Page 14 of Untaming the Cowboy
Mara nodded and moved toward Dahlia. “C’mon, honey. It’s where we put your bags. We got some flannel shirts and sweats in the back. Ain’t fancy, but they’re dry.”
Dahlia hesitated, glancing at Luc, as if she was weighing whether to argue. Then, with a small nod, she followed Mara across the room.
Luc’s gaze followed her retreat, his jaw clenching against an unfamiliar tightness beneath his ribs. He squared his shoulders and pivoted toward his waiting men.
“Hang those tarps by the vents,” he barked. “Last thing we need is the stench of mildew if we’re bunked down here all night.”
Boots scuffed against the floor as the men got to work. Beau joined him a moment later, passing him a dry towel. “You look like a drowned bull, brother.”
Luc swiped at his face. “Still beats what’s outside.”
Beau chuckled, but his gaze bounced toward the bunkroom where Dahlia had gone. “That one’s got fire. I’ll give her that.”
Luc said nothing. His gaze kept returning to the steel door, drawn by the kitchen’s electric hum and the soft murmur of women’s voices beyond it. He couldn’t shake the image of her standing there—drenched, chin raised, shoulders quivering—from his mind.
Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was her.
Either way, for the first time in a long while, he could breathe without bracing for impact.
6
DAHLIA
The storm had ragedall night, slamming against the earth with a vengeance that rattled bone. Wind clawed at the shelter’s door, rain beat the tin roof till it groaned, and thunder rolled through the dark as though the sky itself was splitting apart.
Dahlia hated storms. Always had.
They brought back the sound of her mama’s voice rising and falling through the walls, singing to things no one else could see. Some nights, Juniper Childs would stand barefoot in the yard, head tipped to the sky, laughing and crying all at once while lightning struck around. And when the thunder cracked too loud, she’d whisper that angels were bowling in Heaven, then smoke something to make the voices silent. That was the last summer before the illness took her mind completely.
So when thunder growled above last night, it wasn’t just noise. It was memory.
She'd fought to keep her cool, but the moment darkness swallowed them and thunder split the sky, her body betrayed her—jumping straight into Luc’s arms. He’d gone stiff as a post, but a heartbeat later his arms loosened, strong, solid, and warmeven through soaked clothes. He hadn’t said a word, just held her until the generator kicked on.
For a man built from stone, he’d was unexpectedly human.
Luc ran his ranch with the precision of a drill sergeant, but somewhere beneath that sandpaper exterior lived something softer. Not calm, exactly, but composed in a way that made her wonder what ghosts he’d trained to stay down.
She thought of the cleft in his chin, that deep dimpled groove that refused to be ignored. It was the one imperfection on an otherwise serious, too-handsome face. Perfect jaw line, eyes that couldn’t decide if they were gray or green, mouth set like he was always bracing for a fight—and then there was that chin.
Lord, that chin was distracting.
She could still feel the brief press of it against her temple when she’d clung to him. She’d caught herself thinking—if comic books handed out medals for jawlines, he’d have the crimson one shining right there.
Her grin slipped before she muttered under her breath, “The Crimson Chin himself. Guess every hero’s got a soft side.”
Maybe she ought to explore that side a little more. Because he sure didn’t move through the world like a man already spoken for.
Two of his ranch hands were women—one older, one young enough to still flirt like it was currency—but neither drew more than a passing nod from him. His focus was always elsewhere: on the gates, the horses, the fences . . . and, sometimes, her.
Dahlia wasn’t blind to it. The way his attention cut through a crowd of noise, how it landed and lingered before he looked away again.
There was something about Luc Stanley that didn’t fit the mold of an ordinary rancher. The precision in his stride, the authority in his tone, the kind of focus that came from discipline learned in a place far harsher than open fields. He didn’t justrun the ranch. He commanded it. Every motion measured, every order obeyed. And maybe that was what tempted her most.
Dahlia never did well with men who colored inside the lines.
She’d spent the storm breaking up the tension in that shelter—telling stories about Briarwick, about her Granny’s kitchen, about biscuits that could make a sinner weep. When the wind howled, she sang soft under her breath, little tunes to chase away the ghosts that always came with thunder. The men had laughed and listened. Even Luc’s mouth had twitched once, the ghost of a smile that told her he’d been listening, too.
When the worst passed, she’d thrown together what she could from the supplies—a pot of chili heavy with spice, skillet cornbread crisp on the edges, a touch of sugar just the way Granny taught her. The crew had eaten like they’d been saved. Luc ate too, but every bite seemed to cost him something.
