Page 84 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

And I’m inclined to enjoy it—all of it.

The simple purpose of prepping the earth, tearing it open to make room for something new, something that might live, well, that just speaks to me.

And the soil here in New Jersey? It’s no joke.

Rich, dark, thick with minerals, and damp from a week of good spring rain.

They don’t call it the Garden State for nothing.

I’ve already handled the big fields—the greenhouse produce, the sod, the cash crops like spinach, corn, blueberries, and those tomatoes that practically sell themselves at the co-ops and markets.

But this field?

This one’s mine.

Tucked behind the dairy barn, near the slope where the morning sun hits just right—this is my secret little project.

Bulbs. Herbs. Spice crops.

Garlic. Onions. Basil. Cilantro. Dill. Thyme.

All the good stuff.

That’s what I’m doing with this field. The south corner is where I already planted the bulbs.

This section here is for the more delicate herbs that need the warmer weather.

When Max offered each of us a corner of the ranch to call our own, I didn’t waste time.

I asked him straight up.

“Hey, Boss. What do you think about starting a boutique herb line? Organic. Small-batch. Sell to local restaurants, maybe even bottle blends for home chefs.”

Max said go for it.

So I am.

And I’m busting my ass to make it happen.

The air is thick with that loamy, earthy smell that comes after a rain.

It fills my nostrils as I plow, but even that rich scent can’t overpower her.

Arliss.

Mo Chroí.

She’s close.

So close I can taste her scent.

Warm, soft, laced with a fresh, springtime brightness and something wilder, dancing on the breeze like a fucking promise.

My Bull snorts, head lifting, ears twitching toward her like a compass drawn north.

Even without the supernatural tether between us, I’d still feel her.

My skin tingles beneath my hide.

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