Cowboy Daddy (Timber Creek Daddies #9)

1. Sunny

ONE

SUNNY

Sunny Caldwell, what in the name of every Hallmark movie ever have you gotten yourself into this time?

I grip the saddle horn so tight my knuckles are basically auditioning for a white-knuckle rodeo of their own.

The horse beneath me, a big, beautiful chestnut mare named Biscuit who was supposed to be my ticket to a fresh start, is having a full-on equine meltdown.

Her ears are pinned flat, her sides are heaving like she just ran a marathon through a hornet’s nest, and she is spinning in tight, panicked circles on the narrow trail that skirts the edge of Wedding Cake Mountain.

“Easy, girl,” I squeak, trying to channel my inner calm-cowgirl. It comes out more like a chipmunk on helium. “We’re fine. Totally fine. This is just a little adventure detour. Like in the movies where the heroine ends up exactly where she’s meant to be, preferably with a hot cowboy who, whoa!”

Biscuit rears up, and my stomach does a loop-de-loop that would make any roller-coaster jealous.

My bright pink puffy coat flaps around me like I’m some deranged flamingo trying to take flight.

Snow dusts the air, the wind whips my blonde curls into my face, and I’m pretty sure my heart is attempting to exit my body via my throat.

This was supposed to be simple. Drive to Timber Creek, meet the nice lady who offered me the barn job at Timber Creek Barn & Co.

, prove I’m not a total disaster by borrowing a horse for a quick confidence-building trail ride.

Instead, something spooked Biscuit, a shadow, a branch, my own sparkling personality, and now we’re one wrong step away from becoming a very tragic cautionary Pinterest pin titled “City Girl versus Montana Mountain: Spoiler, Mountain Wins.”

“Nice horsey. Sweet horsey. Horsey who definitely doesn’t want to audition for a Darwin Award with me today.

” My voice wobbles, but I keep talking because silence feels scarier.

Inner monologue? Oh, it’s screaming. Sunny, you absolute walnut.

You left your perfectly safe, okay, mildly chaotic life in Colorado for this?

For pine trees and possibility and the chance to outrun the mess your ex left behind?

A low, masculine shout cuts through the wind. “Whoa!”

I twist in the saddle, nearly toppling, and there he is.

Holy mother of tight jeans and broader-than-a-barn-door shoulders.

He’s riding up the slope on a massive black horse like he was carved out of the mountain itself.

Dark Stetson pulled low, flannel stretched across a chest that looks like it benches pickup trucks for fun, and a jawline sharp enough to slice through my common sense in point two seconds.

His eyes, I can’t see the color yet, but they’re locked on me with laser focus, and his mouth is set in a grim line that somehow makes my insides flutter like a whole flock of nervous butterflies throwing a rave.

Okay, brain, not the time to notice how ridiculously gorgeous the potential rescuer is. Focus on not dying.

But my traitorous eyes refuse to look away.

He sits that horse like he was born in the saddle, reins loose in one big, gloved hand, the other already reaching for something at his hip, a rope, I realize.

The wind catches his coat and it billows open just enough to hint at the kind of rugged strength that makes a girl think dangerous, delicious thoughts about being thrown over said shoulder.

“Hold on!” he barks. Gruff. Commanding. The kind of voice that could tell my anxiety to sit down and it would actually listen.

Biscuit bucks again, and this time I lose one stirrup.

My boot swings wildly. “I’m trying!” I yell back, half-laughing, half-sobbing because what else can you do when your life is flashing before your eyes and the hottest man alive is watching?

“She’s got opinions! Strong ones! Like, ‘Sunny, your playlist is mid and I’m staging a coup! ’”

He doesn’t smile. But something flickers across that stony face, maybe annoyance, maybe reluctant amusement, as he urges his horse closer.

The trail is narrow, icy in patches, with a sheer drop on one side that my brain keeps helpfully supplying with visions of me tumbling down like a discarded snowball.

“Lean forward. Grab her mane,” he orders, voice steady as bedrock. “I’m coming alongside.”

I do as he says, pressing my body low over Biscuit’s neck.

Her muscles are coiled tight beneath me, trembling.

Poor girl. I start humming the first thing that pops into my head, the theme from The Mandalorian, because apparently my brain defaults to space-western comfort in a crisis, and stroke her neck.

“We’ve got this, Biscuit. Hot mountain man incoming. Try not to embarrass me.”

The cowboy swings his rope in a smooth, practiced loop. It whistles through the air and settles perfectly over Biscuit’s head. He pulls it taut but not harsh, talking to her in low, rumbling tones that do absolutely unfair things to my pulse. “Easy, girl. That’s it.”

His horse dances sideways, perfectly controlled, and suddenly he’s right there.

Close enough that I catch the scent of leather, pine, and something warm and masculine that short-circuits my romcom-loving heart.

Up close he’s even more devastating. Dark stubble, a scar cutting through one eyebrow, eyes the color of storm clouds over the Rockies, gray-blue and intense.

He looks like he could wrestle a bear before breakfast and still have time to fix a fence.

“Give me your hand,” he says.

I reach for him without thinking. His glove swallows mine, warm and strong, and he hauls me across the gap like I weigh nothing.

One moment I’m clinging to a panicked mare, the next I’m plastered against a wall of solid cowboy chest, his arm banded around my waist like a seatbelt made of pure protection.

Oh my stars. He’s solid. Like, granite-wrapped-in-flannel solid. And warm. And smelling like sin and safety all at once.

Biscuit quiets almost instantly once the weight shifts, snorting and stamping but no longer trying to launch us into orbit.

The cowboy keeps one arm around me, the other managing both sets of reins with effortless skill.

His heartbeat thuds steady against my back, or maybe that’s mine going double-time.

Probably both. We’re moving now, slow and careful down the trail, his big horse carrying us both like it’s no big deal.

“You hurt?” he growls near my ear. The vibration of his voice sends sparks skittering down my spine.

I shake my head, curls bouncing everywhere. “Just my dignity. And maybe my future as a professional horse whisperer. I think Biscuit just filed for emotional damages.”

A grunt. Not quite a laugh, but I’ll take it. I twist to look up at him, big mistake for my poor fluttering heart. From this angle his jaw is even more criminal. The way his mouth is set in that grumpy line makes me want to poke it until it smiles. Or kiss it. Both. I’m not picky.

“Thank you,” I say, softer. “For the whole daring rescue thing. I was two seconds from becoming a very flattened pancake on Wedding Cake Mountain. Which, side note, is a terrible name for a mountain if you’re trying not to think about dessert while plummeting to your doom.”

He glances down at me, those storm eyes narrowing. “Name’s Harlan.”

Harlan. It fits him perfectly, strong, no-nonsense, a little bit country-song tragic in the best way. “Sunny Caldwell. Newest barn hand at Timber Creek Barn & Co., apparently. Or I will be if I don’t get fired for traumatizing the livestock on day one.”

He makes another one of those low sounds. I decide it’s his version of a chuckle.

We reach a wider stretch of trail and he eases us to a stop.

Biscuit stands quietly now, sides still heaving but no longer frantic.

Harlan swings down first, then reaches up for me.

Both hands on my waist this time. He lifts me like I’m made of spun sugar, setting me gently on my feet.

My knees wobble, partly from the adrenaline, mostly from the way his fingers linger a beat too long, like he’s making sure I am real.

I brush snow off my coat, suddenly aware of how bright and puffy and me I look next to his rugged everything. “So, uh, do you rescue damsels in distress often? Because that was impressively efficient. Ten out of ten. Would nearly die again just to see the encore.”

Harlan’s expression doesn’t change, but I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. “Not usually. Horses spook sometimes. You’re lucky I was checking fences up here.”

“Lucky me,” I murmur, and I mean it in every possible way.

My cheeks are burning hotter than the embarrassment warrants.

He’s staring at me now, really staring, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of creature just fell into his lap.

I beam up at him, all teeth and nervous sunshine, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous.

I sparkle harder to compensate for the internal screaming.

He tugs Biscuit’s reins, leading her alongside his horse. “Cabin’s not far. You need to warm up. Get that leg looked at.”

I had not even noticed the twinge in my ankle until he mentioned it. Probably from when I lost the stirrup. “It’s fine. Totally walkable. I once hiked six blocks in heels during a flash flood. This is nothing.”

Harlan gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me for a second. Protective grump mode: activated. It does fluttery things to my stomach. “You’re coming with me.”

Not a question. A statement. Delivered in that deep, rumbly voice that makes my knees consider quitting their job entirely.

I should probably be alarmed at how quickly I’m nodding, but something about Harlan feels safe.

Even with the grumpy exterior and the ex-military vibes radiating off him like heat from a woodstove.