CHAPTER 8 #2
Chester bounded in through the open back door, his tail wagging wildly as he happily led Connor into the kitchen.
Connor's eyes lit up at the sight of his dog's enthusiasm, and he chuckled as he watched Chester interact affectionately with me.
He was dressed for work—a burgundy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans, and his usual work boots.
His light brown hair was still damp from a recent shower, and he smelled faintly of his usual cologne, something clean and slightly spicy.
He took in the noticeably cleaner state of the kitchen and turned his warm gaze toward me. "Looks like you've been busy. Did you clean all this up?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.
I nodded, keeping my focus on Chester as I gently stroked his soft fur.
"Yes, Jaxon came and helped." I averted my gaze, avoiding direct eye contact with Connor.
The last thing I wanted was to talk about the tense altercation that had happened, the panic attack, the physical restraint, and everything else that came with my traumatic reaction.
Connor quirked an inquisitive brow, then shook his head with an amused smirk. "Well, that explains why he was pouting and storming off to his Jeep when I saw him. I swear, I don't get why you two can't seem to get along for more than five minutes."
He opened the fridge and took out a cold drink, glancing over at me curiously. I reluctantly looked back at him, our eyes meeting for a brief, loaded moment before I quickly shifted my gaze back down to Chester, running my fingers through his thick fur nervously.
The bickering and tension between Jaxon and me were clearly putting a strain on Connor, and I could sense the concern radiating off him in waves. I never intended to cause him any stress, and I didn't want to make things worse by telling him about the intense incident.
"I don't either," I said quietly, my voice small. "I'll try to make things better, Connor. I really don't want to cause you any trouble."
Connor's expression softened as he leaned back against the counter, popping open his drink can with a crisp hiss. "Anna, it's not trouble at all," he said honestly, his tone reassuring.
"I'm still sorry about it, either way," I reiterated, finally looking up at Connor again, my eyes sincere. Glancing at the kitchen clock and realizing it was still relatively early, I raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him, curious why he wasn't at work.
Connor gave a small nod, acknowledging my apology, then explained, "I actually saw something I thought you might like to see, so I took a photo of it.
I went to send it to you but then realized you don't have a phone anymore.
" He paused, letting that sink in. "It's been two weeks since you've been here now.
I think it's time to get you set up with a phone.
Just in case you need to reach me or anyone else while you're out on the property. "
My body tensed instinctively, my mind racing with suspicion and fear that getting a phone might somehow lead Daniel right to me again. Connor seemed to sense my hesitation and raised a placating hand—a gesture so characteristic of him, always trying to smooth things over.
"I know what you're thinking," he said firmly yet gently. "But I'm not taking no for an answer on this one. The property is huge, and you like to go out exploring and riding Choco pretty far from the house and barn. Having a phone on you just makes sense for safety."
He motioned with a tilt of his head for me to join him at the kitchen table, and when I complied, sliding into the chair across from him, he continued.
He suggested we go into town to the phone store, where he'd arrange for me to pick out a new smartphone that would be registered solely under his account, not mine, ensuring there'd be no way for anyone to trace it back to me.
I mulled over his practical proposal, finding his reasoning sound.
As much as I still carried the fear of being tracked, I knew I needed some way to contact Connor if necessary.
Especially when I was out riding Choco on the trails.
Seeing the warm yet determined look in his eyes, I slowly relented with a nod, agreeing on the condition that he accompany me into town.
Connor smiled, the worry lines around his eyes easing. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of sending you out there alone."
I sighed, leaning back in my chair as Connor prepared to head out for work.
Before he left the kitchen, he leaned in and showed me the photo on his phone, which made me chuckle.
It was of Choco sprawled on the ground mid-roll, all four legs comically sticking straight up, his bright white socks pointing upward like little flags.
The amusing image lifted my spirits, and I decided I deserved a relaxing break outdoors with the horses after finishing the cleaning.
Following Connor out of the kitchen, I trailed slightly behind him as we made our way across the property toward the large sale barn where his office was located.
We passed a few of his ranch hands along the way, the men nodding and murmuring respectful greetings.
Most of them were dressed in the familiar attire of worn jeans, dusty boots, and faded button-downs or T-shirts.
Once inside Connor's office, I settled into one of the plush leather visitor's chairs as he made a call to a potential client, deftly setting up a time for them to come view some of the horses he had for sale.
Connor's family had been deeply rooted in the business of raising and training world-class Quarter Horses for over fifty years, a multigenerational passion that began with his grandfather.
It was clear that this love for the animals ran deep in the family's blood, and Connor was now the torchbearer carrying the business into the future.
Sitting across from him in the cozy yet refined confines of his office, I glanced around at the décor that spoke to this rich heritage.
The walls were a gallery of photographs capturing treasured moments from the farm's earliest days, through to the present.
Images of horse shows, training sessions, and family gatherings wove together into a tapestry of decades of dedication and passion.
Connor's office exuded warmth and understated luxury.
The massive walnut desk commanded the space, home to his sleek iMac, desk phone, and tablet.
The chairs were high-end and invitingly comfortable, the rich brown leather worn soft in places from years of use.
Along one wall, a long table held extra two-way radios and their chargers, ready for the ranch hands to return and recharge at the end of their shifts.
Directly behind Connor's chair, a broad window overlooked one of the property's training arenas.
The setup allowed him to supervise training sessions while also giving potential clients a glimpse of the caliber of work they could expect.
To the left of the window, a large annual calendar hung prominently, its rows and columns densely filled with upcoming horse show dates, client meetings, breeding schedules, and other key events.
I couldn't help but notice that most of the show locations were out of state, which made me wonder how often Connor had to travel for business.
Connor ended his phone call and caught me observing my surroundings, my gaze resting on the arena visible through the window.
Out there, Mark, one of the experienced ranch hands, was lunging a two-year-old colt.
The young horse wasn't yet ready to be saddled but was learning vital ground manners and vocal cues.
"That one's a son of the stallion you met the day you first showed up here," Connor commented, leaning back in his chair. "He's going to be a true champion, just like his sire."
Through the window, I watched Mark, his shaggy blonde hair blowing lightly in the breeze beneath a well-worn black cowboy hat.
He was dressed in the standard ranch uniform, faded Wranglers, a green plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and dusty brown boots.
He had a build similar to Connor's: fit and strong from working on the ranch, though his relaxed demeanor set him apart.
He expertly instructed the colt to lope in a smooth, collected manner, the young horse's movements graceful yet powerful.
"He definitely has the potential," I agreed, my eyes tracking the promising talent as it moved with a confident, athletic gait.
A polite knock at the office door interrupted the moment, and Denny entered with his familiar dusty swagger.
He leaned his frame against the table, adopting a casual yet respectful posture.
His weathered face looked even more lined under the office light, and his gray-white mustache was neatly trimmed beneath the brim of his tan cowboy hat.
He wore his usual outfit, denim overalls over a faded blue work shirt, the fabric worn soft from countless washings.
Denny had that rough-around-the-edges look that might intimidate newcomers at first, but after spending time here, I'd quickly learned that beneath his rugged exterior, he was courteous and deeply loyal. His commitment to the animals and to Connor's family legacy was evident in everything he did.
"Good morning, Miss Anna," Denny greeted, tipping his weathered cowboy hat politely before turning his attention to the calendar. He swiftly scribbled a few notations with a stubby pencil pulled from behind his ear, then jerked his thumb toward the arena where Mark was still working.
"He's gonna be ready to start breaking in this coming week, boss," Denny remarked gruffly to Connor. "I don't think we should wait any longer. He's got himself a real good, sound mind on him, and the sooner we get him going under saddle, the sooner we can start getting him ready for the shows."