Page 40 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

As they shuffled out through the saloon doors, Grannie Lil glanced back and whispered loud enough for me to hear, “And don’t forget to tell her about the sugar crumble trick, Tark. Every baker’s secret weapon.” With a final flourish, they were gone, leaving me alone with Tark.

For a moment, the saloon felt bigger and quieter than it had before. Tark cleared his throat and reached awkwardly for the plate, carefully maneuvering a slice of coffee cake onto a porcelain dish. His hands were surprisingly steady for someone who couldn’t quite meet my eye.

“Here,” he said, sliding the plate toward me. “I, uh... It probably isn’t as good as Grannie Lil’s, but it’s edible. I think. I hope.”

“What’s the sugar crumble trick?” I asked, looking from the plate to him.

“Butter. Lots of butter. I love butter.”

“I do too.”

With complete seriousness because I didn't want to embarrass him, I picked up my fork. Tark crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back in his chair. I could tell he was trying to look nonchalant, but he was failing miserably. His eyes tracked every movement I made as I cut into the coffee cake with my fork and brought the bite to my mouth.

The flavors hit me immediately—the sweet, buttery-ness of the cinnamon sugar topping and the tender cake that melted on my tongue. My eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh, Tark,” I said, shaking my head. “This is incredible. You’re, like, secretly a baking genius or something, aren’t you?”

His shoulders twitched. “It’s a recipe,” he mumbled, though the corners of his mouth tilted up with a hint of a smile. “I did what it said. Nothing more.”

“If you keep feeding me like this, though,” I said, taking another forkful, “I’m going to gain fifty pounds before I leave.”

He stiffened, his face turning a shade darker. “I didn’t—uh, I didn’t mean to, like, make you feel like I’m… like I’m… forcing you to carry fifty pounds. Never,” he stammered, his hands gesturing wildly as if he were trying to haul the words back out of the air. “I will carry all your burdens. I?—”

“Tark,” I said. “It was a joke. I'm not worried about gaining or carrying anything, let alone fifty pounds. I'm sorry. I should remember that human humor is new to you.”

“Oh, I… I accept your apology.” He leaned over the table, his face completely sincere. “But Iwillcarry all your burdens. You don't even have to ask.”

How could such a simple statement turn me into a puddle? Yet, here I was, trying not to gobble up the cake because it was so amazing, then ask for another slice, all while my knees trembled and my belly overheated.

Tark fidgeted, an endearing mix of nervous and earnest as he sat across from me, his eyes soft and unguarded in ways that made my chest tighten. With each bite I took of his coffee cake, his expression shifted from shy anticipation to barely concealed pride. I wanted to smooth the furrow of worry on his brow, but instead, I busied myself with the cake, savoring it while keeping my emotions in check. At least, I tried to.

“You really shouldn’t downplay your baking skills,” I said, setting my fork down with a satisfied sigh once I’d finished. “If you keep this up, I might end up bribing you to teach me how to make this myself.”

He blinked at me. “You don’t need to bribe me. I’d teach you anything. Whatever you want to know.”

The words dangled in the space between us before settling deep in my belly. His gaze was no longer darting nervously around the room but fixed on me, steady and intense. The kind of look that made it impossible to pretend I didn’t notice how the air between us felt a little thicker.

Before I could figure out what to do with that realization, the saloon doors creaked, and I instinctively turned, half expecting to see Grannie Lil and Aunt Inla coming back to check on us. Instead, a blur of dark feathers caught my eye, and a moment later, Sharga flew across the room in a wobbly pattern.

He landed onmyshoulder and plucked his way around before settling. I pivoted my head, gaping at him while he studied me up close.

“There you are, Sharga.” Tark exhaled, his entire face lighting up in a way that made my heart stumble. “He went to the barn like usual last night but this morning, he didn't come out for his breakfast. I was worried. You hear that, Sharga? You worried me. Don't do that again.” The tenderness in his voice was something I’d only heard before in the way he talked about his family or his hopes for the new business. Reaching out, he gentlystroking the raven’s glossy black feathers with his fingertips. The bird hooted like an owl and flapped his wings, smacking my head.

“Gentle, Sharga. Gentle.” Tark slid some of the cake onto a plate and put it on a nearby table. “For you, my friend.”

Sharga hooted again and left my shoulder, wobbling over to his breakfast. He began pecking.

“You’re getting stronger, aren’t you?” Tark said, his voice low and soothing as if he was talking to a child. Sharga made another small sound, and Tark chuckled. “Good boy. Keep practicing flight, little guy.”

I sat there, mesmerized by the scene. The hard angles of Tark’s face softened into something almost achingly tender as he doted on the bird. Rising, he went to the table, and his fingers moved with a gentleness I rarely saw in anyone, brushing over the raven’s feathers as if each one was precious. It hit me like a freight train—how capable of care this man was. Not only for his injured raven but for those around him.

For me, even.

The realization sent my pulse racing in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to tell myself it was the rising warmth of the day or the sugar rush from the cake, but deep down, I wasn’t fooling anyone.

“You’re good with him,” I said, my voice shining with admiration.

Tark glanced up, his lips quirking into a crooked smile that made my stomach flip. “Sharga’s been through a lot. He deserves patience.”

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