Page 26 of Untaming the Cowboy
“Morning, cowboy.”
Luc turned. Dahlia was walking down the slope, sunlight shimmering over the messy knot. She wore jeans tucked into her boots, one of his flannels tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up to her forearms. She’d been wearing his shirts since the derecho and he never once asked why. Maybe he didn’t want to. Truth was, he liked the way she made something of his look better on her.
“Morning,” he tossed some feed. “Thanks for breakfast and the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. I figured I’d keep you alive another day,” she replied cheerfully, that half-smile playing at her mouth.
Wynn trotted over her, tail wagging. Dahlia reached down and scratched his head. “He was ready before sunrise, so I let him out. Hope that’s all right.”
Luc arched a brow at the dog, pretending to scowl. “You’ve got a schedule, and she’s already ruined it.”
She shrugged. “Seems he didn’t mind.”
Luc bit back a grin and opened the gate for her. “Do you always come in like a wrecking ball, shattering what’s been built for a reason?”
Dahlia smirked, "Really, cowboy? Miley? Well, somebody had to swing in here and break your walls."
His eyes widened before he let out a laugh, "And you’re gonna help me rebuild them, starting with this. We’ve got work to finish out here," Luc pointed, and handed her a pail, then turned back to his task.
They fell into a natural cadence, moving through the chores without the need for instruction. She filled feed buckets while hechecked the troughs. She tossed hay, and he tightened a loose rail. Every now and then, she hummed or sang a familiar country tune, the sound pulled at the edges of his focus in a way he didn’t expect. He watched how normal it was for her to blend in. She didn’t just fit in; she matched the pace of the land.
She looked up, her eyes curious. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, though it wasn’t nothing. He leaned against the gate, watching her brush her palms against her jeans. “You asked me last night what brought me to Ironhaven all the way from Houston.”
Her brow lifted, but she didn’t say a word.
He went on, voice even. “My younger brother told me about Silver Creek Ranch. That it was healing ranch for soldiers. Said I was headed for a wall I wouldn’t climb out of, and he wasn’t wrong. I decided to give it a try since they worked mostly with vets—therapy of all sorts, group sessions, the whole nine. None of it meant a damn thing until I started spending time with the horses. Thursdays, I’d meet with Spencer, one of the counselors. Never called me broken. Just said I was trained to live through noise and forgot how to turn it off.”
“And did you?” Dahlia asked, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on him. “Turn it off.””
“Some of it,” he admitted. “Silver Creek’s owned by Andy, a Navy vet. Man’s got sixty-five hundred acres out there and still makes time for every person who steps foot there. He’s got two sons—Ridge, he’s the town’s vet, and Draven’s engaged to Cashea.”
She perked up. “From the Haven’s Chicks?”
“The same,” Luc said, a small grin tugging his mouth. “Can’t forget Miss Bee either. She keeps that ranch running. Been looking after all the Harvey men since Andy’s wife passed. She stops by here every once in a while, to leave baked goods on theporch. So if you see anything signed “from Andy and Bee,” don’t toss it.”
“Hold up. What’d you say their names are?”
“Andy and Miss Bee. Why?”
She tilted her head, amusement curving her lips. “You mean to tell me there’s a real-life Andy Griffith and Aunt Bee from Mayberry that lives here?”
Luc barked out a laugh, loud enough to startle Wynn who’d fallen asleep at their feet. “Woman, where do you come up with this stuff? Andy’s no sheriff and Miss Bee sure as hell ain’t his aunt.”
“Well, it’s funny.”
He shook his head, still chuckling. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” she said, stepping closer. “But at least you’re smiling again.”
He didn’t deny it. Every time she was around his cheeks hurt from cheesing so damn hard.
They finished feeding and drifted toward the paddock where Cookie stood waiting, mane ruffling in the wind. Dahlia’s fingers brushed her muzzle, and the mare dipped her head toward the touch. Luc watched the two of them together—the woman, the horse, the morning light spilling across both—and without effort, something in him anchored there.
“You’re really closed off in there.” She glanced at him from under her thick lashes. “Let me guess—scarred heart, keeps people at a distance, thinks I’m too wild for you?”
“I don’t do soft. Not anymore.” He paused, gaze holding hers. “But for you… I might make an exception.”
