Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ryder
The mountain road winds like a question mark up the hillside, and my truck handles the steep grade with ease.
Pine trees crowd the narrow asphalt, their dense branches weaving a tunnel of green that breaks open into a clearing where the light feels sharper, thinner, almost waiting for snow.
I slow as the cabin comes into view—rustic logs with a green metal roof, exactly what I’d pictured when the woman on the phone mentioned that it was Laney’s grandmother’s place.
What I hadn’t pictured was the chaos—or the woman trying to manage it.
She’s standing in the middle of the driveway, hands on her hips, staring up at two goats who’ve somehow gotten onto the roof of a small outbuilding.
Even from this distance, I can see the determined set of her shoulders, and the way she’s planted her feet like she’s not backing down from this fight.
Chestnut hair escapes from what might have started as a ponytail this morning, catching the afternoon light like burnished bronze.
For a moment, the winter sun hits her at just the right angle, and her hair seems to glow like she’s standing in her own personal spotlight—warm, bright, and impossible to look away from.
My first thought, unbidden and immediate, is sunshine. Pure sunshine in human form.
She’s smaller than I’d expected—maybe five-four in her work boots—but there’s nothing small about her presence. She moves with quick efficiency, like someone used to handling multiple crises at once.
I park beside a blue pickup that’s seen better days and take a moment to watch her in action. A rooster patrols the yard like a feathered security guard while the woman attempts to coax the goats down with a combination of cajoling and what sounds like bribery.
“Bonnie! Clyde! I have treats!” she calls up to them, waving something in her hand.
The goats look at each other, then at her, then bleat in what sounds like negotiation.
She’s cute. More than cute—there’s something about the way she’s completely focused on problem-solving, the stubborn tilt of her chin, that makes me want to keep watching.
I climb out of the truck, and the rooster fixes me with a beady-eyed stare that screams challenge. I’ve seen this before. Every firehouse has a guy who needs to establish dominance with the recruit.
“Easy there, big guy,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady.
The sound of my voice catches the woman’s attention, and she turns. For a moment, we just look at each other across the yard, and I feel something shift in the air between us. Her brown eyes are sharp, intelligent, taking in my size—all six-foot-eight of me—with an expression I can’t quite read.
Not fear, exactly, but wariness. Like she’s calculating whether I’m going to be the solution to her problems or just another complication.
“You must be Ryder,” she says, walking toward me with a confidence that doesn’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders. “I’m Laney Hillman. Thanks for driving all the way up here.”
“Thanks for considering me.” I gesture toward the roof-bound goats. “Looks like you’re having an interesting day.”
She follows my gaze and lets out a frustrated laugh that’s part amusement, part exasperation. “They arrived this morning and immediately decided to test every boundary I have. I swear they’re doing it on purpose.”
There’s something appealing about her combination of competence and barely contained chaos. She’s clearly in over her head, but she’s not giving up. There’s determination in every line of her body, and I find myself wanting to help just to see that stubborn chin lift in victory.
“Mind if I try something?” I ask.
“Well, you’re welcome to try, but they’ve been up there a while.”
I walk over to stand beneath the goats, hands on my hips, and look up at them with the same expression I use on my crew when they’re being idiots.
“Bonnie. Clyde.” My voice carries the tone of someone who’s used to being obeyed. “Down. Now.”
The goats look at each other, then at me. For a moment, I think they’re going to ignore me completely. Then Clyde picks his way down, jumping first onto a tower of hay bales and then a stack of firewood like stairs. Bonnie follows him.
They land in the yard and immediately trot over to me, bumping against my legs like they’re seeking approval.
When I look back at Laney, her expression has shifted entirely.
The wariness is still there, but now it’s mixed with something that looks like impressed interest. Her eyes linger on my hands as I scratch behind Clyde’s horns, and I catch the small intake of breath when I straighten to my full height.
“How did you…” She stares at the goats, then back at me. “I’ve been trying to get them down for twenty minutes.”
“Tone of authority. Same voice I use when my crew gets ideas above their station.” I keep my voice casual, but I’m aware of how she’s watching me now. “Animals respond to confidence.”
“That’s right, you’re a firefighter.”
“Three years with the Integration Zone Fire Department.” I leave out the part about how I’m still trying to prove I deserve the uniform, or how the hardest fires to fight are the ones in my own head. “So yeah, I’m used to chaos.”
From somewhere inside the cabin, a loud squawk pierces the air: “Green! Green! Pretty green!”
Laney’s eyes widen, and a flush creeps up her cheeks. “That’s Peanut.”
I see a bird in a cage through one of the open cabin windows.
“He’s a Yellow-headed parrot and apparently has strong opinions about visitors.”
“Big, big green!” Peanut blurts, his voice carrying clearly in the crisp air.
I can’t help but grin. “He’s not wrong. Orc!” I call to him, figuring I’ll use this as a teaching moment. “Big, big green orc.”
“Orc!” The parrot’s voice is so loud on that word it’s as though he’s close enough to ride my shoulder.
“He picks up phrases fast,” she adds hastily, clearly flustered. “I’m finding that he’s smart, but not always appropriate.”
“A mind of his own,” I say, still smiling. The parrot’s commentary is oddly endearing, especially the way it’s making Laney blush.
She nods when she smiles—really smiles this time—it transforms her whole face. Makes her look less like someone carrying the weight of the world and more like a woman I’d like to know better.
“Well, you’ve definitely passed the goat test,” she says, and there’s warmth in her voice now. “Want to meet the rest of the crew?”
We head toward the barn, and I’m keenly aware of her beside me. The way she moves, the scent of her shampoo mixed with fresh air. When she pushes open the barn door, her sleeve brushes against my arm, and I feel the contact all the way down to my boots.
“Fair warning,” she says, glancing up at me. “This gets more interesting.”
The barn is warm and clean, smelling of hay and animals. But what I notice most is how the space feels when she’s in it—like it comes alive under her attention. She’s clearly put thought into the setup, creating comfortable spaces for different needs.
The dogs immediately jump to their feet, and a cacophony of barking makes talking impossible.
“So here’s the situation,” she says, turning to face me.
Suddenly we’re standing closer than necessary in the barn’s warm dimness.
“I’ve got all these dogs and cats, a senior golden retriever who needs medication twice a day, two stubborn goats skilled in escaping their pen, a territorial rooster and three senior hens who no longer lay eggs.
Not to mention a pregnant cat who could deliver any day, a pot-bellied pig who needs constant attention, a six-foot boa constrictor who requires regular handling, and a very opinionated parrot. ”
The way she says it—straightforward, no drama, just laying out the challenges—makes me want to step closer. She’s not trying to downplay the complications or oversell her abilities. She’s just telling me what she needs.
“Sounds manageable,” I say, and watch surprise flicker across her face.
“Most people hear ‘six-foot snake’ and suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.”
“I’m not most people.” I just told that lie with a straight face.
Truth is, the image of that much muscle and instinct coiled nearby makes my pulse jump.
But fear’s familiar—I’ve learned to breathe through it, to keep it from showing.
Laney doesn’t need to see my hesitation, only that I’ve got this.
“No, I can see that,” she says slowly, and something in her voice tightens the space between us, turns it heavy with awareness.
We stand here for a moment, and I can feel the pull between us—something that has nothing to do with animals or job interviews and everything to do with the way she’s looking at me like I’m an unexpected present under her tree.
Her lips part slightly. When her tongue darts out to wet them nervously, heat shoots straight through me. The air hums—alive, electric, and I have to remind myself this is supposed to be professional.
Then she steps back, breaking the moment, and I see her walls sliding back into place.
“The pig is in my cabin,” she says, her voice carefully professional now. “Along with the expecting feline mom, the suspiciously strong reptile, and a very opinionated parrot. Want to meet them?”
Once through the door to her cabin, the heat from the woodstove wraps around us, carrying the smell of smoke and cinnamon.
The place isn’t modern—it doesn’t need to be.
Rough beams, a stone hearth, shelves stacked with well-used books, and mugs that don’t match.
It’s not about style. It’s about belonging. Someone made a home here, and it shows.
An enormous pig sprawled near the fireplace looks up as we enter and immediately begins making dramatic sounds.
“That’s Hamlet,” Laney says, and I can hear the affection in her voice despite her exasperation. “He’s an emotional support pig, and he’s been sulking since his owner left.”
Without thinking, I kneel next to him and scratch behind his ears. The dramatic sounds immediately taper off into contented grunts.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Laney says, and when I look up at her, she’s watching me with an expression that’s entirely different from before. Softer. Like she’s realizing that spark in the barn wasn’t a fluke.
“Animals know when you respect them,” I say, and the way she’s looking at me makes my voice come out huskier than usual.
For a heartbeat, the warmth in her eyes is unguarded, almost tender. Then it fades, her expression tightening as if she suddenly remembered she’s my boss.
“We should probably discuss terms,” she says, her tone smoothing back into businesslike control.
She heads toward the living room, wringing her hands nervously. “But first, I should show you where you’ll be staying. I’m really sorry, but there’s only one bedroom in the cabin, and, well…” She gestures apologetically toward the great room.
“I’ve got a decent couch, and I’ll set you up with some extra blankets and pillows. I know it’s not ideal for someone your size, and I feel terrible about it, but…”
“Laney.” I interrupt her rambling apology gently. “It’s fine. Really. I’ve slept on firehouse floors, in the back of trucks, wherever the job required. A couch in a warm cabin sounds like luxury.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you’re so…” She glances up at my height, clearly calculating how my large orc frame will fit on her furniture.
“The couch is more than fine,” I say, meaning it. The way she’s fussing over my comfort, genuinely distressed that she can’t offer me better accommodations, says everything about her character. “I appreciate you making room for me.”
Her relief is visible, but she still looks guilty. “I just wish I had better to offer.”
“This is more than enough,” I assure her, and the grateful smile that crosses her face makes something warm settle in my chest.
Her relief is visible. “Good. Now, about terms…”
She names a figure that’s more than fair, especially considering room and board are included. “That works for me,” I say. “I have two weeks off.”
“Great.” She extends her hand. “So we have a deal?”
I shake her hand, noting how small it feels in mine, how her grip is firm despite her obvious nervousness. “We have a deal. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow morning, if that works? I assume you’ll need to pack…”
“Tomorrow’s good.” I’m glad I already got things cleared with Chief Brokka. “Looking forward to working with you, Sunshine.”
Her body stiffens, and her lips flatten. She tries to hide it, but she might as well be wearing a neon sign that says, “Step back and never say that again.”
The shift is so sudden and complete that I know I’ve hit something big. Whatever story is behind that reaction, it’s carved deep enough to override the connection I was sure we’d both been feeling.
I make a mental note to be more careful with my words around her. Whatever trust I’d been building just took a hit, and I’m going to have to earn it back.
As we stride back toward my truck, I catch myself watching the way she moves, the way she subconsciously checks on the animals as we pass. Whatever brought me up this mountain, I’ve got a feeling this Christmas is going to be anything but ordinary.
And despite the way she’d pulled back at that one word, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I’m not the only one who felt that spark.