Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
C al
The sun is just starting to dip below the mountain ridges, painting the yard in warm golden hues, when I spot Layla crouched near the flower beds in the greenhouse attached to the barn with Carson. She looks like she belongs here in a way that surprises me every damn day. Nothing like the country club socialite that showed up on my ranch a few weeks ago. Her hands are dirty, her hair falling out of her ponytail in soft tendrils, and she’s laughing at something Carson just said.
I lean against the barn door, arms crossed, and watch them. Carson’s little hand clutches a trowel, dirt flying everywhere as he “helps” her dig holes. Layla guides his hands with patience I didn’t know she had.
“Make sure you don’t bury the flowers, buddy,” she teases, brushing soil from her cheek with the back of her hand. “We want them to grow, not hide.”
Carson giggles, his grin stretching wide. “Like that time Duke buried your sandal?”
Layla groans dramatically. “Exactly. Let’s not repeat that disaster.”
I smirk, shaking my head. She’s good with him—better than I expected. It’s not just that she’s kind or patient; it’s the way she lets him take up space, like nothing in the world matters more than whatever he’s thinking or feeling in that moment.
Duke trots over to sniff at their progress, tail wagging. Layla scratches behind his ears, and the dog flops onto the ground beside her like he’s been doing this his whole life.
When they finish planting, Layla sits back on her heels, admiring their work. Carson tugs at her hand, and she stands, brushing dirt from her jeans. He points toward the barn, and they start wandering in my direction. Carson’s small hand is wrapped in hers, and it sends a warmth through my chest I can’t quite explain.
“You supervising or just daydreaming?” Layla calls out when they’re close enough, a playful lilt in her voice.
“Supervising,” I lie, pushing off the railing. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you’re not planting weeds.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “As if I’d make that mistake.”
“You’ve done worse,” I tease, stepping down from the porch. “Remember the eggs?”
“That was one time!” she protests, though her cheeks flush. “Besides, you’re the one who said I needed to learn by doing.”
“And you’re doing all right,” I admit, my tone softer now. Carson beams at the praise, and Layla’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
“Come on, cowboy,” she says, tilting her head toward the barn. “Carson wants to see you work your magic with that new mustang.”
I glance down at my boy, who’s watching me with wide, eager eyes. “You ready to see some real cowboy skills, kid?”
“Yeah!” he cheers, bouncing on his toes.
Layla laughs, and the sound wraps around me, pulling me toward her without even trying. I follow them to the barn, where one of the younger mustangs I’ve been training waits in the ring.
A few minutes later, the mustang circles the pen, its movements graceful but cautious. I whistle softly, signaling it to slow. Layla and Carson lean against the fence, watching every move with rapt attention.
“How do you get them to listen like that?” Layla asks, her voice laced with curiosity.
“It’s about trust,” I explain, keeping my focus on the horse. “They’ve gotta believe you’re not here to hurt them. Takes patience.”
She hums, and I can feel her eyes on me more than the horse. “Patience, huh? That doesn’t seem like your strong suit.”
I glance at her, raising a brow. “I’ve got patience where it counts.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The teasing tension hangs between us for a beat too long, and I force myself to break eye contact, turning back to the horse. Carson, oblivious to the charged air, claps excitedly when the mustang finally comes to a stop near me.
“You’re so cool, Dad!” he shouts, and my chest tightens.
Layla grins, nudging Carson playfully. “I guess he’s not so bad, huh?”
“I’m better than not bad,” I mutter, shooting her a look. She laughs, and it’s like a damn melody, settling something restless inside me.
A soft noise pulls my attention toward the barn then, and my stomach twists when I realize one of the mares is in distress. “Stay here,” I tell Layla and Carson, my tone leaving no room for argument.
“What’s wrong?” Layla asks, concern etching her features.
“Think the mare’s about to foal,” I say, already heading for the stall. “I need to check on her.”
To my surprise, Layla follows, Carson’s hand still in hers. I open my mouth to tell her to stay put, but the determined look on her face stops me. “I can help,” she says simply, and I nod, not trusting myself to argue.
Inside the stall, the mare is restless, her sides heaving. I move carefully, murmuring soothing words as I check her over. Layla hangs back at first, but when I glance over my shoulder, she steps closer.
“What do you need me to do?” she asks, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
I hand her a clean towel, meeting her gaze. “Just stay calm. She’ll pick up on it if you’re nervous.”
Layla nods, and to her credit, she does exactly as I say. Together, we guide the mare through the delivery, our hands brushing more than once as we work. Each touch sends a jolt through me, but I shove it down, focusing on the task at hand.
When the foal finally arrives—a healthy colt—I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Layla’s face lights up with awe as the tiny creature struggles to its feet, and Carson cheers from behind the stall door.
“What should we name him?” Layla asks, looking down at Carson.
The boy’s face scrunches in concentration before a grin breaks through. “Cupid!” he announces. “Because Valentine’s Day!”
Layla laughs, ruffling his hair. “Cupid it is.”
I watch them, something warm and unfamiliar settling in my chest. Layla catches my eye, her smile softening. “You’re good at this,” she says quietly.
“At what?”
“Everything,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “The ranch, the horses, Carson… this life.”
Her words hit me harder than I expect, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. So I just nod, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. She doesn’t pull away, and the space between us feels smaller than ever.
“Come on,” I say finally, my voice rough. “Let’s get Cupid and his mama settled.”
Layla smiles, but there’s something in her eyes—something that tells me this moment isn’t just about the foal. It’s about us, too, and whatever the hell we’re building here on this ranch. For the first time, I think maybe—just maybe—it’s something real.