Chapter 3
Chapter three
Frankie
Morning at Brush Creek Ranch dawns early. I start to here people moving around at the ungodly time of five in the morning.
The storm passed sometime before dawn, leaving a sky washed clean and pale. Sunrise filters through the curtains. I should feel out of place, a city girl marooned in cowboy country, but the bed is warm, the sheets smell faintly of cedar and soap, and for the first time in months, I slept.
I stretch under the covers, listening to the faint creak of footsteps downstairs. A deep voice murmurs something I can’t quite hear, then laughter. Martha, I think. The grandmother with eyes that see everything.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything but cookies since Denver. After my shower and the treats that Rhett left in my room, I fell asleep hard.
Now, I slip out of bed, pull on a soft gray T-shirt from my bag and the plaid flannel hanging over the chair, definitely Rhett’s, judging by the size and the scent. It’s ridiculous how comforting it feels. I wonder if he left it for me.
When I walk down the stairs barefoot, morning light spills through the windows, catching the steam curling up from the kitchen.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Martha says, standing at the stove in a floral apron. “Sleep all right?”
“Like the dead,” I admit.
“Coffee?” she asks, already pouring. “We’ve got pancakes too. Luke’s idea. He thinks the world runs on carbs.”
“Doesn’t it?” I grin. “I’m a big believer in that theory.”
“Smart girl.” She slides a mug toward me, eyes twinkling. “You look much better dry.”
Before I can answer, the back door swings open and a gust of cold air follows Rhett inside.
He’s in a black T-shirt and jeans, sleeves shoved up to reveal tanned forearms that really have no business existing before breakfast. He stops when he sees me at the counter wearing his flannel.
Something in his expression flickers, there and gone. “Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I echo, suddenly very aware that I smell like his soap.
Luke appears behind him, grinning like a man who just found gossip worth spreading. “Well, doesn’t this look domestic,” he says, grabbing a pancake straight off the stack.
Rhett glares. “You’ve got your own plate.”
“Yeah, but they taste better when they’re stolen.” Luke tosses me a wink. “You settling in all right, Frankie?”
“Perfectly. Your grandma makes the best coffee I’ve had since college.”
“Careful,” Martha warns. “I might just adopt you and give you chores like the boys.”
“I’m not scared of chores,” I say.
“Good.” She points her spatula toward the table. “Then sit, eat, and tell me why a city girl came all this way to the middle of nowhere.”
Rhett mutters something under his breath, but she ignores him.
I settle into a chair, wrapping my hands around the mug. “Honestly? I needed a break. Life’s been… noisy. I signed up for a women’s retreat near here. My GPS had other plans.”
Luke chuckles. “The famous Brush Creek detour. Half our best customers get lost first.”
“Well, your pumpkins didn’t survive my navigation skills,” I confess. “Sorry about that, Rhett.”
He looks up from pouring coffee, green eyes steady. “They’ll grow back.”
The way he says it, low and even, sends a small, inexplicable pulse through my stomach. It’s ridiculous how much his simple words affect me.
Martha catches the moment, of course. Her smile turns sly. “Rhett, why don’t you show her the barn later? Festival setup’s coming along.”
He starts to protest, but she lifts a brow.
“You could use the help and the company.”
He sighs. “Fine.”
After breakfast, Luke disappears to check the fences, Martha hums her way through the dishes, and Rhett grabs his hat from the hook.
“You ready?” he asks.
“For festival set-up duty? Always.”
The walk to the barn is bright and cold, the ground still soft from the rain. He keeps pace beside me, hands shoved into his pockets. The air between us feels charged, like static before lightning.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “does your grandma always recruit strangers to do your chores?”
“She recruits anyone who’ll listen to her,” he says. “Lucky you.”
“Lucky me.”
We reach the barn, and I stop short. Inside, sunlight slants through the open doors, spilling across rows of pumpkins, bales of hay, twinkle lights strung overhead. “Wow,” I breathe. “It’s like a Hallmark movie exploded in here.”
“Luke’s doing,” he says. “He thinks festive equals profit.”
“Your brother seems fun.”
“He’s loud,” Rhett says dryly.
“And you’re not,” I reply, already knowing this man is never loud for no reason.
“I’m the quiet one.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “You don’t say.”
The smirk he gives me is slow and devastating. “You talk enough for both of us.”
“Someone has to.”
We move through the barn together, checking displays and sweeping the floor. It’s comfortable, easy. He’s still guarded, but there’s humor in the corners now, like he’s remembering how.
When I reach for a crate and nearly slip, his hand shoots out, gripping my waist. His fingers are firm and warm through the flannel.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my pulse disagrees.
He doesn’t move right away, eyes locked on mine. The air seems to thicken, the distance between us narrowing until the only thing I can hear is the sound of our breathing and the steady thrum of rain dripping from the eaves.
Then he steps back, clears his throat. “Another storm is going to blow through this afternoon. It’s make the roads more dangerous. You should probably just stay here another night.”
I nod, pretending my heart isn’t trying to climb out of my chest. “Right. Safety first.”
“Always.”
We finish the work in silence. But every time his hand brushes mine, or his arm moves close as we stack crates, something sparks low and persistent.
When we finally walk back to the house, Martha’s waiting on the porch, a knowing smile tucked into the corner of her mouth.
“How was the barn?” she asks.
“Productive,” Rhett says too quickly.
“Hmm.” She looks between us, eyes twinkling. “Storm’s gone, but it looks like another one’s brewing.”
Rhett groans. “Grandma—”
She waves him off. “Don’t ‘Grandma’ me. You just make sure that nice girl doesn’t trip on the porch steps again. Wouldn’t want her falling…harder.”
I bite back a laugh as Rhett mutters something under his breath, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as he holds the door open for me.