Crossing Lines with the Cowboy Next Door

I came to Grizzly Ridge for a clean start—new job, new cabin, a mountain town where nobody knew my history.

Tate Rawlins had been ranching the neighboring land long before I signed the lease, and my fence now cuts through the creek access his cattle have used for a decade.

He wants the boundary moved; I want him off my yard.

We clash over water rights at sunrise and call each other impossible, even as he mends my porch step and stacks firewood at my door when the temperature drops.

He is a grumpy, territorial cowboy I should keep at a distance, yet the feud no longer feels like it is only about the creek.

I meant to build this life on my own terms, but falling for the man next door was never part of the plan.