6
Talia Monroe had packed like a woman going to war.
One suitcase.
One garment bag.
A laptop case.
A camera bag.
A recorder.
Two external drives.
Three notebooks.
A portable scanner she probably did not need but had refused to leave behind.
A charger pouch so organized it would have made Edye Stanley either proud or suspicious.
And, because Gordon Windgate had made the suggestion sound like a challenge, one new pair of jeans, one second pair in case the first proved useless, and a pair of boots that had cost enough to make her stare at the receipt for a full minute.
She had not bought a hat.
That felt like surrender.
The gate to Stanley Ranch opened after she gave her name, and Talia drove through with both hands on the steering wheel and her stomach twisted into a tight, miserable knot.
She had been nervous before interviews.
She had been nervous before walking into rooms where powerful men thought reporters were either pests or threats.
She had been nervous before asking grieving mothers questions, city officials questions, lawyers questions, liars questions.
This was different.
This time she was not afraid she would be denied access.
She was afraid everyone would hate her because she had tried to steal it.
The long drive curved ahead, familiar now but somehow sharper. The land stretched wide on both sides, sunlit and alive. Horses moved in a distant pasture. A work truck rolled along a side road. Somewhere farther off, machinery rumbled.
The ranch was not still.
It was not waiting for her.
It was moving, working, breathing.
Talia tightened her fingers on the wheel.
“Professional,” she muttered to herself. “You are here to work.”
Then she saw him.
Gordon stood near the turnoff toward the main house, waiting beside a dark ranch truck with one boot propped casually against the running board.
He wore jeans, dusted at the thighs, a belt with a plain buckle, and a gray T-shirt that clung to his body in a way that made Talia’s brain briefly abandon its commitment to professionalism.
The man had muscles.
Not gym muscles polished for mirrors.
Working muscles.
Shoulders broad under thin cotton. Arms corded from labor. Chest solid. Stomach flat beneath fabric that pulled when he shifted. When he pushed his hat back on his head, the movement made his biceps flex, and Talia’s entire mind went silent for one dangerous second.
His face did not help.
She had remembered him as handsome, but memory had been unfairly modest. Gordon Windgate had the kind of face that made a woman want to study angles and then accuse them of conspiracy.
Strong jaw. Straight nose. Mouth set like he had trained it not to give too much away.
Eyes that looked darker beneath the brim of his hat, watchful and steady.
Talia swallowed.
Stop it.
This was work.
She had come to write a feature, not admire the subject’s forearms like an idiot with a press badge.
Gordon stepped away from the truck as she pulled up. Dust settled around her tires. For one second, he simply watched her through the windshield.
The memory of their first almost-meeting flashed between them.
Her sitting in a car.
Him walking past.
That strange electric moment when their eyes connected and something in her body reacted before her mind could approve it.
Apparently, the feeling had not learned manners.
Talia put the car in park and killed the engine.
Before she could gather herself, Gordon was already walking toward her.
He moved like someone who did not need to hurry because the world had learned to wait for him. Not arrogant. Controlled. Grounded.
She opened the door and got out, thankful her new boots hit the dirt without wobbling.
Small victories mattered.
Gordon stopped a few feet away.
“Talia.”
There it was again.
Her name in that low voice.
“Gordon.”
His gaze moved over her once, not rudely, but thoroughly enough that heat rose along her neck.
For Gordon, the attraction hit hard and immediate.
Harder than he expected, and he had expected some.
He had remembered the woman in the car. The conflict in her face. The directness of her eyes. The sharp beauty that did not soften itself for comfort.
But standing in front of him now, she was more than memory.
Curves beneath a fitted blouse and jeans that looked too new for ranch dust. Hair smooth but already threatened by the Texas breeze. Chin lifted like she had no intention of letting fear show, even though he could see it tucked around the edges of her composure.
He liked her direct gaze.
He liked that she did not look at him like she was waiting for him to disappoint her.
Plenty of people did.
Some expected Windgate blood to turn bad eventually. Some looked at him like decency was a trick he might stop performing at any moment.
Talia looked at him like she had questions.
A thousand of them.
And like she planned to ask.
That should have irritated him.
It did not.
That irritated him.
Her eyes dropped briefly to his chest before snapping back to his face.
Gordon’s mouth almost curved.
Almost.
Talia caught the hint of it and wanted to crawl into her own suitcase.
Attraction is irrelevant, she told herself.
Completely irrelevant.
Gordon did not look like a man who agreed.
“Did you have trouble at the gate?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I brought everything I need.”
His gaze shifted to the back seat, where her equipment cases sat neatly stacked. “Looks like you brought enough to start your own newsroom.”
“I prefer to be prepared.”
“Edye will like that.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
Before she could decide whether he was joking, he stepped past her and opened the back door of her car.
Talia turned quickly. “I can get those.”
“I know.”
He lifted her suitcase out as if it weighed nothing.
Her traitorous eyes noticed.
Again.
“Then why are you getting them?”
He set the suitcase on the ground and reached for the garment bag. “Because I’m standing here.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving.”
She stared at him.
He looked back calmly.
Talia had the sudden, unwelcome understanding that arguing with Gordon Windgate would not be like arguing with Eli. Eli would grin, tease, charm, and somehow make the argument feel like dancing.
Gordon would simply stand there until the nonsense burned itself out.
Infuriating.
Possibly effective.
She grabbed her laptop bag and recorder case before he could take those too. “I carry the electronics.”
“Fine.”
“Because they’re fragile.”
“I said fine.”
“And expensive.”
His eyes flicked down to the bags, then back to her. “Talia.”
“What?”
“I said fine.”
Heat crept up her face again. “Right.”
He took her suitcase in one hand and garment bag in the other. “Follow me.”
He started walking.
Talia stood there for half a second, then hurried after him, carrying her bags and wishing she had not worn the new boots for the first time today.
Gordon led her along a lane toward a long, tidy building set back from the main traffic of the ranch. It had a porch, several windows, and a few rocking chairs that looked well used. A pair of muddy boots sat near the steps. Wind chimes moved gently near the door.
“This is the women’s bunkhouse,” he said.
“You’ll be living with Lisa, Cassi, and Ruby.”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
“You will.”
He climbed the steps.
Talia followed.
She was not at Stanley Ranch as a guest of honor. She was not an employee. She was not being tucked away in privacy and comfort while she gathered information.
She was being put among the people whose lives she had intended to use as scenery.
Fair.
Annoyingly fair.
Gordon opened the door and stepped inside.
The women’s bunkhouse was cleaner and more welcoming than she expected.
Not luxurious, but lived-in. A shared sitting area with a sofa and two chairs.
A small kitchenette. A table with a bowl of fruit in the center.
A bulletin board with schedules, notes, and a photograph of several ranch hands grinning beneath a banner from some event.
The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent, coffee, and leather.
Down the hall, he led her into a bunk room with four beds, two on each side. Three had signs of occupation. A quilt folded at the foot. A book on a pillow. A pair of work gloves on a trunk. The fourth was bare except for clean sheets, folded blankets, and a pillow.
Gordon set her suitcase beside the empty bunk.
Talia looked at it.
A bunk bed.
She had not slept in one since a college reporting conference where half the attendees had gotten food poisoning and one girl from Austin had cried in the communal bathroom.
Gordon hung the garment bag from a hook on the wall.
“This one’s yours.”
“So I gathered.”
His eyes moved to her face. “Problem?”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
A faint flicker crossed his mouth. Amusement, maybe.
“Lisa’s lead hand on the east side rotation. Cassi helps with horses and supply runs. Ruby works with the learning center some mornings and the stables in the afternoon. They know you’re coming.”
Talia’s stomach tightened. “Do they know why?”
“Yes.”
No cushioning.
No politeness.
Yes.
She deserved that too.
“Do they hate me?”
Gordon studied her.
The question had escaped before she could dress it up. She hated that. Hated the vulnerability of it.
“No,” he said after a moment. “They don’t know you enough to hate you.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
“It isn’t.”
“They may not trust you.”
Talia looked away.
“That’s different from hate,” he added.
She looked back.
His gaze held hers steadily.
“Trust can be earned,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
There he went again, saying things too plainly.
“What are the rules?” she asked.
“Luke and Edye will go over ranch rules with you in detail. As far as the article goes, you already know the terms.”
“Repeat them.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“I prefer clarity,” she said.