Chapter 2
Cruz
Despite the heavy workload of the day and the vast number of topics I’d rather be ruminating on, there’s simply one thing I can’t get out of my head.
Those damn pink boots.
More specifically—the woman wearing them.
When she’d shown up in the hay barn, frazzled-looking, suitcase in tow, dressed like a background dancer in some Dolly Parton music video, I thought I’d just about lost my mind. Maybe the dry spell I’d been suffering from had manifested into hallucinations of gorgeous damsels in distress.
And then she’d opened her mouth.
Nope, definitely not a hallucination. More like a stuck-up girl from Seattle who’s, for some reason, decided to spend her summer here despite calling the most beautiful place in the world “desolate.”
I did enjoy getting under her skin a bit, though. Can’t help it. Riling up a pretty girl—no matter the reason—is always fun.
Glancing at the sun that’s slowly making its way toward the horizon, I hop into my truck, heading home. Luckily for me, home isn’t that far away.
I’m one of the many men and women who live on Thatcher Ranch fulltime.
It’s honestly a great gig. They’re a successful and wealthy cattle ranch operation, so they’ve got nice bunkhouses, a mess hall, and a common area.
And as the assistant foreman—working directly under Tate Thatcher—I get my own cabin.
Not that it’s glamorous or anything, but it’s a step up from the main shared bunkhouse filled with snoring guys.
And besides, you can’t beat the views from Thatcher Ranch. Those mountains are the reason I moved to Montana in the first place.
As the “Village”—as all the ranch hands like to refer to the area of land that holds our bunkhouses, mess hall, and rec area—comes into view, I see a group of people gathered around a small bonfire being set up.
I quickly park the truck and head over, greeting friends after a long day and taking a beer offered my way.
When I see Tate amongst the party, I sidle up to him. “Hey, man,” I say. “I dropped your cousin off at the ranch house earlier today. At lease she claimed to be your cousin.” I chuckle. “You find her?”
Tate laughs, nodding. “Yes—Addison! Thank you so much, by the way. Can’t believe her car took her all the way out to the cattle yards.”
Addison. The name suits her.
“Yeah, she’d seem out of place pretty much anywhere in Montana—but especially out where I found her,” I say.
“Yeah, poor girl.” Tate chuckles. Then there’s a gleam in his eye—one that I recognize. It means he has an idea. “Hey, actually …” He purses his lips. “Would you do me a favor?”
My eyes narrow somewhat involuntarily. What kind of favor is Tate talking about? Something that has to do with Addison? I’ve become pretty close to him over the five years I’ve worked here, but what kind of proposition is he edging towards?
But he continues anyway. “Would you mind just … keeping an eye on her?”
I balk, staring at him for a few seconds. “Keeping an eye on her?” I repeat. “But … wouldn’t that be easier for … you to do? Being at the ranch house and all.” I’m not trying to tell my boss no, but I’m also not exactly sure what the hell he’s asking me. Or why.
“Oh, no.” Tate shakes his head. “She’s not staying at the ranch house. With Mom, me and the wife, two kids, and a third on the way? Mom figured she’d rather have her space.” He laughs. “She’s staying in the old hunting cabin.”
The old hunting cabin. Things are starting to make a bit more sense. While the cabin isn’t exactly part of the Village, it’s close by. Much closer to the Village than the ranch house. And my bunk house, in particular, is pretty close.
Damn. Okay, it’s sounding harder and harder to get out of this one.
I grimace. “Does she really need to be … watched?” I ask hesitantly. The Thatchers routinely have family or friends staying at the cabin, and they’ve always been fine.
Tate grimaces back. “To be honest, it’s something my mom asked of me and … well, I’m passing the buck.” He shoots me a guilty look.
I groan. Tate isn’t all that much older than me.
Mid thirties. But he runs the ranch like he’s much older.
I think his dad dying five years ago really made him grow up fast when it comes to running the ranch.
But I also think it makes him a bit of a momma’s boy.
Whatever his mom asks, he gives her. Which isn’t always bad. I mean, Theresa’s a sweet woman.
Although I’m not exactly loving her sweet nature right in this moment.
“But come on—it makes more sense that one of you guys keeps an eye on her than me. You’re all out here.” Tate gestures. “Besides, I’ve got two kids and a pregnant wife to take up my time.”
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, throwing him a half-fake-half-genuine look of disdain. When it comes to who has the busier life, I can’t compete there. Besides, staying on my boss’s good side is never a bad thing.
Although Addison Thatcher has the potential to really screw up my summer. She strikes me as the high-maintenance type. No, scratch that. She is the high-maintenance type. There’s no doubt about it.
Tate sighs. “Thanks, man. For real.”
“Anything in particular I should be looking out for?” I ask. “Does she turn into a werewolf under the full moon or something?”
Tate snorts. “Nah. She’s just had a rough year. It’s the reason she’s out here for the summer. And honestly, I’d plan on spending more time with her if I could, but, like I said, the family …”
I wave off his comment. Tate is about as dedicated of a husband and father as one could find.
Almost obnoxiously so. And from what I’ve heard, his wife has been having a bit of a difficult pregnancy this go around, so I’m not surprised that he doesn’t want to spend his time babysitting his little cousin.
Which means, apparently, that I have to.
“I owe you one,” Tate says with a clap on the back.
“Yeah. You do,” I mutter.