Chapter 2-Sawyer
She’s only been here a day, and I swear the whole damn ranch feels different.
Like the air’s lighter. Charged.
Like her scent—a mix of wildflowers, strawberry shampoo, and something I can’t name—has worked its way into the walls, the soil, maybe even my bloodstream.
She’s got everyone wrapped around her little finger already.
Alex and Diego trip over themselves trying to help her, and Angie—who doesn’t warm up to anybody without a full background check—was baking her a second batch of fresh buttermilk biscuits this morning like she was family.
And maybe that’s what’s messing with me.
Because she’s not.
She’s a stranger. A problem dropped on my doorstep by a motorcycle club here to help me out with this next delivery, maybe find out the guy behind all this mess I’m stuck in.
I’ve got no business feeling anything about this woman. But I don’t know if I can help it.
And that pisses me off.
Alex lingers at the kitchen table, grinning like an idiot while she chatters about how she’d like to help out around the ranch while she’s here.
He’s closer to her age than I am, and the look he gives her makes my jaw clench hard enough to ache.
She’s fucking gorgeous with her curvy body, long dark hair, and big brown eyes—but she’s not his.
She’s not yours either, my inner voice reminds me. But I ignore it.
“Don’t you have fences to check?” I tell Alex, voice flat.
He mutters something under his breath and heads out, leaving me alone with the distraction in question.
“You want me to refresh your cup?” she asks, voice soft, those big brown eyes catching the morning light and turning gold around the edges.
“Angie already filled my Thermos,” I tell her, reaching for the lid like it’s a lifeline. “And don’t go botherin’ Alex when he’s got work to do.”
“I wasn’t trying to bother him,” she replies, and I hate that she looks hurt. “I just wanted to help.”
“Well, you don’t work here, and he does.”
“I know that, but I wanted to repay you. We kinda barged in on your life, and it doesn’t feel right not doing anything in return,” she says, lifting her head proudly.
She has grit. I fight my approving smirk and offer a curt nod instead.
“Don’t wander too far west or you’ll go off my property.”
“Got a cranky neighbor or something?” she teases.
“Something,” I say, because the truth is stranger than anything she’s ready for.
The western border touches Max Leeds’s dairy and produce farm.
Nice guy. Hard worker.
But his land’s got a weird energy about it—strange noises at night, shadows where there shouldn’t be any.
Diego swears there’s a family of grizzlies over there. Alex claims they’ve trained one of their bulls to break dance. I chalk it up to too much whiskey and not enough sense.
Still, I don’t want her wandering off.
Not while she needs protecting.
Not while she’s staying under my roof.
And not when I can’t stop tracking her with my eyes like she’s the only moving target in sight.
I head for the garage, trying to shake it off.
There’s too much to do to be mooning over some woman who showed up with chaos in her wake.
The truck needs tuning, the trailer needs a systems check, and I’ve got another shipment to prep.
Nine months I’ve been on this land.
Built it back from ashes—literally.
Got my security system online, cameras covering every inch, and alarms tied into my phone.
Doesn’t matter. Someone keeps sabotaging my deliveries.
Rival breeders, maybe. Jealous bastards who can’t stand the idea of a Jersey boy running a seed bull ranch.
Semen straws—frozen tubes of bull jizz for cattle ranches—are big money.
Not exactly glamorous, but steady, reliable, and enough to keep Jersey Iron Ranch more than afloat.
This next haul to Brentwood Cattle in Indiana could put me on the map.
If it goes well, I’ll have the kind of client that keeps the lights on for a long damn time.
Benji and Micah will be here soon, and between the three of us we’ll finally have the muscle to handle things ourselves.
But until then, I’ve got to lean on this MC to watch my back.
I hate it—hate relying on others—but I have little choice.
I tighten a bolt on the truck’s hitch, the wrench biting into my palm, and my mind drifts—uninvited—back to her.
Rooster said some rival biker prick tried to claim her. Put his hands where they didn’t belong.
That she fought back, said no. That the guy didn’t take it well.
The thought makes something ugly and old twist in my gut.
I’ve seen men like that before—bullies who’ve got no respect for women.
I’ve buried enough of them to know the type.
She’s sitting on the porch now, legs tucked under her, hair glinting copper in the sun.
She’s trouble, no doubt about it.
But every instinct in me is tuned to her.
Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
I shouldn’t care.
I can’t afford to.
But hell if I don’t already feel it in my bones.
Lil Bit isn’t just some girl passing through.
She feels like mine.
And that might just be the most dangerous thought I’ve had in a long, long time.