Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
LENA
The guest cabin is nicer than my last three Airbnbs combined.
One room. Clean lines, solid wood furniture, a queen bed with a quilt that looks handmade. Small kitchen with a coffee maker, a window over the sink that faces the mountains. Everything functional, nothing decorative. No art on the walls, no throw pillows, no personality whatsoever.
My fingers are already itching.
Setting my equipment cases by the door, I pull out my phone to text Josie.
I'm here. Your brother hates me.
Her reply comes in seconds.
He hates everyone give it a day
Did he do the "it's rancher not cowboy" thing
Because he does that to literally every person he meets
A laugh escapes me. So it wasn't personal. Good to know.
He also wouldn't let me take his picture
Josie what exactly did you tell him about this project
Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again.
I may have been vague
On purpose
He would've said no Lena you KNOW this
Dropping onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling.
Josie Brant hired me six weeks ago at a branding conference in Reno.
Showed me photos of the ranch, the cattle, the land.
Talked about agritourism potential, direct to consumer beef sales, a website that didn't look like it was built in 2004.
She had numbers, projections, a whole pitch deck.
What she failed to mention was that the actual owner of the ranch wanted none of it.
You owe me
I know!! Just give him time he's a good guy under the grump I promise
Also his dogs love everyone so start there
Unpacking takes twenty minutes. Camera bodies on the kitchen counter, lenses in the bedroom, laptop on the small desk by the window.
Three changes of clothes hung in the closet because I learned a long time ago that shoots in unfamiliar locations require options.
My red heels go under the bed. Tomorrow I'm wearing boots.
By the time I've showered off the rental car staleness, the sun is dropping behind the mountains.
Golden hour. Automatically, my brain frames every window view.
The barn in warm light. Fence posts casting long shadows across the pasture.
A blue heeler asleep on the porch of the main house, chin on his paws.
My camera's in my hands before I've made a conscious decision.
Outside, the air is different from Sacramento. Dry, clean, carrying sage. The gravel crunches under my sneakers as I walk toward the fence line, shooting the landscape in the dying light. The mountains go purple, then navy. Cattle dot the lower pasture, dark shapes against golden grass.
This place is stunning. Josie wasn't exaggerating.
A truck engine rumbles somewhere behind the barn. Then Tucker Brant comes around the corner on an ATV, two dogs running alongside, hat low over his eyes. He's changed his shirt since I arrived. Clean henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Forearms thick, tanned. Dirt still under his nails.
He pulls up near the water trough and swings off without looking at me. Knows I'm here, though. The set of his shoulders says he's aware of exactly where I am in relation to him at all times.
Dolly trots over to sniff my ankles. Hank is already rolling onto his back near my feet.
"Hey, pretty girl." Crouching down, I scratch Dolly behind both ears until her tail starts going. "At least someone's happy to see me."
"She's not happy." Tucker's voice carries from the trough where he's checking something. "She's assessing you."
"Sure. That's why she's leaning into my hand."
He grunts. The man communicates in grunts. I've known him for three hours.
Standing, I brush dog hair off my sundress. "Can we talk about the project? I want to start shooting tomorrow morning."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Tucker." Closing the distance, I stop about six feet from where he's crouched by the trough, checking a valve. "Josie hired me. She's paying me. The contract is signed. Whether you participate or not, I'm here for two weeks, so we might as well make it productive."
He stands. Slowly. Unfolding all six feet of himself until I'm craning my neck to look at his face. Hazel eyes in the last of the light, crow's feet deep at the corners. The trimmed beard is more brown than blond up close. His hat throws shadow across his jaw.
"What exactly do you need from me?"
Everything. Every angle, every hour of the day, every task he does on this ranch. But saying that right now would send him back into the house.
"One morning. Ride with me while you do your regular work. Pretend I'm not here."
"Hard to pretend you're not here."
My stomach flips. Because the way he says it, low and quiet, looking at me like I'm a problem he can't solve, doesn't sound like an insult. He drops his gaze to my mouth for half a second. Then snaps it back to the mountains.
"Six a.m. sharp," he says. "I'm not waiting for you."
"I'll be ready at five thirty."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even close. But something cracks in the granite, and I feel unreasonably victorious.
"Wear real shoes," he says, already walking toward the house. "And don't get in the way of the horses."
"I know how to behave around animals."
He glances over his shoulder. "I wasn't talking about behavior. I was talking about those." His eyes drop to my sneakers. "One of my mares will step on your foot and you'll be done for the week."
Fair point. "Boots. Got it."
He nods once. Disappears inside with both dogs.
Standing alone in the darkening yard, I let out a breath. One morning. It's a start.
Back in the cabin, I call my mother. She picks up on the second ring because Carmen Cordero has never let a phone ring three times in her life.
"Mija, how's the ranch?"
"Beautiful. The rancher wants to murder me."
"Is he handsome?"
"Mama."
"You didn't say no."
Dropping onto the bed, I close my eyes. "He's... difficult. Barely talks. Definitely doesn't want me here. Josie warned me, but I thought she was being dramatic."
"Josie wouldn't have hired you if the ranch wasn't worth saving. Trust your eye, Lena. You always see what other people miss."
After we hang up, I spend two hours on my laptop reviewing the ranch's existing online presence.
Josie was right about the website. It looks like a tax form with a picture of a cow.
No social media. No story. No brand. Just eight hundred head of cattle, six hundred acres, and a man who'd rather pull a calf in the dark than let someone take his photograph.
Which, professionally, is a problem.
Personally? The image of Tucker Brant on his knees in the mud at dawn, forearms bloody, talking low to a laboring cow? That's the shot. That's the whole brand.
If he'd let me take it.
Morning comes fast. My alarm goes off at five, and by five twenty I'm dressed in jeans, a fitted white t-shirt under a denim jacket, the hiking boots I packed as backup. Hair in a messy clip. Minimal makeup because ranch dust doesn't care about contour.
Camera bag over my shoulder, I step out of the cabin into air so cold it tightens my skin. The sky is barely grey. Stars still visible. The main house is already lit, and Tucker is on the porch with a mug, Dolly at his feet.
He looks me over. The boots, the jeans, the camera bag.
"Better," he says.
"High praise."
Another twitch at the corner of his mouth. He holds out a second mug.
Coffee. Black, strong enough to strip paint, in a chipped ceramic mug that says Brant Ranch 1962. Our fingers brush during the handoff. His are rough, warm from the cup. Mine are freezing.
He doesn't pull away immediately. Just looks at me with those steady hazel eyes, the porch light catching his jaw, the morning cold making us stand closer than two strangers should.
"You're cold," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
Before I can argue, he reaches behind the door and pulls a flannel off the hook. Faded blue, soft as a bedsheet, too big for me by a mile. Drops it over my shoulders without asking. His knuckles graze the side of my neck and my whole body tightens.
We're standing close. Close enough that I can see the pulse in his throat. His hand is still on the collar of the flannel, fingers near my jaw, and he's looking at my mouth again. Not quick this time. Deliberate.
My breath stops.
His thumb brushes my collarbone. Once. The lightest touch. Then he steps back, picks up his coffee, and walks toward the barn.
"Let's go. Cows don't wait."
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised Dolly doesn't bark at it.
Two weeks. I'm here for two weeks.
I am in so much trouble.