Chapter 3
Chapter three
Abigail
Willow Creek Ranch.
The name alone feels like a memory I haven’t yet lived. Like something within those three simple words has been pulling me here my whole life.
Then again, maybe it has been. The thought rolls around in my mind as I rub the black ink along the back of my left arm through my sweatshirt and flannel.
We slow as we turn from the small dirt road into the gravel drive.
Two stone pillars mark the entrance, tall and weathered.
Clear, they’ve withstood the test of time, and that this ranch has likely been here longer than anyone on it.
A wooden beam stretches across the top, holding letters cut from steel which catch the light of the evening sun.
At the end of the sign is a steel image of a willow tree, branches bent low. Almost as if it is as tired as I am.
The archway is as simple as it is grand, and yet, this place already feels like exactly what I need. A place that won’t ask for polish or perfection. A place where I can just be.
Rolling down the window, I let the wind sting my face as we pass under the sign. The air smells like dirt and wild grass, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel something steady inside me.
Beau continues down the long driveway as I hang my head out the window, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice him turn on my seat warmer in an attempt to warm me as I take in everything around me.
“How long is this driveway?” I ask, noticing I have yet to see a single building, only acre upon acre of fence and field.
Beau huffs a laugh. “I guess driveway’s a bit of a loose term. It’s about a mile and a half.”
“A mile and a half!” I say with a little more shock than necessary. “That’s like… half of Central Park.”
For the first time since we climbed into this Jeep, I allow myself to really look at him again. I can’t help but notice the crinkles on the edge of his eyes as his smile deepens. “Yeah, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Todo.”
“New York,” I correct him.
“Did you get what I was saying?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then don’t be a smart-ass about it,” he finishes with another one of those damn winks.
“You—I—you’re the smart-ass,” I say, almost under my breath.
I used to be so quick, so witty. Hell, Kat and I could verbally spar like nobody’s business.
But I haven’t had a relationship like that with anyone in years.
Clearly, I’m off my game. Nevertheless, I probably shouldn’t be calling someone I’ve only just met a smart-ass.
Actually, scratch that. He started it.
Beau lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Good one.”
There’s a beat of silence before he glances over at me again, curiosity flickering across his face. “Can I ask you something?”
I narrow my eyes. “That depends, I guess.”
He grins. “I know it’s not polite to ask a lady, but I think it’ll help me understand you better. How old are you?”
I blink, surprised by the bluntness. But something about his expression tells me it’s a genuine question. “Thirty-two,” I answer.
His brows lift slightly. “Huh.”
“Huh?” I repeat.
“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Just wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I ask dryly.
“It’s definitely not an insult,” he replies quickly. “I’m twenty-eight for what it’s worth.”
I nod slowly. “That explains some things.”
He laughs under his breath. “It’s the dimples, isn’t it?”
“Completely.”
“Lawson’s your age. And his brother, Lincoln, is the same age as me. Jasper, Joe’s brother, is twenty-five.” My brows shoot up at that. “He doesn’t act like it, though. The man’s been through enough to age him a few years.”
“Great,” I murmur. “So now I’m the old one.”
He shoots me a look. “It just means you’ve lived.”
The words catch me off guard. They’re soft and sincere, not flirtatious or forced.
I have lived. I’ve carried responsibility and fear and silence for far longer than a woman my age should have.
Years that didn’t belong to me were taken, not wasted.
Even though I did my best to make the most of them.
And being here now, on the way to my new life, on the edge of something unknown, I don’t feel embarrassed by my age, or the lack of a life I should have had by now.
Instead, it feels earned.
Like a badge to wear with pride. Because all of those years… they’re years spent overcoming. Rising above. They’re years spent being strong.
Beau pulls his eyes from the road and offers me a soft smile, like he can read the pep talk I’m giving myself as if it were written across my face.
I don’t know what I expected from the man who was going to pick me up today. But it definitely wasn’t Beau.
I’ve spent less than two hours with him, and I can already tell that the man is an enigma.
Everything about the way he looks screams country boy, ray of sunshine.
From what he’s wearing, to his blond hair, to that mile-wide smile that leads straight to those damn dimples.
He has the kind of smile that you just know that he knows the kind of weight it carries.
It’s the kind of smile that he can flash at any woman and make them forget how to breathe.
But beneath all of that, there’s something… else.
There’s a quiet intensity threaded through his words. Something dark and unspoken that hums beneath his charm. Because when he told me I belonged here now, that my past no longer owned me, it didn’t just sound like a line.
It sounded like a promise.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t believe him.
“You nervous?” he asks, likely noticing I’ve gone quiet once again.
I huff out a telling laugh. “Wouldn’t you be?”
He nods, and I can’t help but watch the muscle in his jaw tic. “Yeah,” he replies softly. “But places like this… they’ve got a way of giving you back what you thought you lost and then some. Doesn’t that seem worth it?”
His question lingers in the air between us before I face forward and finally answer, “I think it does.” Suddenly, as we crest a small hill in the driveway—which again, didn't know driveways could even have hills—a house comes into view. Modern lines, black roof shining under the orange Montana sky.
It’s not the weathered farmhouse I pictured.
No. This looks new. Sturdy. Strong. The wraparound porch is lined with wooden beams and simple rocking chairs, all facing the fields, ready to hold anyone who wants to rest there.
Green ferns adorn hanging pots, and lush landscaping decorates the stone walkway.
“That’s the main house,” Beau says. “Built it a couple of years ago. Needed something better suited for the four of us.”
“Four of you? You all—you all live there?”
“Yup. Me, Lincoln, Lawson, and Jasper, Joe’s brother. ‘Cept Jas is gone quite a bit on tour.”
“Tour?”
“Yeah for Pbr.” I raise a brow at him, clearly still confused. He smiles at me. Again. “Professional Bull Riding. That’s what Jasper does when he’s not here. Rides bulls. He’s damn good at it, too. One of the best in the nation.”
Holy shit. I mean, I knew bull riding was a real thing, don’t get me wrong.
But for some reason, I always thought it was just this far-fetched job that existed but no one really did.
Kind of like those people who weld underwater.
I mean, who really does that? But instead of saying all of that, I just ask, “Is he here right now?”
“Yeah. His season doesn’t start until the end of November and runs until May. He works for the ranch when he’s not on the back of a bull. They should all be getting in from the day by now.”
I hum in response just in time to see a barn come into view.
A wide, rust-colored structure with weathered sliding doors and a low overhang that casts long shadows across the field next to it.
The wood almost blends in with the setting sun.
Copper and honey intertwining with the sky in a way that it’s nearly hard to tell where the boards end and the horizon begins. Like it was made for this place.
Finally, we roll to a stop in the gravel drive between the barn and the house. Beau cuts the engine and leans back in his seat. “Not what you expected, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I admit quietly.
Instead of responding, he hops out of the Jeep and quickly rounds the hood before opening my door and holding out his hand in my direction.
I eye it suspiciously, and he chuckles. Not taking offense to my scrutinizing stare.
“Better get used to it, Darlin’. Pretty ladies don’t open their own doors. Not ‘round here.”
“You call everyone that, or am I just special?” Admittedly, I hope it’s the latter, because something about it makes something flutter inside my chest.
“Nah. I save the nicknames for people I really like.”
I can’t help it. A sarcastic laugh tumbles from between my lips. “Really like me? You hardly know me.”
His thumb gently strokes the back of my hand that he’s still holding. “Call it a gut feeling then.”
Without another word, he lets go, opens the back door, and grabs my backpack and duffle. When I move to take it from him, he closes his eyes, pinches his lips, and slowly shakes his head. “Let me guess, better get used to that too.”
“See, you’re catchin’ on already.” He nods in the direction of the house. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone, then we’ll get ya all settled for the night.”
Suddenly, a ball of nerves settles in my gut at the prospect of meeting them.
Because for some reason, now is the first time it’s dawning on me that I’m about to be staying in a house with four men I don’t know.
And after everything that’s happened, the thought of being in such close quarters is…
unnerving to say the least. Beau has been such a warm person, but they all can’t possibly be like him, right?
There’s no way they’re all as easy-breezy about the prospect of some woman on the run that they don’t even know interfering with their lives.
When the porch light flickers on and the heavy wooden door swings open, the cheap cookies I ate on the flight threaten to make a reappearance. The air around me shifts—thickens somehow—as a man, broad enough to fill the doorway, steps out onto the porch.
Unlike Beau, he wears a black felt cowboy hat that shadows his face, though his dark curls manage to escape from beneath it.
The first thing I notice when I catch a clear look at him is how the evening sun glints along the faint scar running the length of his jaw.
It’s subtle but impossible to miss, even beneath the rough stubble covering his skin.
From here, his eyes look nearly black as they narrow on me from under the brim of his hat, studying me as intently as I am him.
When he reaches the top of the steps, his presence hits me.
Commanding, steady, and somehow both nerve-racking and oddly grounding.
I can’t look away as he folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. His button-up, the color of dust and a long day’s work, pulls tight across his shoulders, and the rolled sleeves reveal an intricate tattoo winding along one corded forearm.
My gaze trails lower, following the powerful line of his legs filling out a pair of worn dark blue jeans, down to his weathered square-toe boots.
Everything about him radiates authority.
The kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be understood.
And with that intensity, he almost undoes the calm Beau worked so hard to create on the drive here.
“That’s Lawson,” Beau murmurs beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. “He owns the ranch and runs, well, pretty much everything around here. Don’t worry, he’s all bark and no bite. I promise.”
Instead of waiting for us to come to him, Lawson steps down from the porch, meeting us at the bottom of the stairs.
Once we reach him, he removes his hat with one hand, drops his chin, and says, “Ma’am,” before placing his hat back on.
Beau really wasn’t kidding about those manners, was he?
“Hi,” I reply meekly.
“Lawson Taylor, I trust Beau’s been on his best behavior on the way here.”
Lawson. The name sounds sure and steady when spoken in my head. It fits him.
I spare a glance up at Beau, and he winks at me yet again. I smile softly and look back at Lawson. “Very best.”
“When am I not?” Beau asks with a mischievous grin.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Lawson deadpans.
“I’m Abigail, by the way. Abigail Adams.” I say the new name with as much confidence as I can muster as I reach out to shake his hand.
Lawson looks me up and down one more time before wrapping his hand around mine, squeezing so gently it’s as if he’s afraid he’ll break me. “Yes. Yes, you are.”
His rough hand feels hot beneath my touch.
But it’s the kind of warmth that could feel addictive if I let it.
The kind of warmth I’d want to wrap myself up in and never let go.
He must feel it too, because all too soon he clears his throat and lets go.
“Well, welcome to Willow Creek Ranch, Abigail.”