Page 2 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
His muscles, his imposing height, how he never had to raise his voice to get a job done even if it was dealing with a drunk, pissed high school boy who was yelling loud enough for him to hear from his ranch. Jace made high school boys look like… boys.
I knew even then that I couldn’t have him. He was and still is eighteen years older than me. We rarely spent much time together. He was always there to see dad, but God he left an impression.
Now, staying is just the logical thing to do. He’ll be there waiting for me and I still want to see my dad. But I’ve changed a lot since the last time he saw me. I was sixteen and a half, coming back from a trip to the lake with some friends and he’d been working on our tractor with his shirt off, telling my dad what he needed.
He’d looked at me, nodded his head to acknowledge me, and I’d been sure he’d finally recognize my budding curves and would see my blush as more, just like in the books. He hadn’t.
Thinking about it now makes my face warm. The way I used to linger in doorways when he visited. The little excuses I made to walk outside and pretend I needed something. The way I watched him with more longing than sense. I had a crush shaped by teenage dreams and a heart that did not yet understand real life.
And I am not ashamed of any of it. For a long time, when I started dating, I secretly compared the boys I met to him. Not forever, but in those early years when I was still figuring outwhat kind of man I wanted. If they did not hold themselves with the steadiness Jace did, if they could not make kindness look strong the way he always did, I knew they were not right for me.
I grew out of that habit eventually. Life moved forward and I stopped thinking of him. Or at least, I thought I had.
Until now, with his name sitting right there in my chest like it never left at all.
“I should go to a hotel and tell dad not to bother him,” I say to myself.
But I’m twenty-three. I’m an adult now. Eighteen years is a lot, yeah, but it’s nottoomuch. Maybe seeing him will make the crush fade. Maybe I will look at him and feel absolutely nothing. That should be a relief. I bite my bottom lip, hoping the flutter in my stomach is only nerves and not old wishes trying to breathe again.
“It was a teenage crush. Nostalgia, nothing more,” I tell myself. “I will go home. I will take care of myself. I am past all that. Time to prove it.”
I step on the gas and head to the ranch. The sign is clear of snow. The one Dad and I painted, reading ‘Winter’s Ranch.’ It’s simple but sends a wave of peace over me.
Even if seeing Jace might be awkward at first, getting this time with my dad is more important. Being able to disconnect from work and get back to my roots matters. And if I finally see the man I once built impossible hopes around and realize it was all in my head… well, that might be the closure I did not know I needed.
I turn into the shoveled gravel drive, tires crunching beneath me, and remind myself who I am now. I worked hard to build alife. I am not the girl blushing by the barn door anymore. This is not a test or a storm of feelings I cannot handle.
It is home. It is Christmas. And I am not going to waste a second of it.
Chapter 2 - Jace
I hear gravel shift and ice crack under tires just as I set a thick log into the fireplace. The flames snap and spit softly, not roaring, just steady and warm. The heat will build soon enough.
The place is ready. Water is running, the power is solid, and I stacked a full load of wood on the porch so Layla will have plenty for the next few days.
Heading to the porch, I see her carefully getting out of her car. I blink a few times. This is a far cry from the doe-eyed sixteen year old that liked to be involved in everything. She has on suede winter boots, white wool socks that curl over the top of her boots, black leggings, a bit of blue and white flannel peaking out around her hips from under her fitted white winter coat that emphasizes her figure. Her black knitted scarf makes her blonde hair look almost white as it waves over her shoulders.
Beautiful is not enough for what she is. Gorgeous barely touches it.I think unashamed.
It’s a little more shameful that I can’t look away from her. It’s like my eyes are glued to every detail of her body. She’s … stunning, near magical and the fact that she’s walking around, doing normal things seems wrong in my mind. She’s the kind ofwoman that belongs in a painting and seeing her scraping ice off the handle of her back door doesn’t mesh in my mind properly.
Layla’s light blue eyes land on me as she goes to her backseat. The white puffs of air leaving her lips stop for a moment, then pick up faster. I clear my throat and try to make this petite, curvy, effortlessly elegant woman fit in the box I’d managed to putlittle Laylain seven years ago.
She walks up and blushes slightly. “Jace … you’re … well, hi!” She shakes her head, then hugs me tightly, bathing me in a scent that belongs in spring, a scent I want to hold onto. I rub her back slowly before she backs away. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been so long.”
“Layla,” I breathe, then clear my throat, trying to focus on the moment rather than studying every shockingly astounding detail of her. “I hope the drive was easy, good.”
“It was pretty close to perfect,” she says with a light laugh. “Made me wonder why I moved away for a second, but ...” She pats her bag, then seems to realize she forgot something. “Sorry, my backpack. It’s in my trunk.”
“I will get it,” I say quietly when she reaches for her keys, and she pauses, then nods with a grateful softness.
“Thank you, Jace.” Not casual. Not thoughtless. Real.
She hits the unlock button and I cross the porch, boots crunching over snow, the cold cutting through the heat in my chest. I pull her bag from the trunk and remind myself why I am here. She is my best friend’s daughter. I said I would make sure the house was ready for her, and that is all this is.
Do the job. Leave.
Simple.
