Page 15 of Untaming the Cowboy
He’d gone still afterward, that stoic expression draped over him again. Whatever softness she’d glimpsed earlier vanished, locked up behind those gray eyes.
Fine by her. She hadn’t cooked for him. She’d cooked because hungry men shouldn’t face another storm on empty stomachs.
Now dawn crept through the cracks. The air smelled of mud and rain and whatever peace comes after chaos. Dahlia stretched, the ache in her shoulders reminding her how long the night had been. No thunder, no howling wind, just the slow tick of recovery.
Luc, of course, was nowhere to be found. The man seemed to live without sleep, powered by caffeine and willpower. She’d bet money he’d been up since before sunrise rechecking fences and counting livestock.
She sighed, tying her curls into a loose bun. “Ain’t human,” she murmured. “He’s a storm in boots.”
Still, she busied herself with breakfast: biscuits, eggs, bacon, enough to coax the space back into feeling alive. Maybe he’d eat this time without glaring at her.
By afternoon, sun sliced through thinning clouds, the world left soggy and shining. Dahlia stepped out onto the porch and caught her breath.
The storm had torn through with teeth. Limbs littered the yard, puddles mirrored the bruised sky, and the fence along the south pasture leaned like it was praying. A water trough lay on its side. But the quiet that followed felt unnatural, almost holy.
She listened. No hum of power lines, no distant engine. Just the hush of miles holding their breath.
Luc was down by the gate, speaking with one of his men. His shirt clung to his back where sweat and rain had dried, hat low over those shadowed eyes. He looked up when he sensed her watching.
“Power’s out across Ironhaven,” he called as she approached. “Could be days before they fix it. Roads are washed out too.”
She lifted a brow. “So I’m stranded.”
“Looks that way.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture almost shy for a man built like a wall. Then, with a small exhale, he said, “You can stay here for now. Until things clear.”
Dahlia tilted her head, a slow grin rising. “You sure? Wouldn’t want to cramp your orderly little world.”
His eyes flicked toward her, unreadable, but there was the smallest curve at one corner of his mouth—gone before it could bloom. “You already did that.”
She laughed softly, brushing a damp curl from her cheek. “Good. Means I’m doin’ something right.”
The wind stirred between them, carrying the scent of wet earth and cedar. For a long moment, neither spoke. The stormhad passed, but something else—something quiet and new—lingered in its wake.
For the first time since she’d arrived, the silence didn’t feel lonely.
7
LUCAS
Luc pushedagainst the storm shelter door at first light, metal hinges groaning as he stepped into morning’s exhale. The derecho had left its mark on Blaze Haven. Trees snapped mid-trunk, roofing tin impaled in pasture grass, fence posts surrendering under branches and brush. The smell of rain-soaked soil mingling with spilled fuel, drenched alfalfa, and the plaintive calls of cattle searching for each other across divided pastures.
He squinted toward the horizon. The damage wasn’t as bad as the storm from two years back, but it was bad enough. Branches cluttered the entrance road, the south boundary lay crushed flat, and power lines sagged dangerously over the east hill, weighted with storm remnants. The equipment shed gaped open where half its covering had peeled away. Near the henhouse, one stubborn rooster crowed his survival, the only celebration in sight. After such violence came this hush, as though the very fields had paused to recover their breath.
He hadn’t closed his eyes for more than ten minutes at a stretch all night, his mind replaying the same footage on loop.
Dahlia Childs.
He couldn’t scrub away the imprint of her body against his, couldn’t clear his senses of her cherry-vanilla sweetness that somehow outlasted the storm itself. He’d tried to dismiss it as exhaustion, the kind that blurs want with weakness. That excuse rang hollow event to his own ears. She’d gotten into his head, and no amount of discipline could shake her out.
Even now, her chili burned pleasantly on his palate—spicy, complex, much like the woman who’d stood stirring it, hip cocked against his counter, that half-smile curving her mouth while thunder rattled above. Other women had fed him before, but none had served up meals punctuated by that smoky laugh like hers. None had made him hungry for something that had nothing to do with food.
“Damn woman only been here one day,” he muttered, swiping his palm over his face, shaking his head side to side as if to physically dislodge her. How had she infiltrated his thoughts so fast?
Boots scraped behind him. Beau emerged from the shelter, coffee steaming in his grip, hat pushed back. “Could’ve been worse. Animals made it through. That generator held strong too.”
Luc jerked his chin toward the far enclosure. “She handled the smaller stock. Probably why we didn’t lose any.”
