Chapter 11
ELEVEN
IZZY
“You’re early.” I don’t mask my surprise as Dylan steps across the driveway to the barn, Buck trotting happily at his heels. I reach down to greet the dog, scratching behind his ear the way he likes.
“Good morning to you too,” Dylan says with that edge to his voice like he’s all kinds of pissed. At me. At the world. Himself. I’m never sure.
He’s wearing a red Stormhawks baseball cap pulled low, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sun.
With a black branded sports tee stretching across his chest, he still looks more like a pro athlete than a rancher, but the work boots and the gloves sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans are a start.
The fresh beard covering his jaw helps, too.
I prefer it to the clean shave, not that I’d ever admit it.
“Since you’re here, we’re going to make a start on replacing the fence posts in the top paddock. Repairs aren’t going to cut it, and the new posts I ordered arrived yesterday. I’ve already roped off the paddock to keep the stallions secure until it’s done.”
Dylan rolls his eyes. “Would a few pleasantries kill you, Brooks? You could try saying ‘thank you’. Believe it or not, I’m here to help.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “Help? You’ve been making more work for me this week, Sullivan. This is your ranch. I’m your ranch hand. I’m here to help you. If anyone should be saying thank you, it’s you. But bring me coffee tomorrow morning and you’ll get a thanks.”
His eyes narrow as they lock with mine. “You’ve got a real attitude, you know that?” he says, but his tone lands somewhere between annoyed and something else, like maybe my attitude is something he doesn’t hate as much as he makes out.
I can’t stop my lips from lifting at the edges. “And you’ve got a real ego. Now grab the tool belt and let’s get to work.”
We head toward the top paddock, Buck weaving between us like he wants to help. At least someone does. Dylan might be showing up, but everything about that damn scowl screams he’d rather be anywhere else.
The sky is a perfect stretch of blue above us, and the ranch hums with the sound of life—the soft thud of hooves on grass, the occasional whicker as the foals scamper around their mothers.
The day is only just heating up, and I pull in a deep breath of fresh air as my gaze moves to the foothills.
Dylan might not be much of a rancher, but this sure is one hell of a ranch, even if it’s falling apart in places.
The back paddock is in worse shape than the others.
The fence is rotten and leaning. It’s going to be backbreaking work to get the posts out of the ground and set the new ones.
We fall into a rhythm—Dylan loosening the packed earth around each post while I brace and shove from the other side.
The wood groans as we rock it back and forth, until finally it gives way, and we haul the old post to the side.
We work in silence. The quiet is broken only by the occasional command from me or a clipped question from Dylan.
It’s only when the last of the old posts is out and we’re striding back to the barn to start loading the new posts into the back of the truck that I finally let myself ask the questions burning a hole in my thoughts.
“There’s a rodeo auction coming up a week from Monday,” I tell Dylan. “If Bill hadn’t been selling all his stock, he’d have sold Logan and Willow’s foal there. Do you want to do that? Or would you rather keep the colt a while?”
“Bill would’ve sold now?” he asks, readjusting his cap.
I nod. “But Bill’s been selling them young for a few years.
Less work in breaking them in. So it depends on what kind of breeder you want to be.
Whether you’re planning to keep the ranch small like it is now, work with the foals for longer to get a higher sale price at auction, or expand the herd, breed more to sell young. ”
“I haven’t thought about it,” is the only reply I get.
Of course he hasn’t.
“Because if we’re not selling him, I need to know so I can start building more work into his training.
Right now, it’s just about getting him to walk confidently on a lead rein.
The longer we keep him, the more we need to do.
The rodeo is in their genes, but that’s only half of what makes them the strong rodeo stock. ”
“I said I don’t know yet,” he replies, voice practically a growl, reminding me what a jerk Dylan can be.
I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask about the future of this ranch.
Even if he keeps the horses, no way he keeps around someone he seems to barely tolerate.
Which means my time here is nearly done.
Four weeks left.
I swallow my irritation. I’ve been checking job boards and messaging old contacts, looking for openings in ranch work, but there’s nothing available.
I stride ahead, grabbing the first post. It’s heavy, but I’ve lifted worse and I hoist it up so it’s resting lengthways in my arms, then I take a determined step toward the truck.
“I’ve got it,” Dylan says, appearing at my side like I’m about to collapse. Like I’m not capable.
“I’m fine,” I reply.
I shift slightly, trying to balance the awkward weight.
“Jesus, would you just—” Dylan reaches out, grabbing the other end.
I jerk to the side. The movement causes my foot to sink into the dry earth, the post slipping a fraction in my arms. “Let go!”
“You let go!” he fires back, showing no signs of listening to me.
Then Buck barks—loud and excited—darting between us.
His solid body hits the back of my knee and everything goes to hell.
My leg buckles, the post lurching sideways.
Dylan tries to catch the weight, but it’s happening too fast. The next thing I know, we’re both going down hard—a tangle of limbs and timber.
The post lands across our shins, the pain sharp and searing, but it’s the way my shoulder knocks into the solid muscle of Dylan’s chest that has me gasping out in surprise, trying to pull back as Buck dances in a circle like he’s laughing at us.
Dylan’s shoulders shake and I realize he’s laughing too. Or trying not to. A second later his laugh rings out, a deep, full-bodied sound that rumbles through his chest.
“This isn’t funny,” I say, but even before the words leave my mouth, a reluctant laugh escapes me and soon we’re both giddy and breathless, the kind of laughter that loosens something inside.
Then the laughter fades and we’re lying side by side, my body against his, our legs tangled, the post forgotten. I lift my face and find he’s looking down at me, his lips inches from mine. Our eyes lock, and suddenly nothing feels funny anymore.
I force myself to shift away, break the moment. I groan as I blink up at the blue stretch of sky.
“You OK?” Dylan asks, pushing onto an elbow, gaining more distance from me too.
My braid has come loose in the fall and I tuck a stray strand of hair away from my face and nod as I sit up. “Nothing bruised but my pride. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me carry the post on my own.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help.”
We wrangle the post off our legs, then he stands, pulling off his glove and reaching down. I hesitate—but only for a second—before I remove my glove and take his hand.
The second our palms touch, a snap of heat shoots through me. Of awareness. A pull that makes the world go a little quieter around the edges, yanking my thoughts right back to the moment just now where we almost kissed and wishing I’d let it happen.
His grip is strong and steady, and he hauls me up, and then we’re both stepping back, brushing off the dirt.
“Next time, listen when I say I’ve got it,” I say.
One side of his mouth shifts into a smirk. “Next time, let me help.” Buck gives a low, sheepish woof. Dylan’s tone softens as he speaks to the dog. “Yeah, you should be sorry, Buckie. Stay out from under our feet next time.”
I huff a laugh and finish brushing the dust from my jeans.
I grab one side of the post and Dylan takes the other, and we start loading the truck.
The tension between us is still there, and there’s no way I’ll ever admit it, but it’s easier with the help.
Maybe there’s a rancher buried somewhere deep inside Dylan after all.
If he wants it.
And that’s one big if.