THREE.
Ever
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It’s him.
I spent all last night hunched over the kitchen table, surrounded by a small fortress of binders that Aunt Linda had kept meticulously organized.
Ranch schedules, sales receipts from the last few years, employee records, and—God—the bills.
I never imagined a place like this could generate so much paperwork.
Feed for the horses, sheep, chickens, and the small herd of cattle.
Vet visits that ranged from routine vaccines to emergency late-night calls when something went wrong.
Barn supplies, fencing repairs, tractor maintenance and the occasional rental when the old one finally gave out.
Page after page of numbers that made my head spin.
I kept flipping back and forth, double-checking totals, trying to make sense of the income against the outgo, but the math refused to bend in my favor.
I don’t know the first thing about running a ranch.
I’m a city girl who’s never balanced anything more complicated than a checking account and a credit card.
The only thing keeping me upright this morning is the coffee I’ve been refilling since six a.m..
Somewhere underneath the panic, though, there’s a small, stubborn spark of something softer: the romantic little fantasy that I might be able to ride a horse today.
I know Willow isn’t around anymore, but the horses were always the one thing that could pull me back down to earth.
Just standing in the barn, breathing in the smell of hay and leather, listening to them shift and snort quietly—it was enough to quiet the noise in my head, and I’m clinging to that thought like a lifeline.
I finally push the binders aside and get ready for the day. I pull on the high-waisted jeans that feel sturdy enough for whatever the ranch throws at me, a soft blush-pink tank top that’s more optimistic than practical, and the brown boots I bought yesterday after the funeral.
I braid my hair down my back so the humidity and sweat won’t turn it into a sticky mess against my neck. Then I sit down with the employee folder again, running through the names and duties until I can almost recite them like flashcards. It feels like cramming for a test I’m terrified to fail.
I was surprised when I read Tobias’ page.
Lead ranch hand, thirty years old. Thirty.
Only three years older than me. When I was a kid, the lead hand was Val—old-school, grizzled, well into his fifties.
He was stern to the point of severity, never smiled unless it was at Uncle Ray, and treated the ranch like it was his personal kingdom.
Business was business. There was no room for foolishness or shortcuts.
Tobias being so young changes everything in my mind.
Maybe he’ll be different. Maybe he’ll be patient, willing to show a complete novice the ropes without making me feel like an intruder.
Maybe he’ll actually be kind, the way so many people at the funeral were—quietly supportive, offering condolences without making a show of it.
I let myself hope, just for a second, that this won’t be as hard as I’m afraid it will be.
Three loud knocks rap against the front door. I jump hard enough that coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug and onto the counter.
“Shit,” I mutter, heart hammering. I glance at the clock on the wall and wince. 10:15. I was supposed to be at the barn at ten.
I grab a paper towel and toss it over the spreading puddle to deal with later, scoop up the binder under one arm, and hurry through the hallway.
I don’t even pause at the peephole. I just swing the door open, already forming an apology in my head, but the words die in my throat when I see the man before me.
It’s him.
My body locks in place. Heat blooms low in my core, like someone struck a match inside me.
It’s the same man from the funeral. Except now he’s closer, close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way the sun catches the edges of his dark hair, the steady, unreadable intensity in his green eyes as they meet mine.
“You’re…” My mouth hangs open, useless, while my eyes drag over him from boots to beard, taking in every infuriating detail.
He’s wearing a faded beige T-shirt, the sleeves and neck ragged and frayed.
The fabric clings just enough to show the broad lines of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms. Loose light-denim jeans sit low on his hips, worn soft at the knees, and those same brown laced-up boots from yesterday are planted firmly on my porch.
And then there are his eyes—those stupid, beautiful green eyes that catch the morning light like they have no right to be that striking.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, narrowing my eyes as suspicion sharpens my voice. He crosses his arms over his chest, settling into that same casual-but-challenging stance I saw yesterday at the barn. This has to be the same man.
“I’m the ranch hand,” he says, voice low and gravelly, rough around the edges like he just rolled out of bed or maybe never went to sleep at all. The sound of it rolls through me in a way I hate—warm, unwanted, curling low in my belly despite how much I want to dislike him on principle.
“Tobias?” I ask, the name coming out too fast. He grunts once, a single rough sound that I guess is supposed to be confirmation. “You’re Tobias? The lead ranch hand?”
“Is that a problem?” His tone is edged with something sharp, almost daring me to say yes.
I exhale slowly through my nose, trying to keep my composure. You’ve got to be kidding me. The man who glared daggers at me yesterday as I drove away is the same one I couldn’t stop staring at after Aunt Linda’s funeral. And now—God help me—I’m apparently his boss.
“No,” I say, forcing my voice into something steadier, more professional. “It’s not a problem.” I try to sound like I have some kind of authority here, like I’m the one in charge, but he just shifts his weight and stares me down, unimpressed, like he’s already decided I’m out of my depth.
“Good. Because I have a problem with you.” He doesn’t soften the words at all. “You were supposed to be at the barn at ten. It’s almost ten-twenty now, and I don’t have time to waste this morning. Got it?”
“Wow. Okay,” I mutter. Then push past him, shoulder brushing his arm just enough to feel the solid heat of him. “Then let’s go, Tobias.”
The front door clicks shut behind me as he follows, boots heavy on the porch steps. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. The sheer audacity of this man—showing up at my door, speaking to me like I’m some spoiled teenager who wandered onto his turf. Who does he think he is?
“And by the way,” I say, not turning around, “I don’t appreciate being talked to like that. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so maybe we can try to get on better terms if we’re going to be working together.”
He scoffs under his breath. The sound lights a fresh spark of anger in my chest, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it contained.
“Do you really think you have what it takes to run a ranch, Princess?”
I stop dead in my tracks. My boots skid on the gravel. I spin around and point my finger straight at his chest. “Don’t ever call me Princess again. Or I will smack that smug look off your face.”
“Violent, aren’t you?” His voice stays flat, almost bored, like my threat is about as intimidating as a kitten’s hiss.
And honestly, I can’t blame him for not being rattled.
I’m five-six on a good day. He has to be at least six-four, maybe taller.
I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and the angle only makes me feel smaller.
“I mean it,” I say, quieter this time, but no less serious.
He grins—slow, lopsided, infuriatingly confident. My gaze betrays me for half a second, dropping to his mouth, to the perfect shape of his lips curved in that mocking half-smile.
“Obviously,” he drawls.
Then he steps past me, his shoulder nudging mine—not hard, but enough to throw off my balance. I stumble half a step, catching myself, and hate how aware I am of how solid he feels.
Up close, he’s even bigger than I thought—broad shoulders, forearms roped with muscle, the kind of strength that comes from years of actual work, not a gym.
My brain short-circuits for a humiliating heartbeat, flashing images I have no business entertaining.
I should not be daydreaming about a man who just called me Princess like it was an insult.
I should not be noticing the faint scent of detergent and pine that clings to him.
We walk in tense silence and after a few minutes the red barn comes into full view—faded paint peeling at the edges, tin roof glinting in the sun—and I spot the horses tied to the hitching post, tails swishing lazily at flies.
Two men stand nearby, talking in low voices: one with black hair, the other with tousled blond waves. Of course it’s the two men he was with at the funeral.
Tobias lifts a hand in a lazy gesture toward the dark-haired man. “This is Jesse, my second-in-command,” he says, then flops the same hand toward the blond. “And this is Caden.”
I manage a shy wave, feeling suddenly small under their attention. “It’s really nice to meet you,” I say, trying to sound warm despite the knot of nerves in my stomach.
Jesse immediately pulls off his hat and presses it to his chest in a smooth, old-fashioned motion before extending his other hand. The gesture is so genuinely courteous that a real smile breaks across my face. I take his hand firmly.
“It’s definitely my pleasure to meet you,” he says, his Southern drawl thicker and softer than Tobias’s, the words rolling out like warm honey. “I look forward to getting to know you.”
Before I can respond, Tobias slaps a hard hand against Jesse’s chest, pushing him back a step. Our hands are yanked apart, and I shoot Tobias a glare. He doesn’t even flinch. Caden steps in quickly, as if to smooth over the sudden tension, and offers his own hand with a gentle smile.