Page 15 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“They’re classics,” I protest.“And you’re just jealous you don’t own matching suspenders.”
He huffs a laugh.“Sweetheart, the day you catch me singing about goin’ a courtin’ is the day you check me for a fever.”
“Never say never,” I tease, and his answering grin makes the cab feel warmer than the heater ever could.
Mary waves us through with a wooden spoon in her mittened hand—why she’s directing traffic with a wooden spoon, I have no idea.
“Stay off that ankle and supervise!”she shouts through the window.
Grady parks and sets me on the tailgate with the blanket and a thermos I don’t remember packing.“Cocoa,” he says when I raise a questioning eyebrow.
My chest gets too full for a second.
“Drink,” he orders softly, lifting a coil of lights.
I watch him climb, test, and clip.He moves with that quiet precision I clocked the first time he touched my ankle; every action checked against some internal standard higher than anyone else’s.He doesn’t bark or posture.He shows Tyler, one of the teenage boys Mary and Christopher have taken under their wing, how to anchor a line so the wind can’t take it, then steps back and lets the kid do it wrong once and right the second time.He’s praise-stingy yet generous at the same time—“Good.Again.”—like he wants the work to teach more than his words.
Tyler tries not to preen but fails spectacularly.
Mary sidles next to me and slips a hand warmer into my mitten like I’m six.“That boy was all bone and fury when he came to us,” she says fondly, watching Grady work.“Now look at him.”
Only Mary would call Grady aboy.There’s nothing boyish about him as he braces a post with one shoulder while Tyler hammers.Not with those hands, steady and rough.Not with the efficient, controlled way he moves, like he could carry the whole ranch on his back and not break a sweat.
He’s all containment and control… until he glances over and catches me looking.Then his silver eyes kindle, and his expression warms just for me.
“He’s home,” I murmur.
“He’s family,” Mary corrects gently.“Always was.He just needs to realize he doesn’t have to weather the storm alone.”
My eyes linger on Grady, on his broad shoulders and his jaw dusted with snow.I’m starting to think heisthe storm.
By the time the last string is clipped, the wind has turned icy, and the yard glows like a winter wonderland.
Christopher claps Grady’s and Tyler’s shoulders.“Good work, boys.”
Grady nods.“You too.”
“Now,” Mary says briskly at his other elbow, “take Angel home.”
The snow comes down at an angle on the drive back to Main Street, the sky a dull gray.Grady keeps his eyes on the road but glances at me now and then in that careful way of his—like he’s making sure I’m okay without making a big deal out of it.
“You cook?”I ask suddenly, thinking of my tiny kitchen and the groceries I keep meaning to use.
“Yeah,” he says simply.
“Come over.The kitchenette’s small, but I have… ingredients.”That’s being generous.“I have a pan that squeaks, but you fixed my door so?—”
“Angel.”
I stop babbling.“Yes?”
“I’d love to stay for dinner.”
Back at my place, he hangs up our coats and rolls his sleeves like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Eggs, bread, butter, and a pan with attitude,” I say, listing what I have like it’s a feast.
“Perfect,” he says, opening drawers like he’s cooked for me before.He moves around my tiny kitchen with calm, easy confidence.When the pan squeals, he adjusts the heat and keeps going.
