Page 37 of The Guy Who Stole My Ranch

I mentally rubbed my face. This plan might be more difficult to execute than I had anticipated.

Chapter 10

-William-

As soon as Brooke turned around and headed toward the garage, I took a moment to study the kitchen.

The bathroom had been decorated in a rodeo theme, complete with towel holders that looked like lassos and a shower curtain with a dirt floor arena on it. I’d quickly Googled the monstrosity and found that it had to be a custom job.

Brooke was serious about her country vibe.

The kitchen only reinforced this. Everything either had cows on it, was spotted like a cow, or was a cow. Even the table was white with black splotches. The butter tray had little porcelain bovine horns sticking out of each end.

I’d only had a few interactions with Brooke, but this didn’t exactly feel like her.

Not that I had a lot of data to pull from, and I had no doubt that she really did like the cowboy theme, but for some reason, my eyes roamed the corners, looking for a place to peel back this façade to the real Brooke.

“Coming?” Brooke had stopped and held the door open with her hip.

I hadn’t meant to slow down and stare, and I had to stifle a wave of unexpected embarrassment. In an effort to cover for my mistake, I said, “How did you manage to find all of this cow memorabilia?”

“Almost all of it has been given to me.” She waved a hand. “It’s real easy to find a present for me.”

I wanted to ask her what she’d prefer besides cows but felt like I’d already ventured too far into personal territory, so I joined her in the garage.

Unlike the pristine interior of her truck and house, the garage was more like what I’d expected. Shelves bulging with bins, boxes, and bags lined one wall, and a set of four-wheelers took up the rest of that side of the space. The other half was clear enough for Brooke to get her truck inside, but considering the tool chest that stood nearby along with the workbench next to it, I doubted Lance got parked in here very often.

Brooke moved to the shelves. I followed, my work boots—which I could already tell were too tight on my ankles—thumping on the wood stairs. Brooke pulled out a small clear bin labeled “Gloves” and started rummaging inside.

My great-aunt Greta had always said that you could catch a glimpse of who a person really was by the way they kept the spaces in their life that no one else saw. So far, this seemed to be the most authentic version of Brooke that I’d seen—a little chaotic, but also organized enough that she knew where everything was.

“Ah-ha!” Brooke exclaimed as she pulled two black and red gloves from the pile. Then she frowned as she turned them around. “How can they both be lefties?” Brooke scowled and dove back in.

I had a difficult time watching when I could be doing something, so I moved to Brooke and looked over her shoulder.

“I feel you judging my system,” she said.

“There’s a system?” I couldn’t help a small grin.

Brooke’s hand emerged with a glove that was red and blue. Two of the fingers had holes in them. “Why is this even in here?” She scowled and tossed it onto a pile of other random items that sat in the corner.

My eyes roamed along the top shelf, and I spotted a new pair of gloves that were still held together by plastic and cardboard. I reached over Brooke’s head and pulled them down. “What about these?”

She stopped her search and swiveled her dark eyes to me.

I dangled the gloves from my fingers.

Brooke stiffened for a split second before she sniffed and shrugged. “Those will work, but I expect you to bring them both back.”

“Yes ma—” I cut myself off before I said ma’am, and instead said, “master rancher.”

Brook narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment before she said, “Master rancher is an acceptable title.” She waved me to the green four-wheelers. “Have you ever driven one of these?”

“I have.” It had been a long time ago. In order to get rid of Courtney and me during a family vacation to an island resort, our parents had paid for a full day of adventure. It had included driving three-wheelers. This couldn’t be that different.

“Good.” She pointed at the less dirty of the two. “That one is yours.”

Each one had a helmet on the handlebars. A small metal box was lashed to the rear of one of the vehicles. Brooke walked to the stairs and hit the button that raised the garage door. A screech filled the air, and my eyes were drawn to the channel above my head.

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