7. QUINN
QUINN
Morning settles over Iron Stallion like a dare. A cold wind blows through the vast land, the clang of metal can be heard from the barn, horses blowing steam into the crisp dawn. I stand on the balcony of my bedroom, looking out into the vastness that is the Morgan Empire.
This is my first time here, and I can’t suppress the thrill running through me.
I’ve seen it in photos, glimpses on Ella’s social media, and even polished shots on the website, but nothing compares to standing here in person.
The air feels different, richer somehow, and every detail tugs at me in a way a screen never could.
But I am not here to fool around. My eight weeks are meant to bury myself in work and live up to my contract of making Beckett Gideon Morgan an acceptable member of society once more.
He made it perfectly clear that he is not thrilled with me being here, and to be honest, I’m not either.
It was not easy making the leap, but after thinking about it for a few days, getting mocked by Rhett and looked down upon by my father, I decided this is the much better choice.
At least by the end of this, I’ll walk away with fifty million dollars.
For that to happen, I need to get to work, so I reluctantly walk away from the picturesque scene, across my room and outside to the bedroom next door.
I rap my knuckles on the wood and wait for a response. A few seconds pass, and nothing. I knock again, only to be met with more silence. I know he’s in there—I heard shuffling before I started knocking, which means he’s ignoring me.
“Beck, I know you are in there. Open up!” I demand, banging more forcefully. “I’m not going away until I talk to you.”
I keep banging my fist against it until all of a sudden, the door opens and my hand is caught by a much larger one just before it slams against his bare chest. My breath catches. Broad shoulders, skin bronzed by the sun, and muscles that flex like they were sculpted just to taunt me.
For a split second, I forget why I’m here.
His grip is firm, calloused, the kind of hand that speaks of hard work.
But it’s the ink that steals my attention, dark lines curling over his chest and down his arm, alive against the movement of his body.
I never imagined Beck marked like this, and the sight pins me in place, a thousand questions sparking to life where words should be.
I should let go, pretend I haven’t noticed the way his tattoos disappear below the waistband of his jeans. Instead, my pulse betrays me, hammering loud enough I’m sure he can hear it.
Heat rushes up my arm, pooling low in my stomach.
“What?!” he bellows at me, pulling me back into reality.
I jerk my hand back, forcing myself to look at his face and not his naked chest—not that it’s much better, but it’s more bearable.
“Good morning,” I greet, forcing on a smile.
“What do you want, Quinn?” he demands impatiently.
Rude much. We will work on those manners, but for now, I have a different agenda in mind.
“What’s your schedule for the day?” I inquire.
“Why?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, making his muscles flex.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. That is easier said than done, but I force myself, recalling why I am here in the first place.
“I’ll be shadowing you. I need to learn how your day-to-day is so I can make a proper schedule and work with your strengths,” I explain.
He shuts me down with a single word. “No!”
But I was already prepared for this. Last night he glared at me all through dinner and blocked all my attempts to talk to him about my plans for him. Today, I am not going to give him that opportunity.
“I don’t know the meaning of that word.”
“Better pick up the dictionary then.”
I sigh, my shoulders dropping a little bit. “You’re gonna make this very hard for me, aren’t you?”
“I already warned you, didn’t I?”
“You did, but it’s not going to be that easy to get rid of me. I have my own reasons for doing this, so I am here to stay. You might as well get used to it. It’ll make the next eight weeks so much easier on the two of us.”
“Yeah, keep dreaming.”
In true Beck style, he slams the door in my face, letting me know that this conversation is over.
Argh! He’s so frustrating.
Why can’t he try and work with me? I know this is not what he wants, but I’m here, so we might as well do our best. But Jace did warn me yesterday that this was not going to be a walk in the park. I’m not one to give up easily, so I head back to my room to get ready for the day.
A pair of jeans, a proper loose shirt due to the heat, cowboy boots, and a hat make my outfit of the day. I’m a corporate girl, but I grew up on a farm, so I know how to dress appropriately. I grab my phone on my way out, but I run into a small problem when my door refuses to open.
The door handle seems to be jammed on something, and as someone who has grown up with three brothers, I’m familiar with this trick.
“Beck, I know it’s you. Let me out—this is not funny,” I yell, knocking on my door repeatedly.
I can’t believe he’d turn to such juvenile tactics. If he thinks locking me in here will keep me away, then he’s got another thing coming.
I’m about to call Jace and ask him for help when I hear footsteps headed my way.
“Quinn?”
“Ella? Thank God. Let me out,” I request, grateful that I don’t have to bother Jace.
“Why is there a chair jammed up against your lock?” she asks just as she swings it open and lets me out.
“Your brother being immature,” I answer with an eye roll.
“I’m so sorry about him,” she sympathizes, but she can’t hide the small smile playing on her lips.
At least she finds this funny, but I do not. “Thank you for letting me out.”
“You’re welcome.”
Just to be petty, I jam the chair against his door even though I know he’s not in there and fall in step with Ella as we head downstairs.
“What does your brother do here at the ranch?” I ask, hoping to at least get some basic information on him.
“He’s a trainer—one of the best.”
“What about bareback riding? He’s not into the sport anymore?”
“No one’s really sure. He hasn’t said much about it, but we’re all leaning toward him having decided to retire,” she explains.
Beck has always given Landon a run for his money when it comes to the sport, so it’s sad that he’ll be hanging up his spurs.
Ella answers all the questions that I have and even joins me for breakfast, allowing me to probe some more about her brother. She’s quite informative, and I learn a lot, but not enough, which means I still need to find the man himself.
“Might you be kind enough to let me know where I can find that brother of yours?” I ask her after we are done eating.
“He’s in the corral. Head out the back door and take the path to the stables—it’s right at the back.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And Quinn—“
“Yeah?”
“Thank you so much for this. We know it’s not going to be easy, so we appreciate you trying.”
“I’ll do my best, but ultimately, it all lies with Beck.”
“I know. We’ll do our best to convince him to behave.”
“I would appreciate that—it will make my life so much easier.”
Exiting the kitchen, I take the path leading to the stables, the sight that meets me taking my breath away.
The world is quiet but for the soft huff of the mare and the scrape of Beck’s boots against the dirt.
He moves with a patience I didn’t expect—measured steps, steady hands, a low murmur of words I can’t quite hear but feel in the way the horse relaxes beneath his touch.
For a man who looks like he was carved to intimidate, there’s something almost tender about the way he guides her.
The moment feels private, like peeking into a part of him no one is supposed to see. My eyes track the way his shoulders roll, muscles shifting under sweat-damp skin, tattoos flexing with every movement. He’s all focus, all control, and it steals the air right out of my chest.
Then, as if he can feel the weight of my stare, his head lifts. Our eyes catch across the distance, and for one charged heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he drops the reins, gives the mare a pat, and starts toward me.
My pulse stumbles. Each step eats up the space between us, heavy and deliberate, and I swear the air changes—thicker, harder to breathe, as if even the ranch itself knows Beck Morgan is walking straight toward me.
His stride is confident in that way only a man who grew up on this land can carry. He does not look pleased to see me and doesn’t even bother hiding it.
I take charge and speak up first. “That was such a childish move.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Of course he’s denying it.
“Locking me in my room.”
He does not respond and instead brushes past me, heading for the stables, treating me like I’m invisible. I square my shoulders and follow—if he thinks ignoring me will send me packing, he doesn’t know me at all.
The smell inside the barn nearly knocks me over—hay, leather, horse, and something pungent I don’t want to name. Beck doesn’t wait for me to adjust. He shoves a pitchfork into my hands without a word and nods toward a stall. His eyes flick up, daring me to refuse.
“You wanted to shadow me, didn’t you?”
So that’s how he wants to play it? Fine, I can do this.
I roll up my sleeves and dig in, shoveling muck with more determination than skill.
It’s disgusting, but I remind myself that I’ve sat through endless council meetings where men twice my age tried to tell me the project I’m here groveling for is not “worth the investment.” Compared to that, this is easy. At least manure doesn’t talk back.
Beck checks on me once, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smirk at the sight of me elbow-deep in ranch work. I glare at him, which only makes him turn away, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Fine. Let him laugh. I’ll outlast him.
The day drags me from one task to the next.
Saddling horses under Beck’s sharp gaze, carrying buckets of water that nearly spill all over my jeans, holding onto a skittish colt while my arms tremble with the effort.
Every time I think he’s about to give me a break, he tosses another chore my way, like he’s cataloging all the ways I don’t belong here.
By midday, my palms sting with raw blisters and sweat runs down my spine, but when Beck leans against a fencepost and mutters, “You can quit anytime, princess,” I force a smile.
“Funny,” I say, brushing dirt off my jeans. “I was just about to ask if you needed a break.”
His jaw ticks, and for a second, I think I see something almost like respect in his eyes, but then it’s gone, replaced by the same cool indifference. He stalks off, and I trail behind him, refusing to fall behind.
This is day one. And if he wants to make it a war, fine. I’ve fought tougher battles in silk blouses and high heels. Beck Morgan has no idea how hard I can fight when I want something badly enough.
And I want this.