly look away, cursing my body's traitorous response to him.

“The trick is to relax,” Lily advises, guiding her horse alongside mine. “Sunshine can sense tension.”

“Oh great,” I mutter. “A mind-reading horse. Just what I need.”

Grant laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “You'll be fine darlin’. She's practically a rocking chair with legs.”

We set off at a gentle walk, the horses easing into a rhythm that pulls tension from my shoulders like string being unwound.

Sunshine—true to her name—is warming to me, patient, her gait smooth, and riding on her is almost meditative.

The trail winds lazily through pastures speckled with cattle, tails swishing, heads down, blissfully unaware of the emotional landmine unfolding just a few feet above their heads.

Despite my unease at first—being perched on a thousand-pound animal in boots I bought for fashion, not function—I settle into it.

There's something grounding about horseback riding.

Something ancient. My perspective shifts, literally and figuratively, as the expanse of the Taylor ranch rolls out around me like a living oil painting.

Golden fields, oak-lined fences as far as the eye can see, a horizon so wide it makes me ache.

“How much land do you have?” I ask, not just to make conversation. It’s genuine curiosity. The sprawl of this place makes cities feel like cages.

Grant glances over at me, squinting against the sun. “About eighty thousand acres. Been in the Taylor family four generations.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s... impressive.”