The Rancher’s Runaway Bride (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #4)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

C al

The smell of burning batter hits me before I step into the kitchen, and I already know this isn’t going to end well. Sure enough, when I walk in, Layla is flipping pancakes with all the grace of a new foal on ice. Batter splatters across the stove and counter, and one pancake lands half off the pan, curling sadly on itself.

Carson, seated at the table with his legs swinging under the chair, looks absolutely delighted. He leans over to Duke, who’s lying at his feet, and whispers, “She’s funny.”

Duke wags his tail in agreement.

“Morning,” I grumble, stepping past the chaos to pour myself a cup of coffee. The mug is hot in my hand, grounding me against the whirlwind of energy Layla has unleashed in my usually orderly kitchen.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she chirps, overly bright. Her hair’s pulled up into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my old flannels over her leggings. She must’ve found it in the laundry room. It’s too big on her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and for a split second, I hate how good she looks in my clothes.

“You’re making a mess,” I say flatly, sipping my coffee.

“I’m making breakfast,” she corrects, waving the spatula at me like it’s a sword. “You’re welcome.” She turns, winking at me once. “Hope you don’t mind I stole one of your shirts, I didn’t really bring anything practical to wear…I just had sundresses and bikinis packed for my honeymoon. I should be in Costa Rica right now. Instead I’m…here.” She smiles sweetly, then turns back to the pan.

Another pancake hits the skillet with a loud splat , batter oozing unevenly to the edges. Carson claps his hands. “She’s so good at this!”

“Sure, kid,” I mutter. “If you like your pancakes half-burnt, half-raw.”

Layla glares back at me, her cheeks flushing. “It’s a work in progress, Cowboy.”

“Looks like a demolition project,” I deadpan.

Just then the smoke detector rings through the kitchen. Carson covers his ears and I smirk as smoke plumes from the stove. I snag a towel and wave it in front of the alarm until the shrill beeping stops.

“Way to start the morning,” I huff.

Carson giggles, and Layla smirks, flipping the misshapen pancake with exaggerated flair. “At least I’m trying. What have you done this morning, Mr. Grump?”

“Put out your fires, for starters,” I grunt in response and lean against the counter, watching her flounder with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. She’s clearly out of her depth, but I’ll admit—quietly, to myself—that there’s something endearing about the way she’s determined to make this work, even if the kitchen ends up looking like a war zone.

Carson, ever the curious one, picks up his fork and points it at me. “Is she my new mommy?”

The words hit like a brick to the chest. I choke on my coffee, coughing and sputtering as the scalding liquid burns its way down my throat. “No,” I rasp, too quick, too forceful. “No, buddy, she’s not.”

Layla freezes mid-flip, her eyes going wide. Then she laughs, awkward but kind, the sound softer than I expected. “No, sweetie,” she says gently, turning to Carson with a smile. “I’m just here to help out.”

Carson shrugs, unbothered, and goes back to drowning his pancakes in syrup, humming to himself. Duke perks up at the sound of the syrup bottle, ever hopeful for a drop to hit the floor.

But Layla’s laugh lingers in the air, and when she glances at me, there’s something in her expression that sticks—a mix of amusement and something else. Something softer. Hurt, maybe. It doesn’t sit right, the idea that I might’ve put that look on her face. I can’t help but wonder what a woman like her has been through to bring her here, to my ranch after the spoiled life she surely lived before now. I don’t have the heart to ask, not yet anyway, but I spent most of last night tossing and turning and thinking about my new pretty, houseguest.

She clears her throat and gestures to the table. “Sit down. Eat. They’re not that bad, I promise.”

I raise an eyebrow but comply, sliding into the chair across from Carson. Layla plates a stack of pancakes and sets them in front of me with a flourish, clearly trying to make up for the earlier awkwardness. “Bon appétit,” she says with a mock bow.

I poke at the pancakes with my fork, cutting off a bite and examining it like it might bite back. “Not as burnt as I expected,” I remark.

“High praise coming from you,” she quips, rolling her eyes as she sits down beside Carson.

The first bite is… not terrible. Too sweet, with a hint of char, but edible. Carson digs in enthusiastically, syrup dripping down his chin. Layla watches him with a soft smile, and for a moment, the tension eases.

“You’re good with him,” I find myself saying before I can stop the words.

Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. “Thanks. He’s a great kid.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, glancing at Carson, who’s now making a syrup moat around his pancakes. “He is.”

The quiet stretches, comfortable this time, as we all eat. Layla hums under her breath, some upbeat tune that I don’t recognize, but it fills the space in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. I sip my coffee and let it wash over me, a strange warmth settling in my chest.

After breakfast, Carson bolts outside to check on Duke, leaving me and Layla alone in the kitchen. She starts gathering plates, stacking them precariously high.

“You don’t have to—” I start.

“I’ve got it,” she says firmly, cutting me off. “Consider it my rent.”

I watch as she scrubs the syrup-streaked plates, her movements efficient but still a little clumsy. The flannel shifts on her frame, the hem brushing her thighs, and I tear my gaze away, cursing myself.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring.

“Nothing,” I mutter, pushing back my chair. “Just don’t break anything.”

She smirks, tossing a dishtowel over her shoulder. “Relax, Cal. Your kitchen’s safe with me.”

I’m not so sure about that—or anything else—but for now, I let it slide.

I walk out to the barn with something like hope in my step. The morning sun cuts through the thin gap in the barn doors, golden streaks of light falling over the mustangs’ glossy coats. Their restless shuffling fills the air, mingling with the rich scent of hay and leather. I focus on the task at hand, sliding a saddle into place, the repetitive motion grounding me.

I don’t hear her approach until she speaks.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Layla’s voice is syrupy sweet, laced with sarcasm.

I glance over my shoulder, and there she is, standing in the doorway in a pair of my old boots that look way too big and leggings that hug curves I shouldn’t be noticing. Her arms are crossed, and her polished nails tap against her bicep like she’s daring me to say something.

“You lost?” I grumble, turning back to the mustang.

“Nope,” she chirps. “I thought I’d see what a day in the life of a grumpy rancher looks like.”

I don’t bother hiding my sigh. “It’s not a spectator sport.”

“I’m not here to spectate,” she shoots back, striding into the barn like she owns the place. “I’m here to help.”

The word “help” hangs between us, thick with doubt.

“You sure about that?” I ask, leading the mustang out of its stall. “Because helping here isn’t exactly brunch on Fifth Avenue.”

Her smile tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Try me.”

I almost admire her nerve—almost. “Fine. Start with the hay bales. They don’t stack themselves.”

Her nose scrunches as she glances at the heavy bales, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she walks over, grabs one, and immediately stumbles under the weight.

I chuckle, low and deep. “Careful, kitten. Don’t break a nail.”

“Don’t worry about my nails,” she shoots back, adjusting her grip and hoisting the bale up with sheer determination. Her form is all wrong, but she’s too stubborn to ask for help.

I lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching her struggle. Her face flushes with effort, and for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off her. Damn woman has a way of holding my attention, even when I don’t want her to.

“Are you going to stare all day, or are you going to show me how to do it right?” she huffs.

“Thought you didn’t need my help,” I reply, smirking.

Her glare could cut steel. “Did I say that?”

With a shake of my head, I step forward, grabbing the bale from her hands like it weighs nothing. Her eyes widen, but she masks it with another glare.

“Bend your knees, not your back,” I say, demonstrating the proper technique. “Unless you want to be walking like an old lady by next week.”

She watches me intently, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. There’s something about the way her eyes soften, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that makes the barn feel a hell of a lot smaller.

“Got it,” she says, her voice quieter than before.

I step back, clearing my throat. “Good.”

When she’s finished, Layla wipes her hands on her leggings, her chest rising and falling with exertion. She’s trying, I’ll give her that.

“You’re not bad at this,” I admit grudgingly.

Her lips twitch. “Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She leans against the stall, her gaze sweeping over the horses. “They’re beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice softening despite myself. “They are.”

For a moment, the tension between us eases. But then she asks the question I knew was coming.

“Carson,” she says, her tone careful. “He’s not… yours, is he?”

I stiffen, my jaw tightening. “He’s mine where it counts.”

Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t push. “What happened to his mom?”

I glance at her, debating whether to tell her. But something about the way she looks at me—earnest and unguarded—makes the words come easier than I expect.

“She was my sister,” I say finally. “She got into a car accident when Carson was two. Hurt her back bad. The pain meds they gave her… she got hooked. Couldn’t shake it. One day, she didn’t wake up.”

Layla’s hand flies to her mouth. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”

I shrug, but the weight of the memory presses down on me. “Carson’s dad ran off before he was born. Useless piece of shit. So I stepped up. Been raising him ever since.”

She steps closer, her eyes shimmering. “You’re an incredible father. You were born to be his dad.”

The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“No,” she says firmly. “It’s more than that. You love him. Anyone can see that.”

I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the praise. “Loving him’s the easy part.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and for the first time since she showed up, I don’t feel the urge to push her away.

Later, as the sun dips lower on the horizon, I find Layla sitting on the porch swing, Duke sprawled at her feet. She looks up as I approach, her expression unreadable.

“Long day?” she asks.

“Always,” I reply, sinking into the swing beside her. The wood creaks under my weight.

We sit in silence for a while, the air between us heavy but not unpleasant. The sky turns shades of orange and pink, the kind of sunset you only get out here.

“You ever think about leaving?” she asks suddenly.

“Leaving what?”

“This. The ranch. The mountains.”

“No,” I say without hesitation. “This is home.”

She nods, but her gaze is distant. “Must be nice, knowing where you belong.”

The vulnerability in her voice tugs at something deep inside me. “You’ll figure it out,” I say gruffly.

She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. “Maybe.”

And just like that, the walls between us crack, ever so slightly. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make me wonder if maybe—just maybe—this impulsive city girl might be exactly what this ranch needs.

And maybe what I need too.