Page 18 of Untaming the Cowboy
“Guess that means good night, cowboy.” Her voice floated after him.
Luc didn’t look back. He just kept walking, telling himself it was better this way. Still, he couldn’t outpace the faint trace of sage and her cooking drifted from the porch. Not interested. Not her. Not now. He reminded himself of that, but something about her was already under his skin. One thing was certain . . . the air at Blaze Haven carried a different note.
8
DAHLIA
“Don’t worry,I can handle it,” Dahlia shouted over her shoulder to Mara. “I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.”
It was her fourth sunrise at Blaze Haven since the storm, and she’d already tuned herself to the ranch’s recovery cadence. Shovels clattered with the dawn, generators thrummed steady behind the barn, and the hiss of diesel rose each time the men topped off a tank.
The land itself seemed to be healing. Pastures sparkled with dew where yesterday they’d been littered with debris. Cattle grazed peacefully, the storm already forgotten in their simple minds. In the stables, horses stood with ears pricked forward, tails swishing at flies, while chickens pecked and strutted and goats had reclaimed their usual territories.
The past few days had been hard work, though Dahlia’s version of it looked a little different from everybody else’s. While they cleared fallen trees and debris from the pastures, checked barns and sheds for storm damage, and inspected feed and water lines, she tended to feeding the animals, soothing nervous colts, and checking that the troughs were refilled. She also cooked hearty stick-to-your-ribs meals that made the tired ranchhands stay at the table longer than they planned. From a stew thick with carrots and potatoes to country fried steak and skillet cornbread, she made sure Luc and the crew ate good.
And when her chores eased, she wandered the garden rows behind the bunkhouse, getting dirt under her nails plucking herbs that had survived the storm. Basil, thyme, a stubborn sprig of rosemary, all little green reminders that the land always knew how to start over.
Helping kept her from thinking about the silence on the other end of her phone. No service, no calls from home. Her daddy, grandparents, Teylor and even her cousins—none of them knew if she was all right. But worrying about it wouldn’t change a thing, so she worked, laughed when she could, so she bent her back to tasks, let laughter bubble when it could, and wove herself into the current carrying the ranch toward tomorrow.
Everybody had warmed up to her fast. Beau teased her constantly, saying she worked like she was born here, Mara had become her right hand, helping her learn the flow of Blaze Haven, and a woman from down the road named Patsy, who swore she could judge a soul by how they cut butter into flour, had already swapped biscuit recipes with her. Even the livestock seemed to like her. She’d handed out apple slices while singing lullabies to keep the skittish ones from running.
Luc, on the other hand, had been everywhere and nowhere at once. He’d let her be, mostly, only pausing long enough to tell her what not to lift and where not to step and to toss her a pair of gloves when she tried to drag a bale that was too heavy. She noticed he hadn’t slept. The proof sat in the shadows under his eyes. He was keeping the ranch alive by willpower alone, and everyone, including her, knew it.
With the animals fed and watered, Dahlia headed for the stables, ready to check on the horses. The barn carried its usualmix of hay, damp earth, and horse sweat, layered with the sharp bite of ammonia and the heavier notes of manure and leather.
“Morning,” Beau said now from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans before leaning against a stall. “Day four and we almost back to pretty.”
“Pretty-ish,” Dahlia answered, steering a wheelbarrow loaded with hay and a bucket of feed. “She’s got her face back on at least.”
They moved through the bays, the horses shifting weight, heads lifting and dropping, soft nickers passing between wood and iron. A restless energy still rode the air. It slipped through her skin and settled in her stomach.
Halfway down the last row, a head drifted into view, all attitude and beauty. A horse with a spotted coat stood near the far end—beautiful, wary, watching her, mane falling messy over a suspicious eye.
The brass nameplate on the stall read:COOKIE.
“Well, hey there, pretty girl,” Dahlia said quietly, setting the wheelbarrow aside.
The mare’s ears flicked back and forth, nostrils flaring as Dahlia eased closer. Her coat was a mix of gold and ivory, freckles scattered across her flank like paint drops. There was a proud stillness in her stance, the kind that said she’d bite before she’d bolt. Dahlia knew that kind of spirit; she’d seen it in the mirror more than once.
Beau appeared at the end of the aisle, leaning on a pitchfork handle. “That one there? Blaze’s baby. Cookie don’t take to strangers. Or anybody, really.”
Dahlia smiled without looking away. “Everybody takes to somebody. Just gotta speak the right language.”
She lifted her hand, palm open, fingers loose. Cookie’s ears twitched forward, then flattened again. Dahlia waited, breathingslow, not pushing. Patience was something she’d learned from her daddy. He told her:never chase what needs to come to you.
She eased another breath, matching the mare’s uneven snorts. “It’s all right, girl,” she murmured. “Ain’t nobody rushing you.”
Cookie’s nostrils flared once, muscles quivering under her splotched coat. When Dahlia took one small step closer, the mare didn’t retreat.
Another long, tense minute passed, and then Cookie leaned forward, brushing her muzzle across Dahlia’s palm. The contact was soft, and startlingly familiar, as if they’d met somewhere before in another life.
Beau let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. You just sweet-talked the devil’s daughter.”
Dahlia’s lips curved up. “She just needs someone who understands her. Ain’t that right, sugar?”
Cookie blew a long sigh through her nose, the sound rippling against Dahlia’s hand as if it were quiet agreement.
A shadow stretched over the stall gate. The way the air shifted, she didn’t have to turn to know it was Luc. He stopped just behind her right shoulder, so close that cedar, leather and something purely male wrapped around her.
