Frosty in Flannel (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #7)

Chapter One

Libby

The second I stepped out of my truck the cool autumn breeze flowed around me, bringing with it the familiar scent of fall. There was no way to describe it. The air just smelled different this time of year.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the other layers of the ranch—of hay, dust and horses.

Everything wrapped around me like a welcoming hug.

It wasn’t new—not to someone who spent most of her days in barns and paddocks—but there was something different about this place.

The quiet. The weight of the mountains pressing in.

The way the wind carried more than just the smell of horses—it carried history.

I tried to stop second-guessing everything that had brought me here.

New start, I reminded myself. Fresh slate. Whole different world.

The Off-Duty Rescue Ranch looked clean, well-kept, and organized—exactly the kind of setup you’d hope for when working with high-strung animals and wounded veterans.

Sturdy fencing, a solid barn, and enough open space to let the tension bleed off both horse and handler.

Somewhere out there was the reason they’d called me—a mustang so traumatized no one could get near him.

No one except one man.

And apparently, that man was a total jackass.

That part, I hadn’t witnessed for myself yet. But the woman who hired me hadn’t exactly sugarcoated it. Everyone had the same warning. Beckett Callahan was a man you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

Especially when it came to the horse he’d personally rescued.

I let myself into the barn, the door creaking open as I stepped into the cooler air inside. No welcoming committee, no clipboard with my name on it—just the sound of shifting hooves, the soft clink of metal, and the faint smell of leather that settled into my bones like home.

I didn’t need a tour. I’d worked enough places like this to know where to find the horses.

And the trouble.

The man I’d be working with wasn’t hard to spot.

He was big—the kind of big that made you take a step back without thinking about it.

Tall, easily over six feet, with shoulders that stretched his faded work shirt tight across his back.

Arms corded with muscle earned from years of hard labor, not a gym.

He stood just inside a stall with a restless black mustang.

Even from where I stood in the shadows, I could feel the controlled power radiating off him.

But it wasn’t the size that made me stop.

It was the stillness.

He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking—just standing there with his shoulders squared and his posture loose but alert. Waiting. The stallion was agitated, ears twitching, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but he wasn’t trying to bolt. He was listening. Responding.

That told me more than any report ever could.

I stayed back, watching from the barn’s center aisle.

The man hadn’t noticed me yet—or if he had, he didn’t care.

The first thing I saw was the scar. It twisted down the left side of his face from temple to jaw, the skin pulled tight and discolored, disappearing beneath his collar.

When he shifted, reaching up to stroke the horse’s neck, I saw it continue down his arm, the sleeve of his t-shirt clinging to uneven skin.

Burns that hadn’t healed properly. Burns that looked like they had tried to kill him but hadn’t succeeded.

Sympathy tightened my chest, but I knew better than to say anything.

There was something about the way he held himself—closed off, guarded, like he’d built walls so high even he couldn’t see over them anymore—that made my breath catch.

He looked like a man who’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched gently.

Like a man who expected pain and had learned to live with it.

Professional, I reminded myself. Keep it professional.

But my body wasn’t listening. My pulse kicked up, heat spreading low in my belly as I watched him move. There was a raw, animal grace to him—dangerous and damaged and somehow magnetic. The kind of man you knew would wreck you if you got too close.

The kind of man I’d always been too smart to want.

Until now.

I gave myself a mental pinch. I was here to help a skittish horse, not heal a broken man.

“Hey,” I called gently, stepping forward.

He turned.

Slowly. Deliberately. And when his eyes locked on mine, the air between us went tight.

They were dark. Deep. A devil dark that drew you in. They were hard and cold and assessing, just like the rest of him. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked straight through me like he was cataloging every weakness, every tell, every reason he didn’t want me here.

“You the new behaviorist?” His voice was low, rough-edged, like gravel under boots.

“That’s me,” I said, my voice steady as if I were talking to the horse, not the man. “Libby James.”

His gaze swept down, then up again. Not leering. Not friendly. Just... reading. But when he turned back to the horse without another word, I felt the dismissal a little too personally.

I leaned on the gate, watching the way he moved around the stallion. Calm. Measured. The horse didn’t flinch from him, didn’t pin his ears or bare his teeth.

“You’ve got good timing with him,” I said quietly. “Firm without being too forward.”

“He doesn’t need more voices right now.” The comment was made so low I barely heard it. Again, a jolt of something that felt way too personal at his words.

“Understood,” I said, stepping back a pace. “I’m just here to help.”

He gave a short nod but didn’t look at me again.

I stayed a moment longer, watching man and animal move together in that silent understanding that came from shared trauma. They recognized each other. The damage. The fear. The desperate need to be left alone while simultaneously craving connection.

I knew that feeling.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away from him.

Finally, I pushed off the gate. That’s when his phone rang. He immediately silenced the ringing, but he didn’t answer. He finished with the horse, walking out of the stall before glancing of the screen. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he exhaled, like it cost him something to answer it. “Yeah.”

A telling pause.

“She’s here.” Another pause. “No. Quiet. Professional.”

He glanced my way and something unreadable flickered across his face. He hung up without saying goodbye.

“Cabin’s this way,” he said, voice flat. He headed toward the doors, and I followed silently behind him. Once outside, he gestured toward my truck with a jerk of his chin. “That your equipment?”

“Yeah. The duffels and the crate need to go in the barn.”

He didn’t say anything. Just walked to my truck, popped the tailgate, and grabbed the two heavy duffels like they weighed nothing. I followed, picking up the lighter crate of supplies, and trailed behind him back into the barn.

He opened a storage room off the main aisle—cool, dry, well-lit—and set the bags down on the floor.

“I cleaned off those two shelves,” he said, taking the crate from my hands.

Our fingers brushed.

It was only a fleeting touch, but a shiver raced up my arm and coiled tight in my core, leaving me off balance. His hands were rough, calloused, warm. Strong.

I pulled back quickly because from the way his jaw tightened, he’d felt it too.

“Thanks,” I managed. “That helps.”

No response. He just turned back toward the door, shoulders rigid.

I stood there a moment gathering my composure, my hands still tingling where we’d touched, before following him outside.

He climbed into the cab of a truck parked next to mine without a word, starting the engine and pulling forward down a narrow gravel road. Again, I got the message—follow or get left behind.

I climbed into my truck and followed him through tall grass and pine trees. The drive was short—less than five minutes—and when we reached the end of the road, I saw two small cabins. Identical structures with green tin roofs and front porches built for boots and solitude.

He parked and climbed out. “You’re in that one,” he said, nodding to the cabin on the left. “I’m in this one.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked up the steps to my cabin and opened the door. It squeaked in protest, but inside the place was clean. Sparse, but clean.

One main room with a small kitchenette with a table and chairs. On the other side was a recliner and a small couch and a surprisingly new-looking television. Through the back window, pastures and mountains stretched out in a view that stole my breath.

“There’s internet if you want to watch something,” Beckett said from the doorway. I smiled at his tone—it said real cowboys don’t watch television. “Meals are at six, noon, and six. If you miss one, tell the cook. He’ll leave something for you.”

“Okay.” I gave him a small smile. He acted like missing a meal was a big no-no just like watching television. I couldn’t help it. My gaze traveled over his big body. Had he missed meals? He was made up of muscle, not fat.

Not like me. My curves and me went back a long time. I liked my body. But then, I liked his too. I sighed. No hope of that happening here. Getting through to him would be harder than getting through to the mustang.

That didn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy the ride.

Stop it, I scolded myself. There was a reason I worked with horses.

I couldn’t help but let my gaze travel over him again.

The way his shirt pulled across broad shoulders.

The way his hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them when he wasn’t working.

The way he held himself so damn carefully, like one wrong move might shatter whatever control he had left.

Wounded, I thought. So damn wounded.

And I wanted to know why.

More than that—I wanted to help.

Even though I knew better. Even though I’d come here to work with horses, not broken men. Even though every rational part of my brain was screaming that getting involved with someone like him was a mistake.

“There’s no key,” he said, turning to go. “We don’t lock doors around here.”

“Understood.”

He paused in the doorway, and for a second I thought he might say something else. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was fighting some internal battle.

But he didn’t.

Just nodded once and walked out, the screen door creaking shut behind him.

I stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle around me like a blanket. Then I walked back out to grab my suitcase from the truck.

The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. I could hear horses in the pasture, the low murmur of voices from the main house, the crunch of gravel under boots. Somewhere a door slammed. Someone laughed.

It felt like peace.

But beneath it, I could feel the tension. The weight of all the broken things gathered here—horses and men alike—trying to find a way to heal.

I glanced at the other cabin, where a single light had just flickered on in the window.

Beckett was in there. Alone. Probably convincing himself he was fine that way.

I knew better.

Because I’d seen the way he looked at that horse. The way he’d moved around it with infinite patience and careful control. The way his shoulders had relaxed—just for a second—when the animal leaned into his touch.

He wasn’t as closed off as he wanted everyone to believe.

And that made him more dangerous than anything else could have.

I carried my suitcase inside and dropped it on the bed, then walked to the back window and stared out at the mountains. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, and somewhere in the distance I heard the lonely call of a hawk.

This place wasn’t just a fresh start.

It was a reckoning.

Because I wasn’t just here for the untamable horse.

I was here because I’d burned my last job to the ground trying to save an animal no one else thought was worth saving. I’d gone over my boss’s head, called in favors I didn’t have, made enemies of people who mattered.

They said I was too emotional. Too impulsive. That I couldn’t separate my heart from my head.

Maybe they were right.

But I’d rather lose everything than stand by and watch something suffer when I could help.

And now, here I was. In the middle of nowhere, hired to work with a traumatized mustang and a man who looked at the world like it had already taken everything worth having.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes.

I came here to heal horses, I repeated to myself again. Not to fall for broken men.