Page 16 of Rescued By My Small Town Billionaire

By the time we get back to the firehouse, the adrenaline has worn off, and the pain in my shoulder is impossible to ignore. Burt insists on driving me home, muttering something about not trusting me to take it easy.

When we pull up to the ranch, Becky is already waiting on the porch, her face pale with worry. She rushes toward the truck as soon as she sees me, her eyes wide.

“Mike! What happened?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“Just a scratch,” I say, trying to downplay it, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“A scratch doesn’t make you look like this,” she says, her hands hovering near my injured shoulder as though she’s afraid to touch me.

“It was the sawmill fire. I’m fine, Becky. Really,” I sigh, exhaustion weighing heavily on me.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she steps back as Burt helps me out of the truck.

“Keep an eye on him,” Burt tells her before heading back to the driver’s seat. “He’s not going to rest unless someone makes him.”

“Don’t worry,” Becky says, her tone firm. “I’ll make sure he does.”

Burt drives off, and I follow Becky into the house, my steps slower than usual. I can feel her watching me, the worry in her eyes impossible to ignore.

“You should sit down,” she says, guiding me to the couch.

“I’m fine,” I insist, but the look she gives me silences any further protest.

“You’re not fine,” she says, her voice soft but determined. “And until you are, I’ll be here to help.”

Her words hit me harder than I expect, and for a moment, all I can do is nod. I grab a quick shower, careful not to get any water on the bandage the paramedics placed on my shoulder.

As I sink into the couch, my shoulder screaming in protest, I notice a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. B., Becky’s tiny gray kitten, hops up onto the armrest and stares at me with her wide green eyes. She pads closer, sniffing at my injured arm like she knows something’s wrong.

“Hey, B.,” I murmur, managing a small smile despite the throbbing pain. “Are you keeping an eye on me too?”

Becky appears with a first-aid kit and a glass of water, setting them down on the coffee table. “Looks like she’s already taking her job seriously,” she says with a soft laugh.

B. meows, then curls up next to me, pressing her tiny body against my good side as if to offer comfort.

“Smart cat,” I say, glancing at Becky. “She knows how to make someone feel better.”

Becky smiles. “You need to take it easy,” she says. “And like it or not, you’ve got me here to make sure you don’t overdo it.”

The weight of the day finally catches up with me. But as I lean back, Becky’s presence and the kitten’s warmth beside me make the pain and worry feel just a little more bearable.

Chapter nine

Becky

Icarry a tray with coffee, a small plate of toast, and jam to the living room.

Mike is sitting on the couch, his injured arm resting on a pillow, and B. is curled up beside him as if she’s claimed him as her personal guardian.

Glancing around the home’s warm, rustic interior, I feel an unexpected sense of connection. The exposed wooden beams, vaulted ceilings, and stone fireplace make the space both grand and cozy. The walls are lined with family photos, antique ranch tools, and shelves filled with well-worn books on farming, horses, and country life.

Wide-planked hardwood floors shine with a rich caramel hue, softened by handwoven rugs that add warmth and color. A plush leather couch and an assortment of oversized armchairs surround the large stone fireplace—the heart of the home on chilly nights. Mike reclines on one of the sofas, his feet propped on a leather ottoman.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, setting the tray down on the coffee table.

He glances up, his dark eyes meeting mine. For a second, something vulnerable flickers across his expression.

“Better,” he says, though his voice is gruff.

---