Page 56 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

“Willow’s a willing partner in crime too.”

A smile spread across Chance’s face.

Rafael cleared his throat. “Honestly, I’m glad she pushed me. This place …” He looked out across the land, to the ranch buildings, then up toward the line of the mountains in the distance. “It’s still home. Always was.”

A quiet beat sat between them. Cautious and careful—like walking across a rickety bridge for the first time in years.

“Let’s see if this thing works,” Chance said finally, breaking the silence. He knelt beside the crank, tightening the bolts while Rafael unpacked the sample of olives he’d picked up from a grower on his way back from Santa Maria.

He’d already washed the bucket of deep green and purple olives, fresh and earthy smelling. Might not produce more than a shot glass of oil, but that would be enough.

“You want to crush ‘em or turn the crank?” Chance asked.

“I’ll crush. I’ve got more years of rage to work through.”

“Fair enough.” He stood and stepped back, giving Rafael some space.

Rafael poured the cleaned olives into the grinder and went to work creating a thick paste. Skins and pulp squelched under the pressure, and Chance shrank back at the sound—and the look on Rafael’s mug.

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Therapy,” Rafael grunted. “Cheaper than a shrink.”

They each took a portion and mixed the paste in large stainless steel bowls.

After five minutes, Rafael said, “How long did I say we have to do this?”

“Half hour.”

He groaned. “Right.”

“And that’s only step two, well, three, if you count the washing. Guess we should’ve gotten the ladies in on this.”

“Maybe so, but we didn’t even know if this old thing worked.”

“True.”

Finally, Chance handed Rafael a small mesh filter, which he attached beneath the spout while he slowly turned the crank. Drop by drop, golden liquid trickled into the glass.

“Would you look at that,” Rafael said, slowing some.

Chance leaned in. “Looks like engine oil.”

Rafael grinned. “Smells better, though.”

The stream grew, then tapered. Rafael held the jar up to the light showing off the murky but unmistakable measure of olive oil.

“It works.” Rafael sounded like he almost didn’t believe it.

Chance took the jar and tilted it, letting the thick amber swirl. “Beautiful.”

“But will it be enough to start?”

“Not sure,” Chance said. “After a few days of working the arm of that crank, the ladies might open up a Kickstarter for a full mill operation by end of week.”

Rafael laughed. “I see hydraulics in the ranch’s future.”

As if waiting for just the right moment, Bella approached from the path, a straw hat perched on her head. Willow followed, wiping her hands on her apron, face flushed from kitchen heat. A basket swung from the crook of her arm.

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