Steamy Notes from a Cowboy (Letters in Love #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SIERRA

I can’t believe this is my life now. Driving through a dead-quiet stretch of nothingness while dust curls in the rearview, the horizon stretches out.

It’s just an endless, indifferent line waiting to swallow me whole.

And for what? A job. I’m actually on my way to a secluded ranch, chasing a paycheck and the promise of free room and board.

God. What was I thinking, saying yes? The numbers were too good to pass up, I guess.

Big money, every week, like bait on a hook.

Now here I am, caught and rattling down a road to nowhere.

“You’ve got this, Sierra,” I mutter, grabbing at the overhead visor for a quick mirror check. Ouch. Humidity is definitely not my friend, and there is very little my messy bun can do to corral my wild curls.

The sky is Texas blue—the kind of blue you see splashed all over postcards, sky so clear it almost doesn’t look real.

On both sides of the driveway, the fields glow yellow-gold, shimmering and scorched.

Here and there, a fence post droops at an angle, warped by years of sun and wind.

Everything looks bleached out, like someone took an eraser to all the shadows. I make myself inhale, slow and steady.

My GPS’s English accent cuts through my trance, telling me to turn right at the next road.

I pull onto the long, tree-lined road and hold my breath.

It’s too late to turn back, I tell myself as I drive down the driveway that keeps going, winding up to this absolute monster of a ranch house.

Not gonna lie, I half expected a creepy set from a vintage western, complete with peeling paint and one sad, rusty windmill groaning in the wind.

Instead, Stone Hawke Ranch is, well… kind of a dream.

Big wraparound porch with rocking chairs straight out of a country music video.

Porch swing. There’s a ridiculous view across the valley, just acres upon acres of gold grass and shadowy green live oaks.

My car coughs and shudders when I kill the engine.

I sit for a second, catching my breath and fighting the urge to bail.

Or maybe just drive until I hit the next town, take my chances.

Except the money was too damn good, and honestly?

I need this. My bank account has been rapidly approaching rock bottom for weeks, and I try not to do the math on what happens if this doesn’t pan out.

It isn’t pretty. Honestly, at this point, even a haunted house gig would tempt me as long as the bathroom works and their checks clear.

I shove the car door open, and heat just wallops me right between the eyes. Not subtle at all. My curls immediately revolt, springing out of the halfhearted bun.

“Home sweet home, at least for the next six months,” I mutter to myself, trying to find the nerve to walk up to the massive home. If things work out, I might extend the contract, but right now, that’s a huge if.

My shoes crunch on gravel as I cross the driveway.

There’s no sign of movement from the house, no curtains twitching or shadows behind the glass.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve got the wrong address, or the wrong day, but then I spot a set of muddy boot prints on the porch steps.

I square my shoulders, replay my mental pep talk, and mount the steps.

This is my one shot. Six months at Stone Hawke Ranch and I can finally afford my own apartment, no more rotating roommates or scrimping together my rent. I can start over.

The porch is cooler with shade and a light breeze blowing through. I lift my hand to knock, then freeze. Do I do three taps? Two? Is there a secret ranch rhythm? I go with three, hoping it comes off as confident but not aggressive. The sound echoes like a starter pistol.

Nothing.

I wait, counting heartbeats.

My reflection wobbles in the glass pane of the door, so I paste on a bland, approachable smile. The door swings open before I can chicken out.

The man who greets me is a wall of muscle, six and a half feet of it, filling the entire doorway and banishing the pale light from the space behind him.

There’s nothing soft or yielding about him.

He’s pure, sculpted strength with dark hair falling over a chiseled brow.

His jaw is square and covered with a five o’clock shadow, and his cold blue-gray eyes both pin me in place and strip me bare at the same time.

I blink, thrown by the reality of him. All my expectations scatter.

I’d pictured someone softening at the edges, maybe a retiree with a plaid shirt and a belly stretching the buttons.

You know a granddad type, cranky about the weather, ready to grumble over the rising price of gas and the state of the world.

But this man? He’s nothing like that. He’s solid, intimidating, every inch of him a challenge I feel in my bones.

“Hi,” I manage. The hot Texas afternoon isn’t the only reason I’m sweating.

He stares at me with a completely blank expression in his eyes while the skin over his high cheekbones turns bright tomato.

In fact, the red spreads all the way to his ears.

His mouth opens, shuts, opens again. No sound comes out.

I wait, heart jackhammering, the silence stretching weird and thick.

He just stands there. Staring. His eyes are a chilly blue-gray and sharp as steel.

Suddenly, a flicker of something raw and wild flashes through his eyes and pins me to the spot.

My mouth goes dry as I stare up at him. He clears his throat, finally.

The sound is low and sandpapery, almost a growl.

For a split-second, he glances around. Then he meets my gaze again, and the burn is back, hotter this time, like I could just combust standing right here. My knees actually wobble.

Holy hell. He’s freaking gorgeous. I have no idea how I’m going to work here without lusting after my new boss. Wow. Awesome start, Sierra.

I yank my best semi-professional smile back into place. “I’m Sierra Spencer. The new housekeeper? From Houston?” I hold out my hand to him, and he just stares at it. God, I hope this job offer wasn’t some kind of stupid catfishing scam. I don’t even have enough money to get myself back to Houston.

He keeps staring, and I keep sweating. For a moment, I think he hasn’t heard me, but then his brow furrows and his lips part, as if he’s about to say something. He doesn’t. He just stands there.

I go into autopilot. “If this is a bad time, I can—”

He shakes his head, a sharp no, but still doesn’t speak.

He takes my hand, and I barely swallow the gasp that travels up my throat when our palms touch.

He’s got a grip like a vise. Hot. Rough.

Swallows my hand in his like it’s nothing.

Sparks hit my skin and shoot straight up my arm, all the way through my chest, down my stomach, melting everything in between.

I can literally feel my insides liquefying.

My heart’s drumming so hard I’m positive it might beat out of my chest. My cheeks turn bright red, and I’m honestly amazed I don’t just melt into a puddle on the spot.

One brush of his thumb across my knuckles has my entire body lighting up, every nerve ending on high alert and screaming, Yes, please, more of that. My thighs squeeze together, and a wild, traitorous heat blooms between them. All the way south, my lady bits throb from the heated look in his eyes.

He stares down at me, silent, those wild blue-gray eyes locked on mine, and somehow it makes everything worse.

Or better? Either way, my brain just… fizzles out.

I can’t remember how words work. I can’t remember why I came here.

All I know is I want him gripping me everywhere, pinning me in place, making me his.

The silence is so thick you could slice it and serve it with a side of potatoes. I shift my weight, aware of every awkward second. I try to remember what the agency told me about this job. I reread the freaking email they sent at least a hundred times, making sure I had everything down.

“You’re early.” His voice is deep and rough. He releases my hand, and I expel the breath I’ve been holding in a rush. “I didn’t expect you until dinner time.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not. “I wanted to get here in time to unpack before I start tomorrow morning.”

He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “You can call me Rogan.” The movement is abrupt, like he’s not used to making space for other people. I step over the threshold, and he lets the door fall shut with a soft thud.

Inside, the air smells like lemon oil and old wood. The entryway is spotless, the hardwood scrubbed clean and polished so well that it could double as a mirror. Wow. I don’t see where he even needs a housekeeper.

He stalks ahead of me down the hall, saying nothing, and I scramble to keep up. He doesn’t look back.

At the end of the hallway, he stops, then turns so suddenly I nearly run right into him. His eyes flick down to mine. “You can take the bedroom on the ground floor. Last door on the right. Unpack and get settled in. I’ll have instructions for you to get started tomorrow morning.”

I nod, trying to look like I’m more confident than I’m feeling. “Thank you, Rogan.”

“You’re welcome to eat anything you find in the kitchen.

If you need any supplies, make a list and one of the ranch hands will get it for you.

You can explore the house all you want. The closed door to the left of the living room is my office.

It’s the only room in the house that’s off limits to you,” he grunts out in a rush.

Then he’s gone, disappearing into a side room and closing the door behind him.

The silence boomerangs back, stronger than before.

For a split-second, I wonder if I should bail. It’s not too late to hop back in the car, call the agency, and tell them it’s a no-go. The urge is so strong I almost act on it, but instead, I let out a laugh that sounds more like a cough.

Get it together, Spencer. This is what you wanted. You left the city for a fresh start. You already knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

I head straight for my room, not stopping or even slowing down, and when I get there, I find it small—but honestly, it’s pretty.

Not at all what I expected. Instead, it’s crazily homey with soft, creamy yellow walls and old oak floors.

There’s a bed with a hand-stitched quilt and deep pillows just daring me to face-plant right now.

A little desk hugs the window, battered but solid, with actual writing paper stacked in a neat block and a mug holding a bouquet of mismatched pens.

The window itself is… huge. Practically a view-finder for the whole ranch.

I can see rolling hills, wide-open sky, and cattle like brown freckles against gold grass.

I park myself on the edge of the bed and let the weight of it all settle in.

The nervousness, the embarrassment, the creeping suspicion that I’ve made a gigantic, irrevocable mistake.

Then I remember the look in Rogan’s eyes when he shook my hand, and for some reason, the memory makes my stomach feel like it’s filled with a thousand butterflies.

This is absolutely not the feeling I want to have about my new employer.

There’s work to do. I need to bring in my stuff, stake out the kitchen, and maybe do a recon mission for coffee. I could sit here all day, daydreaming about Rogan, but I have things to do.

I get up, smooth my hair, and set out to unpack the car. The door to Rogan’s office is closed tight, and I hear no sound from the porch. The house is all mine, at least for now.

I don’t even make it to the car before a tall cowboy comes strolling across the driveway. He’s older, maybe late 40s? Early 50s? But there’s a warmth in his smile that just sucker-punches any nerves I have left.

“Afternoon, ma’am. You must be the new housekeeper,” he drawls, stopping just short of my bumper. “I’m Stan, the ranch’s chaos wrangler.” His grin is pure mischief, and I swear his eyes twinkle.

“Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, and he takes it. And I feel absolutely nothing. No zing, no electricity, no nothing. Darn. That means it only happens with my new surly, grouchy boss. “Please call me Sierra.” I manage to smile at him.

“Need a little help unloading your stuff?” Stan offers.

“That would be awesome.” I smile at him and pop open my trunk.

It only takes us two trips to load up my new room with boxes and the laundry basket. “Do you live in the bunkhouse?” I ask Stan as we drop off the last load.

“No, I have a little house on the edge of the property with my wife,” he explains, and I search my memory of the agency email that had a list of other ranch employees.

“Marianne’s the ranch secretary.” Ah-hah.

Now, I remember them. “She’ll stop by to meet you tomorrow,” he tells me as he heads out the door.

“If you need anything in the meantime, there’s a list of numbers by the kitchen phone. Just give us a call.”

“Thank you so much.” He gives me a little wave and disappears around the corner.

By the time the sun drops below the windmill, I’ve staked my claim with books on the nightstand, clothes put away in the closet, and a little glass cactus on the windowsill to catch the morning light.

I look around, hands on my hips, and feel more settled than I’ve been in a long time.

Now, I just have to find a way to deal with my crazy feelings for my new boss.

Let the adventures begin.