3. Chapter 3
Cassie
Ihave spent the entire drive to Wylde Mountain Ranch explaining to myself why this is a perfectly reasonable decision.
Three afternoons a week. Four hours at a time. Paid work. That is all.
I don’t need another job. The Barnaby books make more than enough for me to live on, which still feels bizarre every time a royalty deposit hits my account.
But books are books. One sells. The next might not. I’ve always liked having the bookstore income because it’s steady. Predictable. A number I can put into a spreadsheet without wondering whether bookstores will suddenly decide Barnaby is no longer emotionally compelling.
Three afternoons of babysitting isn’t a bad idea. It’s sensible. Practical. Financially responsible.
The fact that those afternoons happen to involve a tiny girl who has apparently decided I belong to her and a former bull rider with a dangerous grin and entirely too much confidence is irrelevant.
Mostly.
I turn onto the ranch road. My stomach flips.
Which is ridiculous.
I am going to work. People do this every day without experiencing gastrointestinal distress.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
Caroline: First day with the cowboy?
Me: First day babysitting.
Caroline: For the cowboy.
Me: For his CHILD.
Caroline: Whose father is the cowboy.
Me: I’m blocking you.
Caroline: Wear something cute.
I look down at myself. Jeans. Boots. A fitted T-shirt. Hair in a ponytail. Completely normal. Not cute on purpose.
I definitely did not change shirts twice before leaving.
The cabin comes into view ahead. Cash is standing on the porch with Lola on his hip.
He sees my car. And grins.
My stomach does the stupid thing again. I grip the steering wheel.
Three afternoons a week. One to five.
Completely straightforward.
Sure.
I am inside for less than thirty seconds before Cash starts giving me instructions.
“Her cup is on the bottom shelf. Snacks are in that cabinet, except the crackers because she figured out how to climb onto the counter yesterday, so those are up there now.”
He points. I follow his finger. The crackers are on top of the refrigerator.
“Excellent security system.”
“I’m adapting.”
Lola is sitting on the floor pulling every book out of the tote bag I brought.
Cash keeps going. “She usually naps around two. Sometimes two-thirty. She’ll tell you she isn’t tired. She’s lying.”
“Noted.”
“The monitor is charging beside the bed. Elise is at the main house if you need anything. I’ll be working nearby most of the afternoon.”
“Cash.”
“Yeah?”
“I have babysat before.”
“I know.”
“I also grew up on a ranch.”
“I know that too.”
“And Lola survived the first two years of her life without me.”
He considers this. “Barely.”
I give him a look.
His grin appears. There it is.
“Go to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his hat from the counter and heads for the door. Then stops. Looks at Lola. Looks at me. “You have my number.”
“Yes.”
“And Raiford’s.”
“Yes.”
“And Elise’s.”
“Cash.” I point at the door.
“Going.” He laughs and leaves.
Through the screen, I watch him cross the yard toward the barn.
This is fine. I have cared for children before. I have spent time with Lola before. There is absolutely no reason that being alone in Cash Wylde’s cabin with his daughter should feel different.
“Cassie.”
I look down. Lola is holding Barnaby the Brave Horse in both hands.
“Book.”
Right. Work. I can do work.
Lola has strong opinions about lunch. Apple slices are acceptable. Turkey is suspicious. Cheese is welcomed enthusiastically until she decides halfway through that cheese has betrayed her and begins hiding pieces underneath her stuffed horse.
“Your horse is sitting on cheddar.”
“Horsey likes cheese.”
“Apparently.”
We read two books. We visit the porch. We spend twelve minutes watching an ant carry something across one of the steps because Lola finds this riveting. She shows me Birdie from a distance approximately fourteen times.
Then, at two twenty-three, she rubs both eyes.
“Tired?” I ask.
“No.”
Cash was right.
Ten minutes later, she is curled against me on the porch with Barnaby open in my lap. She makes it through Barnaby learning to share his hay, Barnaby making friends with a grumpy goat, and Barnaby discovering that the puddle he’s afraid of is actually just a puddle.
Then her eyes close. Her head tips against my shoulder. And she’s out. The stuffed horse is clutched to her chest. Her breathing goes slow and even.
I keep reading for another half page because I don’t want to move. She’s warm and heavy against me and she smells like sunscreen and apple juice and whatever detergent Cash uses, which based on the state of his laundry situation is probably whatever was on sale.
Her curls tickle my chin. Her tiny hand is gripping my shirt. I have held babies before. My cousin’s kids. A friend’s newborn last year. But I’ve never had a child fall asleep on me like I’m the safest place in the room.
I hear footsteps and look up to see Cash. He’s dusty now. His T-shirt is damp at the collar and his hair is pushed back from his forehead. Apparently he has been doing actual ranch work while Lola and I debated the emotional complexity of cheese.
He sees her asleep against me and stops.
“She’s out,” I whisper.
He leans against the porch railing. “She usually fights sleep. I have to drive her around the ranch twice some nights before she’ll give in.”
“Maybe Barnaby is boring.”
“Barnaby is riveting.” He looks at Lola. Then at me. “She’s just comfortable.”
His eyes hold mine. “With you.”
I don’t know what to do with that sentence.
Cash crosses the porch and carefully lifts Lola from my lap. His arms are right there. His chest is right there. He smells like sun, leather, and soap underneath whatever he’s been doing outside.
Not information I need.
He settles Lola against his shoulder. She makes a small sound, presses her face into his neck, and goes right back to sleep. “I’ll put her down.”
I nod.
He carries her inside.
The warm weight of her disappears from my lap. I look down at Barnaby. This is still work. I am being paid to be here. That is apparently something I need to keep reminding myself.
Cash comes back a few minutes later. “She’s down.” He lifts his phone. “Monitor’s on.”
“Good.”
He reaches for a bottle of water sitting beside the door and drinks half of it in one go.
“You still need horse reference photos?”
“Always.”
“I’ve got about twenty minutes before Raiford needs me back. Wait here for a minute.” He heads toward the barn and comes back a few minutes later leading a bay gelding. I recognize the horse from one of the paddocks.
He nods toward the fenced turnout and working pen just beyond the cabin. “Come on.”
I stand and glance back at the cabin. The turnout is right beside it. Close enough that we’ll never lose sight of the porch or Lola’s bedroom window. “That works.”
Cash gives me a look. “I wasn’t planning to leave my sleeping two-year-old alone and disappear across sixteen thousand acres.”
“Excellent. I approve of this parenting decision.”
“I make those occasionally,” Cash says, rubbing the horse’s forehead. “This is Blue. One of Raiford’s rope horses.”
“You rope?”
His grin changes. “Cassie. I grew up Wylde.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is around here.”
He ties Blue to the rail and reaches for a saddle hanging over the fence.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you something worth photographing.”
“I thought I was supposed to be working.”
“You are. Lola is asleep twenty yards away, her father is standing beside you, and you said you need horse pictures.”
“That is disturbingly logical.”
“I have my moments.”
He saddles Blue quickly. And something about him changes. The charming mess who loses toddler socks and keeps crackers on top of the refrigerator disappears. In his place is a cowboy who knows exactly what every buckle, strap, and piece of leather is for.
Before he mounts, Cash checks the cabin again. Then he swings into the saddle despite the limp. That catches me. On the ground, the injury is always there. Not dramatic. Not something he hides. Just part of how he moves.
In the saddle, it disappears.
Cash settles into Blue like he belongs there more naturally than he belongs anywhere else.
“Oh,” I say.
His mouth tilts.
“Good oh or concerned oh?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He laughs and rides into the working pen.
I pull out my camera.
He works Blue through a few turns, then asks him into a lope.
Easy. Controlled. Beautiful. Cash’s whole body changes with the horse. He reads Blue before Blue moves. The same way he described bull riding. Observation, not strength.
A handful of yearlings are in the adjoining paddock. One gets excited when Blue passes and slips through a gate a ranch hand has just opened farther down the fence.
Cash reacts before I understand what happened. He turns Blue, closes the distance, and angles the horse across the yearling’s path. Nothing frantic. Nothing showy. He just knows where to be.
The yearling turns back toward the open gate. The ranch hand swings it shut behind him. Cash pats Blue’s neck.
I lower my camera.
The man who cannot locate a hairbrush just handled a thousand-pound animal and a loose yearling with less effort than I use to choose a font.
He rides back.
“You stopped taking pictures.”
“I was watching.”
“That’s usually what cameras are for.”
“You’re very annoying when you’re competent.”
His grin spreads. “So you noticed.”
I look down at the camera. There are thirty-seven pictures of Blue. There are twenty-two pictures of Cash. That seems like a problem for later.
He dismounts. The moment his left boot hits the ground, pain flashes across his face. Tiny. Fast. Then gone.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“That was convincing.”
He leans a forearm on the saddle. “It gets stiff after I ride.”
“You still ride anyway.”
“I still breathe too.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“For me it is.”
The joke lands. The grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I lower the camera. “Do you miss competing?”
“Every day.”
No deflection this time.
“What part?”
“The eight seconds.” He looks toward the working pen. “Everything else in life is complicated. For eight seconds, it wasn’t. Hold on. Don’t fall. That was the whole job.”
“You were good at it.”
“I was great at it.”
There is no arrogance in the answer. Just fact. Then his mouth curves again. “I’m also great at losing tiny shoes.”
“There he is.”
“Thought you missed me.”
I should tell him I did not. Instead I ask, “Can I sketch you?”
His eyebrows rise.
“For the horse,” I add quickly.
“Obviously.”
He sits on the fence rail while I pull out my sketchbook. I draw Blue’s head first. Then Cash’s hand resting against the horse’s neck. His fingers are rough. Scarred in places. Relaxed against the dark coat.
I notice entirely too much about his hands.
From where I sit, the cabin is visible over his shoulder. For a few quiet minutes, there is no Lola between us. No children’s book. No chaotic toddler.
Just Cash sitting on a fence while I draw him. And technically I do have a reason to be here. I’m working. That should make this less unsettling. It does not.
A soft sound comes through Cash’s phone. He checks the monitor immediately. “Still asleep.”
I glance toward the cabin. “She really does sleep better after Barnaby.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
Cash looks at the time. “I have to get back.”
Something about that disappoints me. Which is ridiculous. I am here until five. He is literally paying me to remain on his property.
“Go,” I say. “Your daughter is in highly qualified hands.”
His eyes move over me. “Yeah,” he says. The humor disappears for half a second. “I know she is.” Then he leads Blue toward the barn.
I stand there watching him go until I remember that I am holding a sketchbook containing an increasingly detailed drawing of his hand.
Excellent.
This job is going extremely well.
At four fifty-eight, Cash comes through the cabin door. Lola is sitting at the kitchen table coloring a photocopy of Barnaby while I work on an illustration at the other end.
Cash looks between us. “How’d it go?”
“My client is demanding.”
“Did she fire you?”
“Twice.”
“Sounds right.”
Lola holds up her page. “Daddy! Horsey!”
“I see that.”
“Blue.”
Cash looks at me. “You taught her Blue?”
“She has an excellent memory.”
“Great. Soon she’ll know the horses better than I do.”
“She probably already does.”
He presses one hand to his chest. “That hurt.”
I close my laptop and start gathering my things.
Cash reaches for his wallet.
I hold up a hand. “End of the week.”
He pauses. “What?”
“You don’t have to pay me every afternoon. Thursday is fine.”
“That feels dangerously organized.”
“That’s because it is.”
He puts the wallet away. “Fine. Thursday.”
“Normal rate.”
“Plus gas.”
I narrow my eyes.
He grins. “I remembered.”
“Good.”
“I’m trainable.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Lola follows me to the porch. “Cassie come back?”
The question hits somewhere unexpectedly soft. “Wednesday.”
She looks at Cash. “Wednesday?”
“That’s right, baby.”
She seems satisfied.
Cash walks me to the car. “You got what you needed today?”
I look at my camera. “More than I planned.”
“Careful. That sounds reckless.”
“Don’t get excited.”
His grin appears.
Too late.
I get into the car before he can answer. At the end of the ranch road, I pull over and text Caroline.
Me: I have a problem.
Caroline: Cowboy-shaped?
Me: Unfortunately.
Caroline: DETAILS.
Me: I may have taken twenty-two pictures of him while pretending to photograph a horse.
Three dots appear immediately.
Caroline: That is not a problem.
Me: It is for me.
Caroline: Cassie, that’s called a crush.
I stare at the word. A crush. Temporary. Manageable. Completely survivable.
Me: Fine. I have an unreasonable crush.
Caroline: Proud of you.
Me: Please don’t be.
I put the phone down and look in the rearview mirror. The ranch road stretches behind me. I’m already thinking about Wednesday.
Unreasonable feels accurate.