Page 7 of Old-Fashioned Rancher

“Would you like to join me on a tour, Ms. Knowles?” he asked gruffly.

I beamed, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow.

“I’d love to, but only if you call me Birdie.”

Maybe there was a gentleman under that calloused, grumpy old cowboy exterior after all.

Chapter 3

Grady

With Birdie on my arm, I tried to remember the last time I’d been this undone by a woman. Practically blushing like a schoolboy. Humbly taking orders without protest.

If Avery could see me now, she’d never let me live it down.

Twenty years ago, when I met Diana, it was an entirely different story. I was young, hot-headed, and cocky, cutting my teeth on building my ranch. She liked the romantic ideal of falling in love with a cowboy more than she liked the reality of early mornings, long hours dedicated to hard labor, and the smell of cattle that permeated everything.

Our attraction to each other had burned too fast, fizzling out within a year or two. I would always hold a special place in my life for Diana as the mother of my child, but with the wisdom of age came the realization that we never truly loved each other. If I hadn’t been driven by raging hormones in my early twenties, I might have recognized sooner that Diana didn’t actually like me. She liked the fantasy version of me instead, glamorized by Hollywood westerns.

This attraction to Birdie felt…different. Softer, genuine. Naturally falling into place like puzzle pieces.

On the other hand, I’d rushed into things too quickly with my ex-wife. I had no desire to make the same mistake again with another woman.

As I showed Birdie around, her sweet honeysuckle perfume invaded my lungs on every breath. No matter how hard I tried to focus on anything else, my awareness kept zeroing in on the feather-light touch of her hand resting on my forearm.

Despite my non-existent love life for the past twenty years, I wasn’t blind. Birdie was a beautiful woman, with pale blonde hair swept up in a loose bun. Her green plaid skirt hugged her curvy hips with perfect snugness that drove me to distraction. And her soft, ample cleavage brushed against my arm as we walked side by side.

Birdie was the perfect storm to awaken feelings in me that I fully believed had died a long time ago. Ever since the divorce, I went to great lengths to ensure that I didn’t cross paths with women who might express interest in me. And yet, here was Birdie, not-so-subtly feeling up my arm, teaching me how to entertain the company of a lady, and batting those blue eyes at me.

She had her iPad out now, showing me pictures of flowers and arrangements, gesturing with sweeping movements as she indicated where she’d like things to go. It gave me a chance to watch her, cheeks flushed from the cool air, animated with her creative vision and eager to see it come to life.

“Everything about High Plains is big and bold, magnificent,” she said. “We should use flowers to match that statement. Sunflowers would be wonderful—tall, towering. We could sprinkle in some snapdragons for a pop of color. Oh, and evergreen foliage, too, for earthy texture. What do you think?”

I shrugged. I really had no opinion, but Birdie seemed excited for it.

“That sounds fine,” I said.

She shot me a withering look of impatience.

“A little more input than that would be appreciated.”

“Like I said before, I trust your expertise. I know cattle, not flowers.”

Birdie didn’t press and snapped her iPad cover closed. We’d stopped at the fence that bordered the southern pasture, leading into a crop of trees, and eventually the rocky terrain of the lower mountain range. She turned around, leaning back against the fence to face me.

“It’s a gorgeous place you have here, Mr. McCall. You must be very proud of it.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” I replied.

She cocked her head.

“Why?”

I propped my forearms on the fence, watching the grass ripple in a faint breeze.

“I thought you’d tell me that a proper gentleman shouldn’t exhibit pride.”

“You have every right to be proud of something you built,” Birdie countered.

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