Page 22 of Untaming the Cowboy
“Now sugar, I’m one of the few who actually knows every line dance, old and new,” she was saying, wrist flicking a spatula. “From “Cupid Shuffle” to “Copperhead Road,” all of it. Ask anybody back home—Briarwick raised me right. Daddy taught me how to bridle before I could braid, and Granny baked biscuits that could make a preacher forget the sermon, and PawPaw made sure we could ride horses before we could walk. And mybest friend? Teylor Skye Beaumont is the first Black rodeo queen that town ever crowned.”
“Who’s the cousin you mentioned that’s a start?” Mara asked, eyes sparkling over a coffee mug.
Dahlia’s smile went sideways. “Mmhmm, Shayla Starr sings with Love in Minor Keyz and they finally got their first Grammys last year when she joined. Our whole family was ugly-crying on a video call. Don’t start askin’ me for tickets; I’ll block you.” Laughter popped around the table. She shook the pan. “Point is—this country life? It’s not new to me.”
Luc didn’t realize he was smiling until his cheeks hurt. Her joy filled the space, drowning out the noise that usually lived in his head. He hadn’t known peace could sound like laughter, but there it was—right there in his damn kitchen.
When he finally pushed off the jamb, entering the room. Dahlia looked up mid-laugh, eyes catching his, and something unreadable flickered across her face. The warmth stayed, but a different current ran under it—something quieter, something aware.
“Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Beau teased. “Thought you’d hung up your boots for good, brother.”
Luc cleared his throat, stepping further in. “You’re all mighty comfortable for a crew that’s got work to finish before noon.”
A chorus of groans met him that weren’t really groans. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. The crew filed out with their coffee.
Beau tipped his hat toward Dahlia. “We’ll finish up later, DeeDee. Thanks for the grub,” he said, dragging his knuckles over Wynn’s head on the way out.
“Anytime,” she said, smiling at each of them before turning back to the stove.
The room thinned until it was just the cast iron sizzling, the dog by the door . . . and her.
Luc washed his hands and sat down at the table, unsure what to say. Dahlia slid a cast-iron pan in front of him, the scent alone enough to bring a man to his knees. It was fried potatoes, onions, eggs, bacon, all melted together under a layer of golden cheese.
He forked a bite, savory and smoky flavor hit like a punch of home. His eyes closed despite himself, head tipping back with a low groan that earned a small laugh from her.
“Damn,” he muttered, swallowing. “Only my mama ever made a skillet this good.”
“Well,” she said, sliding into the chair beside him, coffee mug between her hands, “from the sound of things, now your mama ain’t the only one that’s the best.”
He almost choked on the next bite. The corners of his mouth twitched despite his best effort.
She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “Even though Beau told me already, with all the shirts, plaques, and tactical gear I’ve seen around here, I still would’ve been like—say you’re a Marine without sayin’ it. So how long’d you serve?”
The fork stilled halfway to his mouth. The air shifted, hard and fast.
Luc’s shoulders tightened. “I served my country,” he said, voice flat. “And now I’m home.”
Dahlia studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Fair enough.” Then she stood, grabbing her satchel from the counter. “I’m taking Cookie out to the south pasture, let her stretch her legs. I’ll be back later.”
Luc didn’t try to stop her. He couldn’t. She and Cookie were locked in. He just nodded and went back to his plate, pretending the food demanded his full attention.
The screen door creaked open, then closed behind her.
Silence settled over the kitchen. Luc sat there, chewing slow, the skillet half-empty. He tried focusing on the taste, the crunch of potato, the salt of bacon, but his mind was already chasingafter her. For years, food had been fuel, nothing more. But this—this was something else: a meal cooked by someone who hummed while she worked, who laughed loud enough to fill the cracks in his house.
He finished the last bite, the skillet scraped clean and pushed away from the table. The smell of fried potatoes and coffee lingered, curling through the air, a comfort he didn’t remember asking for. When Luc finally stepped onto the porch, she was out by the fence line, sunlight catching the copper in her skin. Cookie trotted beside her, tail flicking easy, no sign of the wild thing that used to bite at air. Dahlia turned then, just for a heartbeat, and looked back toward the house. When Luc finally stepped onto the porch, she was out by the fence line, sunlight catching the copper in her skin. Cookie trotted beside her, tail flicking easy, no sign of the wild thing that used to bite at air. Dahlia turned then, just for a heartbeat, and looked back toward the house.
Their eyes met through the distance—hers curious.
Something in his chest loosened, the old tightness giving way to something dangerous.
Was this peace real, or just the last, best part of a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from?
His life had been duty, then damage control, then the ranch. If a woman’s laugh could silence a war, what did that make the man who wanted more of it?
10
DAHLIA
