Page 3 of Since Day One

Chapter 2

The wheels of my suitcase, which dragged behind me, squeaked against the airport tiles. Wrapping the duffel tighter around the luggage’s handle, my finger slipped across the small backpack strap, and I hissed as a jolt of pain ripped through me. Wayward strands of hair brushed against my cheek, coming loose from the high ponytail my locks were pulled back into. Despite the warm sweatshirt cocooning my body, the Wyoming winter chill nipped at my bones as I descended the escalator. Wyoming was going to be bitterly cold, and I prayed I’d come well-prepared enough.

Glancing out the windows that lined the edge of the airport, the dead grass still untouched by snow, a strained sigh of anticipation escaped my lips. Simple jeans and worn-out sneakers had been my go-to outfit today, so I was grateful the snow had not yet fallen. There was so much uncertainty that lay before me, and I had begun to doubt my conviction to come. Moose was back home, where I wanted to be. Getting the closure I sought, from wounds I barely admitted to myself were there, was not as enticing today as it had been a week ago when I’d received that letter.

Yet I had still managed to come. I was here in Wyoming, but I was already homesick for weather that wouldn’t turn my nose blue and for people who valued my presence. If things really did become horrible, nothing was stopping me from jetting back to the life that I already longed for.

Scanning the crowd that was near the doors leading out to the bitter winter air, I looked around for some indication that I had a ride waiting for me, as was promised by my family in the letter.

Not a single familiar face stuck out of the crowd littered with ball caps, cowboy hats, and business suits. Once again, they couldn’t even be bothered to pick me up, and I didn’t have an address to take me to wherever this retreat was. Which left me stranded in an airport all alone.

Shaking my head in frustration, I reached the bottom of the escalator and turned to my right, ready to head back to the ticket purchase counter, when my eye caught a sign. Half scribbled, a single name was held beneath a tall cowboy’s scowling face. They must have thought hiring some cowboy would make me feel more at ease coming on this trip, because there was my name, Willow Summers, written in nearly illegible scratchings, propped against his chest.

I lifted my softer chin in pride and marched right toward the impatient-looking man. He had his black cowboy hat pulled low over his brown hair, soft curls peeking out from the bottom rim in the back. Slight stubble coated his face, set around a very strong, wide jawline. His thick neck was wrapped in a blue, paisley wild rag, tied in the perfect buckaroo knot. He had a wool-lined vest zipped around his dark-blue button-up that hugged his broad shoulders snugly.

I’d seen and met a lot of cowboys in the past ten years, and I couldn’t deny he had a rugged yet handsome, almost primal quality to him. Something I could pretty much guarantee he knew and would use to woo any unsuspecting girl he wanted.

I was not an unsuspecting girl.

As I stopped in front of him, my five-foot-five frame coming barely to his chest, he tipped his head down to meet my gaze. His stormy, hazel eyes scanned my figure, swamped in oversized, comfortable clothes before he lifted a strong brow in question. Even his nose was gruff.

“Willow Summers?” he asked in a deep and raspy voice, like he wasn’t a stranger to a cigar but hadn’t yet had his throat and lungs singed by the smoke.

“And you must be the knock-off cowboy my family sent,” I quipped in response, already annoyed by the games that they were playing without having yet spoken to them. The stranger’s stoic expression twitched—whether in annoyance or amusement, I wasn’t sure—as he leisurely scanned me once more.

He crumpled the paper, stuffing it in his back pocket and said, “Let’s go. I got shit to do.” Then he spun on the heels of some roughened, square-toe boots that caught my attention beneath the well-worn denim around his legs. Boots that, interestingly, had all the markings that he frequently donned a pair of spurs, matching his cowboy stroll. I couldn’t keep the slight smile from caressing my full cheeks.

I followed him out through the sliding glass doors and was nearly knocked sideways by the gust of ice-cold air that slapped my face. I shivered, following close behind as we crossed the road toward the overflow parking lots. There wasn’t a single flake of snow on the ground yet, but with how cold it was, I nearly mistook the frozen moisture on the brown blades of grass to be a soft dusting.

We rounded a corner, my suitcase rattling behind me. “You know, I thought cowboys were supposed to be gentlemen and offer to take a lady’s luggage,” I grumbled, practically to myself.

“And I thought I wouldn’t ever end up being someone’s errand boy.”

I wasn’t sure if he was complaining to me or to whomever had sent him, but I couldn’t help chuckling. “Big badass cowboy feeling sorry for himself?” I said snidely.

“Only because I have to deal with your company for the next two and a half hours,” he remarked with wicked speed, and I found myself grinning at his wit. This felt too familiar. Too much like the attitude I constantly received back home at the ranch, and I loved it.

“Why the hell are you smiling?” he questioned, his frown deepening as I grinned wider, his hazel eyes perplexed as they slid to mine. He stopped walking and pulled out a set of keys, clicking the key fob as I examined the truck we stood before.

Rolling his eyes, he glared. “Now what?” he hissed, pulling the suitcase and duffel from my hands, his calloused fingers grazed across mine, and I paused, staring at the place where his skin had brushed mine.

Hard from years of work. Years of manual labor. Covered in a rough, gritty layer that was as thick and as large as his hands were.

You couldn’t fake that.

Snapping out of my stupor, I turned to the dually Ram truck that had a lift kit and a custom, black paint job. “Compensating much?” I teased, wiggling my pinky at him as he threw my luggage into the backseat and slammed the door closed.

He turned around, wordlessly eyeing me in disgust, before opening the front passenger door. “Sometimes a guy can just afford to buy a big truck.” He gestured with his chin at the leather seat that looked freshly cleaned. I raised an accusing brow and hoisted myself up, inhaling the familiar scent of manure and hay that coated every rancher’s vehicle no matter how clean it was kept.

“Right. Especially the ones that can’t afford to buy themselves a bigger wang,” I countered teasingly as he pulled himself into the driver’s seat. His face remained stoic, expressionless as he gauged what I was doing.

“I don’t need to buy myself a bigger dick, I’ll have you know,” he replied coolly, the words injecting a stiff chill into the air. I shivered. But a slight twinkle was in the side-eye he gave as he turned the key over.

“And I’m supposed to just take your word for it?” I said boldly, without thinking, and he threw back his head, laughing a wild, rich laugh. The sound bounced around the cabin before he narrowed his gaze as if accepting the challenge I’d unintentionally thrown down. The whistle of a beautiful and powerful diesel engine struck my ears as he threw the Ram into drive and pulled from the parking lot.

“You have to buy those boobs?” he lashed back, and I clicked my tongue at him chidingly.

“Inappropriate.”

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