Page 74 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Ryder’s place isn’t easy to find, and that’s by design. The farther I drive, the rougher the road gets. Asphalt turns to dirt, and dirt gives way to rutted trails that scrape the undercarriage of my truck. Branches claw at the paint, and I drive more carefully once I spot the glint of barbed wire strung low through the trees. Ryder doesn’t do welcome mats. He does warnings.
He’s always been the odd one out, the Morgan who never fit—after me, that is—and he never cared to. While the rest of us tied ourselves to Iron Stallion, our family name, and responsibilities, Ryder bought himself a damn mountain. No neighbors, rules, or anyone to answer to. Just the wilderness and whatever secrets he’s hiding up here.
By the time I reach the gates, it’s midnight, and the headlights sweep across steel and stone. The thing looks less like a home and more like a fortress—tall walls, reinforced fencing, cameras glinting red in the dark. Off-grid, sure, but not roughing it. Ryder built himself luxury in isolation, a self-sufficient kingdom no one can touch.
The gates creak open slowly, my gut twists, and for a moment I wonder if I should turn back. But I don’t. I roll forward, and all I can think is if there’s anywhere I can disappear, it’s here.
The truck shudders to a stop in front of the main lodge, and for a moment I just sit here, gripping the wheel. The porch light flicks on, casting a warm glow across the stone steps.
The door swings open before I even step out. Ryder leans against the frame, a shotgun balanced casually in his arms. His beard is thicker than the last time I saw him, his hair wilder, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing Morgan eyes—catch me just the same.
“Well, look who crawled out from civilization,” he bellows. His voice is gravel and smoke.
I swallow hard, forcing a crooked grin I don’t feel. “Miss me?”
He studies me for a beat too long, then props the gun against the wall. “You look like hell.”
“I feel worse,” I mutter.
“Good. Means you’re still breathing.” He jerks his chin toward the inside. “Get in here before the coyotes figure out you’re easy pickings.”
I finally drag myself from the cab, exhaustion in every step. Ryder’s eyes scan me once—sharp but unreadable—and then he gives a small nod. No judgment. No lecture. Just that quiet acceptance only he seems capable of.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I swallow hard and nod. Words don’t come easy right now.
He motions me inside, where the place is all wood and steel and expensive taste dressed up as rugged living. He makes me a plate filled with meat, potatoes, and vegetables—something hearty that I don’t ask for but damn sure need.
“You know where the guest rooms are,” he says, already turning away, giving me space. “Stay as long as you need.”
This is not my first time here, as Ryder has always been my refuge when Wrangler Creek was too much.
That’s Ryder Morgan for you. No questions, no prying. Just a roof, a meal, and silence thick enough to drown in.
The days blur together in this fortress. At first, I tell myself I just need a night to clear my head, maybe two. But one night turns into three, then five, then a full damn week.
I wander this place like a ghost. Ryder’s home is a strange mix of wilderness and luxury—solar panels feeding power into a system slicker than anything we’ve got back in town, filtered spring water running through stone sinks, leather furniture sitting under windows that look out on nothing but endless pine. It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like a cage I built for myself.
Most mornings I sit on the back deck with coffee Ryder leaves out, staring at the ridge line until the sun burns holes in my eyes. At night, we eat dinner in silence. He doesn’t press me, doesn’t pry. Just lets me sit there, rotting in my own thoughts.
And those thoughts—they never stop circling back to her. My Quinn.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the disappointment in hers. I hear her laugh, the one I’ll never deserve again. She had dreams bigger than anyone in Wrangler Creek, bigger than me, and what did I do? Dragged her down into my mess. Knocked her up. Ruined everything she worked for. Just like I ruin everything I touch.
I call Ella once, just to check in. I tell myself it’s casual, but my voice shakes the whole time. She tells me Quinn’s doing fine—better than fine, actually. Planning the fundraiser, keeping busy. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel even worse, like she’s already learning how to live without me.
At night, when Ryder disappears into whatever business he runs behind locked doors, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, sick with guilt. The silence presses down, thick and suffocating, and I wonder if this is all I’m good for—running, hiding, leaving Quinn to clean up the wreckage I leave behind.
On the seventh night, it all comes crashing down on me, and I’m unable to sit in the silence anymore. Ryder’s at the kitchen island, nursing a drink, flipping through something on his tablet as if the outside world doesn’t even exist. I hover in the doorway too long before I force myself to cross the room.
He doesn’t look up. Just gestures at the stool across from him. “Beer’s in the fridge.”
I grab one—he has non-alcoholic for me, for obvious reasons. My hand shakes as I crack it open. The fizz stings my nose, and for once, I can’t swallow it down. The words are stuck in my throat,choking me. I slam the bottle onto the counter harder than I mean to.
Ryder’s eyes lift, calm and unreadable. He waits. Always waiting.
“I fucked up,” I finally rasp, my voice raw. “Quinn—she had everything lined up. She was going to change Wrangler Creek, and I had to go ahead and ruin it. I knocked her up like some careless son of a bitch. Now she’s stuck with a baby we didn’t plan for and me. I know—same old story. Me dragging people down, wrecking every good thing I touch.”
