Page 25 of Untaming the Cowboy
“This ranch was supposed to be my peace.” His gaze traveled her body without shame. He brought those shifty irises to meet hers and rasped, “Now it’s just where I fight not to touch you.”
Her breath left, came back, left again. Juniper would’ve cackled from the beyond and said, “Baby, that’s the kind of confession you write on birch paper and burn.” Dahlia leaned forward not to crowd him, but for him to feel her heat without her touching him.
“I’ve never been one to run from danger,” she murmured, mouth curving despite everything, “especially when it looks like you.”
The space between them went electric. Luc exhaled a laugh that wasn’t a laugh and dragged a palm down his face. “Goodnight, Dahlia.”
“Night, Luc.”
Dahlia slipped inside her room, quickly closing her door. She pressed her spine to it, palms flat, heartbeat thumping hard and fast like boots on a dance floor. She told herself it was only the beer, the long day, the way a man can look when he’s been cut from duty and rebuilt out of stubbornness. No, it wasn’t anything she could name.
“Lord,” she whispered in a prayer, “what am I doing?”
The answer didn’t come, but the question burned bright enough to light the whole dark:
Was she healing a man—or handing her heart to the kind of fire she wasn’t sure she’d survive?
11
Luc woketo a muted wash of light sneaking between the blinds. He turned his wrist, the watch face catching the pale glow.06:47 A.M.Late again.
The tightness in his chest wasn’t there. His body didn’t feel like it had been fighting itself through the night. For once, he wasn’t waking to grit between his teeth or the ghost of someone shouting in his head. It had been years since he’d slept without some kind of fight.
He thought of the tea. Whatever Dahlia had mixed in that mug had reached places therapy hadn’t touched. He’d dreamed, same flashes of the desert and shouting, but this time Dahlia had been there. Her voice threaded through the chaos, guiding him back when it turned dark. Spencer had told him to count his breaths, to stay aware, to ground himself, but that never worked once he drifted into the unconscious.
A repeated clacking and scratching interrupted his thoughts. Wynn whined once, patient but expectant.
Luc frowned. Wynn was never outside the bedroom in the morning. Not once in five years. He always slept by the dresser, rose when Luc did, and waited for permission before headingout. The only way he’d gotten through that door was if someone had opened it.
Dahlia.“She let you out, huh?” Luc murmured to himself.
He pushed up from the mattress, stretching until his back gave a satisfying crack. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and leaned over the sink long enough to take himself in. The man staring back looked less wrecked than usual. The exhaustion that had clung beneath his eyes had eased, leaving behind the faint brightness of green in the gray. His beard stayed low, rough at the edges, framing a mouth that hadn’t smiled much in years. For once, he looked awake.
He pulled on clean clothes from the dresser. Jeans that had seen their share of days, a gray henley, thick socks, his usual work boots. When he fopened the door, Wynn was waiting, tail sweeping the floor, eyes bright.
“Guess she’s got you on her schedule now, huh?” Luc rubbed his ear, half a smile forming. “Let’s see what she’s gotten into.”
But he didn’t hear voices. No pans clattering, no low music, no laughter drifting through the house as there had been the past few mornings. She’d been up early. The house had a different kind of presence, left behind when someone had already done the work taking care of things.
The scent of bacon reached him before he stepped into the kitchen.
He glanced around noticing on the counter a covered plate sat and a thermos beside it. A yellow sticky note rested on top with his name scrawled across it. He blinked once, then pulled the foil back.
A breakfast sandwich waited with thick slices of bacon, fluffy eggs, and melted cheese bleeding into the biggest biscuit he’d ever seen. He unscrewed the thermos cap, and steam carried the smell of fresh rich, hot coffee and something faintly sweet.
He braced one hand against the counter and stared down at it, the simple kindness of it all hitting somewhere deep. She didn’t have to leave him anything. Yet, she did. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered, but now the thought of someone else—a woman—moving through his kitchen, thinking about him before the day began, caught him off guard. Was this what people meant when they talked about domestic life? If so, he’d sign up. This woman had him spoiled already.
Luc finished the sandwich at the counter, washing it down with coffee that tasted better than any pot he’d made in his life. When he stepped outside, the ranch was already alive.
Beau’s ATV traced the northern boundary, dust trailing behind him. Mara and one of the new hands were guiding calves into the holding pen, and another crew member was checking the shed for repairs. Beau had briefed them all and didn’t need Luc hovering. That was why he’d made him the foreman.
Luc scanned the property, landing on the smaller pens. “C’mon, boy,” he said, and Wynn trotted ahead.
The smaller enclosures holding sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens needed to be checked. Dahlia wasn’t around which meant she was likely out with Cookie. Luc was still getting over his shock seeing his wild mare with another rider. Well, if he were being honest with himself, Dahlia wasn’t any other rider. She was definitely Cookie’s person. His wild mare followed her without a lead, nuzzled, and greeted her with nickers he’d never received since she was born. Shaking his head, Luc worked through each pen with a keen eye.
The morning work came naturally. The sheep were in good shape, their coats clean and eyes bright. A ewe nudged his leg until he relented and scratched between her ears. The pigs grunted as he crossed into their pen; one limped, and Luc crouched to find a pebble lodged near her hoof. He plucked it free, muttering under his breath, and she rewarded him witha satisfied grunt before rejoining the herd. Chickens gathered around his boots as he scattered feed, the air filling with the earthy mix of straw and grain.
Bootsteps crunched the dirt behind him.
