Page 8 of Mountain Rancher

“Something wrong, boss?” he asks as he adjusts his gloves.

“Nope.” I grab another bale. “Just getting the job done.”

He nods but gives the hay a wide berth, like my bad mood might be contagious. Smart kid.

The truth is, I can’t get that kiss out of my head. The way she melted against me after I pulled her to safety. The way she gripped my shirt like she’d never let go. How she looked up atme with those blue eyes, pupils blown wide, and whispered my name like a prayer. The soft gasp she made when our lips finally connected.

It wasn’t just relief at being rescued. There was something more there. Something that’s been building between us for years. I felt it. I know she felt it too.

So why is she avoiding me now?

I’ve seen her car at the main house. Caught glimpses of her through windows. Once, I even saw her hobbling across the yard on crutches, but she disappeared inside before I could make my way over. It’s like she’s playing some elaborate game of hide-and-seek, except I’m the only one seeking.

I’ve never been the type to obsess over women. Usually, it’s the opposite. They chase me until I get bored or they realize I’m not looking for anything serious. But this is different. Abigail is different.

That kiss awakened something in me that feels primal. Possessive. Protective. Like some ancient part of my brain has recognized her as mine and won’t tolerate any other outcome.

It should scare me, this intensity. But it doesn’t. It feels right. Like all these years of fighting my feelings for her were the unnatural part.

I finish loading the hay and slam the tailgate shut with enough force to make the whole truck rattle.

“Take this to the south pasture,” I tell the new guy. “I’ve got something to take care of at the main house.”

He nods, clearly relieved to be escaping my mood. I don’t wait to see him drive off. I’m already striding toward the Clayton place, each step more determined than the last.

I let myself in through the side door that leads to the kitchen, and the sound of women’s voices hits me before I see them. I round the corner and freeze.

Abigail is leaning over the massive kitchen island, surrounded by fabric swatches, flower arrangements, and what looks like a hundred paint samples. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, with a few strands that escape to frame her face. She’s gesturing at something on a tablet while talking to a woman in a crisp blouse who’s taking notes.

And then Abigail looks up and sees me.

The sentence she was in the middle of dies on her lips.

Her blue eyes widen, and for a split second, she looks like she’s considering bolting from the room. That’s all the confirmation I need that she’s been avoiding me on purpose.

“Hunter.” Her voice is composed despite the flicker of panic I caught in her eyes a moment ago. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Before I can respond, the perky woman standing next to Abigail practically bounces forward, hand extended.

“You must be Hunter Thomas, the ranch manager!” She pumps my hand enthusiastically, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so small. “I’m Veronica Phillips, the wedding planner. And can I just say, you are absolutely just in time!”

I raise an eyebrow and look between her beaming face and Abigail’s carefully neutral expression.

“Just in time for what, exactly?”

Veronica pulls me toward their work area like we’re old friends. “We’re having a bit of an issue we could use your expertise on. Abigail says you know this ranch better than anyone.”

I glance at Abigail, whose cheeks have gone slightly pink. She’s been talking about me, has she?

“What kind of issue?” I cross my arms over my chest and try not to focus on how good Abigail looks today in her tight shirt and jeans.

Abigail sighs and adjusts her position to take weight off her injured ankle.

“Lindsay really wants chandeliers hung from the rafters in the barn for the shower. It’s apparently a non-negotiable part of her vision.” She points to some photos on the tablet. “Something like these. But we weren’t sure about the setup or if it’s even possible.”

I lean over to look at the pictures. The images show elaborate crystal chandeliers hanging in rustic barn settings. Pretty, but completely impractical for our space.

“The rafters won’t hold those. Not safely, anyway. They’re decorative, not structural.”

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