Page 27 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

And it is. Not just the acreage, but the legacy. The roots. The constancy of it. I've never stayed anywhere long enough to memorize the creak of the floorboards, let alone build a life on the same soil my forefather’s walked.

“It’s home,” he says simply.

But there’s a kind of quiet reverence in his voice. A weight. The way his hand absently grazes the horse’s neck, like he’s not just riding the land—he’s part of it. Like he could close his eyes and still navigate by the scent of hay and the angle of the wind.

We ride in silence for a while. Companionable.

Easy. The kind of silence that doesn’t itch or demand filling.

The only sounds are the rhythmic clop of hooves, birds chirping overhead, the low grumble of cattle somewhere in the distance.

Then I hear it—the river. Wider now, curving through the property like a ribbon of silver.

“Oh shoot!” Lily exclaims, snapping upright in her saddle and slapping a hand dramatically to her thigh. “I completely forgot I promised Mama I’d help her… uh… organize the pantry.”

Grant glances over, unconvinced. “The pantry?”

“Yes. It’s a very intensive pantry job. She wants to… alphabetize the canned goods. You know how she gets before guests come.”

Grant raises an eyebrow. “They don’t have guests coming.”

Lily’s eyes widen in fake surprise. “Oh! Wow, right. Huh. Well, she’s just in one of her moods, I guess.

You know Mama. Overachiever and all.” Lily continues without taking a breath “Mia, you don’t mind if I leave you here with Grant, do you?

He gives a mean tour—way better than me.

Full of history. Ranchy trivia. Sexy facts.

” She winks and clicks her tongue at the same time.

“ Lily, ” Grant warns, the low gravel in his voice doing little to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

But she’s already turning her horse. “Have fun you two! Try not to fall off the horse or each other!”

With a smirk and a wink, she kicks her heels and races off at breakneck speed toward the house, her hair bouncing and her laugh cackling in the wind, like she’s just won a matchmaking trophy.

I can’t help it—I laugh too shaking my head. “Your sister’s about as subtle as a marching band.”

Grant exhales a sigh, lifting his cowboy hat and dragging a hand through his already tousled hair. “Yeah, subtlety isn’t a Taylor family trait. She once tried to set me up with the UPS driver by pretending she’d lost her cat in my house.”

I snort. “Oh, did they find it?”

“Not even a little, given she doesn’t have a cat.”

We both chuckle, and he guides his horse closer, close enough that our legs nearly brush. The warmth between us hums, unspoken but pulsing like a hidden current under everything.

“We can head back if you want,” he says, voice quieter now. Careful.

“No,” I say quickly—too quickly. My cheeks flush. “I’m…actually enjoying this.”

His smile softens, warms, and something inside me tugs. “Then let’s keep going.”

We follow the river's curve, our horses walking side by side.

The water sparkles like spilled diamonds in the late afternoon sun, and I turn to look at Grant. I find myself watching the light shift on his face—jaw set, his brown eyes thoughtful, that barely-there scar on his cheek hinting at a story I haven’t heard yet.

Looking away I keep my eyes on the safer expanse of the broad landscape. “It’s beautiful out here,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. But he’s not looking at the river.

The water reminds me of the bay near my childhood home, where my mother taught me to swim before I could walk.

“You really love the water, don't you?” Grant asks, eyes still watching me.

I nod. “It's where I feel most myself. Most free.” I hesitate, then add, “Even after it took my mom, I couldn't stay away. It's like... being in the water somehow keeps me connected to her.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it—something I've never told anyone, not even Brè. Grant's expression softens.

“I’m sorry.” He offers. “What happened to her?” he asks gently.

I swallow hard, looking out at the river rather than at him.

“Boating accident when I was twelve. We were celebrating her birthday with a day trip on the bay.” The memory surfaces with painful clarity.

“We were further out we’ve ever been, and a storm came up suddenly.

The boat capsized. The propellor caught her.

I was wearing a life jacket, but she...” I trail off, unable to finish.

Grant's hand covers mine on the reins, his touch anchoring me to the present. “I'm so sorry, Mia.”

The simple words hold more genuine understanding than all the elaborate condolences I've received over the years.

“Do you come here often?” I ask, changing the subject and nodding toward the river.

His hand withdraws, and I immediately miss its warmth. His expression darkens as he stares at the water.

“No,” he says finally. “I haven't been in that river for eight years.”

There's something in his tone that makes me hold my breath. “Why not?”

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then-

“My younger brother drowned in it.” The words fall heavy between us. “Jake. He was seventeen. I was twenty years old.”

I feel like I've been punched in the chest, the air leaving my lungs all at once. “Grant, I'm so sorry,” I whisper, the words wholly inadequate for the pain I see etched across his face.

He nods, his jaw tight. For a moment, I think that's all he'll say, but then he continues; his voice low and raw.

“We were playing this stupid game—running across the railroad tracks before the train came. Jake wanted to prove he was as brave as his big brother.” Grant’s knuckles turn white as he grips the reins.

“The train was closer than we thought. He made it across, but fell down the embankment, hit his head and went into the river. The current was strong that day.”

My throat constricts as I picture the scene—a boy slipping into the water, a desperate brother unable to reach him in time.

“You couldn't have known,” I say softly.

His laugh is hollow. “That's what everyone said. Doesn't make it any less…” he stops talking and there is so much weight in that one sentence.

The familiar weight of survivor's guilt hangs between us like a physical presence. I recognize it because I've carried my own version for years—wondering why I survived when my mother didn't, questioning if I could have somehow saved her.

“I was supposed to be watching him,” Grant continues, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “I should have known better. Dad trusted me to keep him safe.”

“And you've been punishing yourself ever since,” I say, recognizing the pattern.

His eyes snap to mine, startled by my directness. “Wouldn't you?”

I consider this carefully, thinking of my own complicated relationship with water. “Maybe. But I also know what it's like to let guilt keep you from living.” I gesture toward the river. “I chose to embrace the thing that took from me and terrified me most at first. You chose to avoid it.”

“Different coping mechanisms,” he concedes, something like respect flickering in his eyes.

“Different, but we both ended up stuck in our own ways.”

Our horses have stopped moving, standing peacefully side by side as we face each other. In this moment, I feel seen in a way I haven't in years—maybe ever. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“We should head back,” Grant says finally, though he doesn't move. “It'll be getting dark soon.”

I nod, but neither of us make a move to turn our horses. The weight of shared vulnerability hangs between us, creating a connection I didn't expect and don't quite know how to handle.

“Mia,” he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my skin tingle.

“My mom's birthday dinner is tomorrow night.

Would you... I mean, if you're not busy...” He clears his throat, suddenly looking less like the confident cowboy and more like an uncertain teenager. “Would you like to come? As my guest?”

The invitation catches me off guard. This isn't just a casual dinner—this is meeting his family, stepping into his world in a way that feels significant.

“Your whole family will be there?” I ask, stalling.

He nods, watching me carefully. “They'd love to meet you. And Mama always cooks enough to feed an army.” He chuckles softly.

I should say no. Getting involved with Grant Taylor's family is the opposite of what I should be doing as someone who's supposedly leaving town at the first opportunity. Getting attached to this place, to these people—to him—will only make it harder when it's time to go.

But as I look at him, backlit by the setting sun, I find I can't form the word “no.”

“I…I'd like that,” I say instead, the admission terrifying in its honesty.

His smile is slow and genuine, lighting up his entire face in a way that makes my heart skip. “Really?”

“Really,” I confirm, returning his smile despite myself. “But I should warn you—I don't own anything appropriate for a fancy family dinner. Unless your mother appreciates the 'stranded traveler' aesthetic.”

He laughs, the sound chasing away the heaviness of our earlier conversation. “Trust me, she's not going to care what you're wearing. She's just going to be thrilled I'm bringing someone.”

“You don't bring dates to family dinners often?” I ask, genuinely curious.

The word “date” hanging between us.

“Never,” he says simply, his eyes never leaving mine.

The significance of his answer settles between us as we finally turn our horses toward home.