Page 1 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
CHAPTER ONE
Wyatt
Fences don’t fix themselves.Not even on a Sunday.
That’s what my father always said, his voice echoing in my head even now, three years gone.
“A good rancher never leaves a job half-done.”
Since his passing, those words had become both compass and burden. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever feel like more than just a caretaker of someone else’s dream, steering this land through sweat and sheer stubbornness.
I shifted in my saddle, the familiar burn already deep in my thighs from riding fence lines since dawn. The Texas sun beat down, relentless, baking the smell of dust and horse right into my clothes.
Pepper, my stubborn quarter horse, snorted below me, flicking her ears as if sharing my fatigue. A low buzz of cicadas pulsed in the simmering air.
“Just a few more miles, girl.” I patted her neck, the leather of my gloves sticking slightly. Squinting, I scanned the horizonwhere heat waves rippled above the parched, dusty grass of the south pasture. “Then we can both take a break.”
Pepper had other ideas. She suddenly veered left, ignoring the subtle pressure from my knees and the tug on the reins.
“Whoa, what’s gotten into you?” I asked, pulling her up short. Then I spotted what had caught her attention. Brogan Creek glimmered in the distance, the deep shade beneath the cottonwoods a stark contrast to the bleached landscape. A tempting reprieve.
I couldn’t blame her. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, a damp trail running down my spine, and my hat band had soaked through hours ago. A quick stop wouldn’t throw the schedule off too much.
“Fine, you win.” I guided her toward the creek, the promise of cold water a welcome distraction as I mentally recalculated how much more I had to do today.
As we approached the water’s edge, my gaze snagged on a figure perched on the large flat rock that jutted out over the deepest part of the creek. Shirtless, legs dangling over the water—but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. Even broadened, leaner than I remembered, they had a familiar set.
Timmy Prescott. Travis’s little brother.
There was nothing little about him anymore, except his height. The teenager who’d devoured books, graduated college early, and gone off to California four years ago had filled out. Nicely.
Lean muscle defined his back and arms, like a swimmer’s build, compact and efficient. His exposed skin had bronzed to warm gold, surprisingly dark for someone supposedly living under coastal fog. Not just Travis’ nerdy kid brother anymore. The awkward energy was gone, replaced by a quiet stillness I didn’t recognize.
Pepper whinnied softly, announcing our presence. Tim turned, surprise registering on his face before it broke into a wide smile that hit me like an unexpected shove.
Unexpected, and unsettlingly potent.
“Wyatt Walker?” He shaded his eyes with one hand, looking up. “Is that you under all that dust?”
I swung down from the saddle, the impact jarring through my boots. Pepper dipped her nose toward the water. I let her reins hang loose. I looked down at him, summoning a confident grin. “In the flesh. Didn’t know you were back in town, Timmy.”
His smile twitched at the corners, a flicker of the old annoyance I used to deliberately provoke. “Most people call me Tim now.”
“Well, they haven’t known you as long as I have.” I removed my hat, wiping my forehead with my forearm, feeling the grit scrape against my skin. I might have flexed my bicep just enough. Old habits. “You still killing it in Silicon Valley?”
He popped a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “I needed a breather.Four years of working in a startup can wear you out.”
I led Pepper closer to the water’s edge so she could drink properly. “Your brother mentioned you were doing well out there. Some kind of computer genius now?”
“Product design, not programming.” He laughed, a quick, easy sound. “Though I appreciate the promotion.”
Now that I was closer, the changes were starker. His jawline had sharpened, definite stubble dusting the skin where soft peach fuzz used to be. His eyes, those were the same. Hazel, flecked with green, always a little too knowing, like he saw more than he let on. Right now, they were doing an unmistakable once-over, slow and deliberate, from my worn boots up to my dusty hat and back down.
“You haven’t changed a bit, cowboy.” His tone held something new, an undercurrent I couldn’t quite place.
“Rancher,” I corrected, adjusting my hat, settling it back on my head. “Cowboys are for rodeos and postcards.”
“And calendars.” Tim smirked, gaze lingering for a fraction too long on my chest before flicking back to my face. “The sexy kind they sell in gift shops.”
