Page 31 of A Cowboy in the Streets

“It’s a show Blue Skies hosts every year. I usually take care of all the details.” She toed the dirt with her sneaker. “Maybe I could figure something out.”

I crossed my arms. “No, you won’t. I meant what I said, James. You have a job to do here, and we need you to do it.”

Her eyes searched my face. “Okay,” she said softly. And then grinned.

Something ached inside my chest. I’d have that conversation with her dad every damn day if it meant her looking at me like that.

The warmth of her smile soaked into me, making my voice deepen when I said, “Need any help with that oil change, buttercup?”

“Nah, I’ve got it.” She scooped the bottle of synthetic oil by her feet and leaned over the engine, giving me an excellent view that made me bite my fist. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I—” It was hard to remember anything with that perky ass issuing an invitation I knew damn well not to accept. I looked around, reminding myself of the task at hand. “I’ve got a list of things that need to be fixed. Figured I’d swing by and see if you had anything to add for your cabin now that you’ve lived in it for a couple weeks.”

“You’re working?”

“Yeah, buttercup.” I tilted the brim of my hat with my thumb. “This isn’t a social call.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I’m aware.”

“You worked yesterday, too. I saw you training with the cows.” There was a gentle accusation in her voice.

I grunted. She’d get to her point eventually. Sooner rather than later, I hoped.

She straightened and wiped her hands on the rag dangling from her back pocket. “Your dad said Lodestar Ranch takes weekends seriously.”

I guffawed. “He would say that.”

She cocked her head. “He doesn’t mean it?”

“Oh, he means it. But unfortunately, some of us have to be grown-ups. Horses don’t care if it’s the weekend. They want their grain fed to them and their shit shoveled every day of the week. Can’t say that I blame them for that, either. The ranch hands work five days a week. That’s their contract. But I’m the owner’s son. I don’t get that same leeway.”

Her brows furrowed. “Your dad makes you work seven days a week?”

“He doesn’t make me. It’s how things shake out, that’s all. If I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.”

“Hm.”

Amazing how much meaning she managed to pack into that one little syllable. “What?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe some things don’t need to get done. I mean, you don’t have to be here now. Right? Don’t get me wrong, it’s so nice of you to make sure I have what I need, and I’m grateful, truly. But you could just assume everything is fine until I tell you it’s not. That would take at least one task off your plate. I don’t want to be the reason you’re working on a Sunday.”

“It’s no trouble,” I said. The truth was it was the highlight of my day.

“Hm,” she said again.

I leaned against the SUV, settling in for the conversation. Enjoying myself, though I wasn’t going to tell her that. “What?” I prodded.

“Each little thing on its own might be no trouble, but when there’s dozens of them, it becomes trouble real quick. When I saw you working Crackerjack yesterday, I thought to myself, now there’s a man who loves his job. It was such a joy to watch.”

A pretty wash of pink bloomed on her cheeks. Her eyes darted from mine and her tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip. My focus zeroed in, watching the movement with avid interest. Why was she blushing?

“I do love my job,” I answered. Then took a beat to consider because she wasn’t wrong about it all adding up to something heavy. “Mostly.”

She smiled. “Right. Mostly. And I would hate to see that love slowly drained from you at the weight of all these self-appointed troubles. Even though you say they’re no trouble, everyone deserves a break.”

“I didn’t say they’re no trouble. I said you’re no trouble. Some of these chores…well, it’s not how I would necessarily choose to spend a Sunday morning.”

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