Page 1 of Stalked By the Rancher

CHAPTER ONE

Sawyer

I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead, the beads of sweat merging with the dust coating my skin. The sun's relentless rays beat down on the back of my neck as I stand in the middle of my kingdom—thousands of acres of land that stretch farther than the eye can see, all mine to command. The summer heat waves shimmer off the distant hills, and I squint against the glare.

"Hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch," I mutter to myself, a wry grin tugging at my lips. My boots are planted firm in the dirt, worn leather scuffed from years of honest work. The cattle moo distantly, oblivious to the inferno bearing down on us.

I'm a man of the land, born and raised under this punishing Texas sun. My skin is permanently bronzed from years of laboring outdoors, the kind of tan that doesn't fade come winter. Muscles, honed from wrangling stubborn livestock and hefting hay bales, bunch and flex beneath my sweat-soaked shirt. Some guys hit the gym for this kind of build, but me? I just put in a hard day’s work.

Pride swells in my chest like a hot air balloon. This ranch ain't just business. It's legacy, heritage. It’s the Blackwood name etched into every fence post, whispered by every blade of grass. And as the latest Sawyer Blackwood to watch over these lands, I'll be damned if I don't pour every ounce of myself into it.

"Alright, time to saddle up," I tell myself, voice rough like gravel. "Let's get back to it." There's fences need mending, animals need feeding, and a hell of a lot more day left to conquer. With a last glance over my shoulder at the expanse I call home, I head toward the stables, ready for whatever comes next. Because that's what we Blackwoods do—we face the heat head-on and come out stronger for it.

* * *

I stride across the yard, boots kicking up dust that settles on my jeans like a second skin. The heat's relentless today, but I'm born and bred for this—built tough by years of sun and sweat.

"Damn," I mutter, pausing to lean on the fence, letting out a sigh that the dry wind snatches away. "Could sure use some company 'round here."

But the silence is my answer, and it gnaws at me, a hunger for connection that runs as deep as the wells on this land.

That's when I spot the dust cloud rolling down the long drive, a pickup truck barreling towards the ranch like it’s got somewhere to be five minutes ago. My curiosity piques, and I straighten up, wiping more sweat from my brow as the vehicle comes to a halt near the main house.

"New help," I remind myself aloud, because hell, there's nobody else to remind.

The driver's door creaks open, and out steps Edward Davenport, his handshake as solid as his reputation. He's the new hired hand, come to give these old bones of mine a break from the day-to-day.

"Edward!" I call out, voice carrying over the hum of the idling engine. "Glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Sawyer!" he replies, a grin splitting his weathered face.

And then, an angel steps out.

Holy fuck. Who is this?

She turns then, and our eyes lock. Got to be honest. I'm not ready for it. Not ready for the way her sun-kissed skin glows against the wild backdrop of my ranch, not ready for the way her hair spills around her shoulders like golden waves crashing on a sandy shore. She's got this lithe frame, see, one that speaks of youth but whispers promises of womanhood. It's an image that brands itself behind my eyelids, hot and unyielding.

“Sawyer, this is my daughter, Nora. Hope it’s okay I brought her along.”

Nora.

His fucking daughter.

I don't let my gaze linger—wouldn't be proper—but the image of her lingers in my mind like a brand. She's got this aura, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, promising warmth after the chill.

"Welcome to Blackwood Ranch," I manage, schooling my features into a smile that's all professional, nothing personal. No sense in broadcasting my sudden interest. I've got a rep to protect.

But damn if this place doesn't feel a little less lonely already.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

Nora Davenport moves like she's got a secret melody playing just for her, a rhythm that's all sway and grace. She waltzes into my world, and hell if every dusty corner of this ranch doesn't brighten up. She's a breath of fresh air in the stifling summer heat, her youthful beauty hitting me square in the chest.

"Need a hand with that?" I call out, as I watch her pull a duffel bag from the truck bed, light as a feather despite its bulk.

"Got it, thanks!" Her voice is a melody too, and it dances over to me, settling under my skin. "But thank you, Mr. Blackwood." She smiles, and it's like the sun bursting through on a cloudy day.

"Call me Sawyer." I offer my hand, ignoring how rough and calloused it feels against the softness of hers.

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