Chapter 2
Morning on the ranch came at a volume Olivia Langford—now Liv Ramsey—did not approve of.
The rooster outside her window had started crowing a full hour before sunrise, like it had a personal vendetta against sleep. She finally cracked open one eye, then the other, and watched pink light spill across the Texas horizon through her half-open window.
Dogs barked in a dozen different pitches as Heather's early training session kicked off near the barn. Beyond that, the steady clop of hooves, the metallic crank of the well pump, distant hammering, and the smell of something both meaty and ridiculously good drifted up through the windowpanes.
"Slower pace my ass," she muttered, squinting at the sky. Every living thing with vocal cords seemed determined to out-holler the rest.
Not that she was a stranger to early mornings. She'd had plenty of those at Crème & Crumble. But owning her own place meant she got to pick her hours. She'd kind of hoped a ranch in the middle of nowhere would mean a little more sleep and a little less livestock commentary.
She dressed quickly in dark jeans, sneakers and a soft gray Henley that didn't scream city girl quite as loud as the rest of her wardrobe. She braided her blonde hair down her back, swiped on a little concealer and lip gloss, then took a breath.
Fake it 'til you bake it.
Down in the kitchen, the day was already in full swing.
Bells jingled above the pantry door as she stepped through in search of an apron.
Two teenage boys were washing produce at the big farmhouse sink, Arletta stood at the cutting board waging war on a pile of onions, and Mike Watkins held court at the cast-iron griddle like a general commanding breakfast.
Peppery sausage, butter going brown in a skillet, and enough garlic to ward off every vampire in Texas hit her all at once.
Her stomach growled. Loud.
She grabbed the apron hanging by the flour station and tied it quickly, hoping no one heard.
"Those roosters are something else," she said, aiming for casual. "Sounded like a banjo festival out there."
Joe Watkins, sprawled at the kitchen table with a laptop open and a cup of coffee the size of a soup bowl, let out a bark of laughter. "You should've been here during lambing season. Bagpipes and drama, sunrise to sundown."
She'd met all of Mike's brothers last night at dinner.
Joe was the oldest and the money guy. Lyle, the veterinarian, was married to Heather and together they were raising his Goddaughter, Charlotte.
And Kenny was the quiet one who worked with the horses and looked like he could disappear into shadows if he wanted to.
They were all a little intimidating in that capable, too-handsome, seen-some-things kind of way.
She was surrounded by cowboys. And she didn't know a single thing about any of it.
Mike tipped his chin toward the far counter. "Saved the baker's corner for you. Don't cross the yellow line, Ramsey."
Liv blinked. "Is the yellow line metaphorical, or do I need to bring painter's tape?"
"Only if you plan on rearranging my pantry." He flipped something on the griddle without looking. "You can get creative with cinnamon rolls, but you stay out of my chili pot."
"Deal."
They fell into a rhythm. Mike moved around the kitchen with the kind of ease that came from years of practice—hands quick, instincts sharp, every motion efficient. Watching him work was like watching someone speak a language she understood but had never quite mastered.
Liv slid into her corner and started pulling ingredients. She'd prepped a batch of biscuit dough last night when she couldn't sleep, using buttermilk, cold butter, and a new trick with a molasses glaze she'd been wanting to try.
Mike had said they were cooking for fifteen people. Six guests, his brothers, Heather, Charlotte, and a couple of wranglers out in the bunkhouse.
She was lining up baking sheets when she noticed a plastic tub of pre-mixed dough sitting near her station.
"What's this?" she asked.
"House-made. Ready to go," Mike said without looking up. "Saves time. Comes out hot, fluffy, dependable. I serve 'em every morning."
"I'd like to use my own recipe if that's all right," Liv said carefully. "I've already got dough chilling. Different from yesterday's batch, but I think your guests will like it."
Mike turned then. Studied her like she'd just suggested putting kale in his chili. "When'd you do that?"
"Last night. Couldn't sleep. New place." She shrugged. "This one's got a molasses glaze. And a hint of lavender."
His brows went up. "Lavender." Not a question. An accusation. "You trying to get me run out of Texas?"
"I'm not frothing foam for cappuccinos," Liv shot back. "I brought my own spices. These'll rise four inches and make your heart sing."
"I've met too many biscuits that sing soprano and fall flat in your mouth."
"Was that your experience yesterday?"
He conceded with a wave of the spatula which had now become a prop in their kitchen drama.
Arletta looked up from her onions, eyes streaming but sharp as ever. "Y'all flirting or fighting? Best make up your mind before the guests come down."
Joe nearly choked on a swallow of coffee.
Mike sighed. Paused longer than was polite. Then he stuck out his hand. "All right, Cookie. Let's have a bake-off."
Liv smiled. First real one that morning. "Deal."
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen smelled like heaven had opened a bakery.
Two trays of biscuits sat cooling on the counter. Mike's were golden, soft, yeasty. The kind that made you think of Sunday dinners and your grandmother's table. Liv's were taller, with delicate cracks running through the tops and a faint sheen from the glaze.
The kitchen crew gathered, each grabbing a biscuit from each tray. Silent chewing commenced. Serious nodding.
Mike looked at Arletta. He'd known her since he was knee-high to a fence post. She didn't lie, and she didn't sugarcoat.
He'd hired her recently to help out in the kitchen a few hours a day along with her two teenage sons, who frankly, would much rather be out wrangling and leading trail rides than serving food and doing kitchen duty. "Well?"
She licked her fingers. Took her time. "Yours are comfort food, honey. Solid. Dependable." She paused, popped the last bite of Liv's biscuit into her mouth, and closed her eyes. "But hers? Well I declare, that biscuit's so good it makes me wanna slap my mama and holler hallelujah."
Liv blinked. Arletta's face said heaven. Her words said violence.
"Is that... good?" she asked carefully.
Joe snorted into his coffee. "Darlin', that's the highest praise you'll ever get in this kitchen."
Mike shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Fine. But if anyone complains about lavender in a biscuit, that's on you."
"Noted."
Joe raised his mug in a lazy salute. "Welcome to the Bear Valley breakfast wars, Liv Ramsey."
A small voice piped up from the direction of the mudroom. "Can I have the one with the cracks?"
Charlotte stood in the doorway, one cowboy boot on, one dangling from her hand. Her dark braids were half undone, and she had the look of someone who'd been helping with something she probably shouldn't have been.
"The cracks are the best part," she announced, solemn as a judge.
Liv felt something in her chest go soft.
She’d learned last night that Charlotte’s parents had been killed in a car accident last year and Lyle had left his veterinarian practice in Montana and returned home to Texas to assume guardianship.
Liv didn’t know many men who would take on that kind of responsibly at the expense of their own goals.
And from what she’d witnessed so far with this family, parenting Charlotte was a group effort, giving her a glimpse of what every single one of these men would be like as fathers.
Her gaze skittered briefly to Mike and something inside of her yearned.
She plated the tallest biscuit, the one with the most dramatic crack running down the center, and held it out to Charlotte. "Then this one's yours."
Charlotte took it with both hands like she was receiving something sacred. Bit in. Her eyes went wide.
"You're a really good cooker," she said, mouth full, crumbs tumbling.
"Thank you." Liv's throat tightened. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."
Mike, still standing at the stove, watched the whole exchange. The way Liv looked at Charlotte, careful and kind, like the kid's opinion actually mattered. That wasn't something you faked.
He turned back to the griddle before anyone caught him staring.
By lunch, Liv's tray of lemon-lavender scones and chocolate croissants had been picked clean. She slipped out during cleanup, grabbed a glass of sweet tea, and found a spot on the porch where the shade stretched long and cool.
She pressed the cold glass to her forehead and tried to tamp down the odd flutter in her chest she felt every time Mike looked at her.
Which he did. A lot.
And why in the world was she returning those looks? Her life was a mess. She didn't have the time or the luxury to be eyeing sexy cowboys who could cook like nobody's business.
Heather wandered out a few minutes later, wiping her hands on a towel. A border collie pup trotted at her heels, tongue lolling.
"That was some show in there this morning," Heather said, nodding back toward the kitchen. "Mike doesn't let just anyone go head-to-head with his biscuits."
"He still seems mildly suspicious of me."
"He's suspicious of anyone who threatens his domain." Heather smiled. "Don't take it personal. Or maybe do. He only gets rattled when he likes someone."
Liv froze. Heather tilted her head, assessing in that quiet, steady way she had. Not pushing. Just… noticing.
"I appreciate the chance to work here," Liv said, shifting the subject fast. "It's been a long few months."
"You look like someone who needed to find her way out of something hard."
Liv stared down at her tea. "Something like that."
Heather crouched and scratched the pup's ears. "If you want to sit in on a training session later, you're welcome. Sometimes fresh air helps clear out the cobwebs."
"I'm better inside."
Heather didn't push. Just nodded. "Well, if you change your mind, just come on out to the barn. I have a training facility set up out there." She stood, snapped her fingers, and the pup fell in line behind her as she headed toward the barn.
Liv let out a breath. Started to head back inside.
Then she saw it.
A gray truck. Dust-caked. Sitting at the far bend in the road, just past the fence line.
The glass slipped in her hand. Sweet tea sloshed over her knuckles, cold and sticky, but she couldn't look away.
Too far to see the driver. Too still to be passing through.
Watching.
Her lungs seized. For a second, she couldn't pull in air. Couldn't move. Just stood there with tea dripping off her fingers and her pulse hammering in her ears.
Boot heels scuffed against wood behind her.
Liv spun, tea sloshing again, heart in her throat.
Mike stood in the doorway, dish towel slung over one shoulder. His eyes tracked past her to the road before he even spoke. "You good?"
"Yeah." Her voice came out thin. "Just the heat. I think I'm dehydrated."
His gaze came back to her face. Narrowed. Dropped to the full glass of tea in her hand, then back up. "You look pale."
"Nothing a cold rinse and a sugar cookie won't fix."
She brushed past him, moving fast, and disappeared into the house.
Mike stayed where he was. Scanned the property. Clocked the gray truck sitting like a ghost at the edge of the road.
The military part of him, honed by years serving in deserts and rubble where sitting vehicles meant bad news didn't like it. The small-town cowboy part of him figured someone was maybe lost and taking a moment to check their map.
After a minute, the truck rolled forward and disappeared around the bend.
But his gut was still talking.
And now he had a question he couldn't shake. What the hell is Liv Ramsey running from?
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze Liv couldn't quite name.
She chopped, stirred, measured, and wiped down counters without saying much.
Her hands moved through the motions, but her mind was stuck on that truck.
On the way it sat there. On the cold weight that had dropped into her stomach the second she saw it.
When the last plate was washed and the kitchen crew headed home for their own suppers, Liv stayed behind. Sorted through the dry goods pantry. Labeled tins. Rearranged measuring spoons in order of size because it gave her hands something to do and her brain something besides panic to chew on.
The door creaked.
She turned.
Mike stood there, still in his apron, hair pushed back, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from scrubbing down the grill.
"Were you looking for me?" she asked.
"Guess I was." He leaned against the doorframe. "Thought maybe you'd bolted back to New York."
"I'd need gas money for that."
"You'd need a car, darlin'. You came here on a bus."
"Not much use for cars in Manhattan."
He grinned. Studied the neat row of spice jars she'd lined up like soldiers. Then his expression shifted. Went quieter.
"That look you had earlier." He scratched the back of his neck. Eyes on the floor. "Out on the porch. I've seen it before." He paused for a beat. "In the Corps. People who couldn't breathe. Didn't matter if they were inside or out."
The words hung there, open-ended, inviting her to confide in him. An invitation she wasn't ready to accept.
Liv set down the tin of nutmeg she'd been holding. "I'm not dangerous."
"Didn't say you were."
Their eyes met. Held.
"I'm just tired," she said finally. "Burnt out. I used to own a café in Manhattan. High-end pastries. It was... a lot. The pressure. The critics. Social media. All of it. I needed somewhere quiet."
Mike nodded slowly. "Quiet's good. But quiet doesn't fill in the blanks." His voice gentled. "Eventually, you gotta figure out what you're really running from."
"I'm not ready to do that yet."
"Then don't." He straightened. "Stay. Bake. Learn the names of the barn cats. Burn some toast. Laugh at Tiny when he tries to eat the mail." He paused. "You don't owe anyone the whole story today, Liv."
Her throat went tight. "Even if the story gets messy?"
"If trouble knocks, you'll have a ranch full of military elites to answer." His voice was quiet. Absolute. "We take care of our own."
Then he turned and walked out, boot heels scuffing against the wood floor, fading down the hall.
Liv pressed her palm flat against the counter. Steadied herself.
We take care of our own.
Problem was, she wasn’t his. And the kind of trouble she was in might well be too dangerous, even these military elite cowboys.