The Embers We Hold (Cowboys of Copper Creek #3)

Chapter 1 Maggie

Maggie

Wild Creek | One Week Before the Rodeo

The meeting ran forty-seven minutes longer than it needed to.

I knew this because I watched the clock on Carl Hensley's wall tick past every single minute mark while slowly suffocating on the scent of microwaved leftover tuna casserole.

Carl droned on about pipe gauges and water pressure and soil absorption rates like I hadn't done my research. But I smiled. I nodded. I asked the right follow-up questions because that's what Maggie Blackwood did.

She handled things.

"Now, the PVC versus HDPE question," Carl unfortunately continued, leaning back in his chair with the air of a man who had all the time in the world. "That's where it gets interesting."

It was not interesting. Nothing about irrigation pipe had been interesting for the past hour and twelve minutes.

But the north pasture expansion wasn't going to water itself, and Wyatt sure as hell wasn't going to handle the details.

My brother's idea of project management was saying "make it happen" and then getting annoyed when reality required more than sheer force of will.

We'd been arguing about timelines for three weeks now. Three weeks of clipped conversations and the kind of sibling tension that made everyone else in the family suddenly remember somewhere else they needed to be.

I loved Wyatt. I really did.

I also wanted to drop a hay bale on his head.

"The HDPE has better flexibility for your terrain," Carl said, pointing at something on his computer screen that I was supposed to find enlightening. "But the initial cost—"

"Is offset by the reduced maintenance over a fifteen-year lifespan," I finished. "I know. That's why I specified it in my original request."

Carl blinked at me.

I smiled wider. "I did send the specification sheet. Three days ago?"

"Right." He cleared his throat, and began rifling through the papers in front of him. "Right, yes. Well. Let me just pull up those numbers..."

Twenty-three minutes later, I escaped into the parking lot. The sun was already setting, and I was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

It was the kind of tired that settled into your marrow and took up residence like it was paying rent.

The past few months had been... a lot.

That was the word I used when anyone asked. A lot. It covered everything without explaining anything, which was exactly how I liked it. Because if I actually started listing what "a lot" meant—

Wyatt and Ivy's explosion. The separation that almost destroyed both of them. The slow, painful rebuild that I watched from the sidelines, holding my breath, ready to catch whatever pieces fell.

Then Stephanie.

God, Stephanie.

I couldn't think about those weeks without my chest going tight.

Liam's face when he got the call that a fan had broken into her house—I'd never seen him look like that before.

Like someone had reached into his chest and ripped out everything that made him human.

Not since his parents died and my parents adopted him and Sophia.

I sat with Stephanie through the nightmares after he brought her home. Held her hand when she woke up screaming. Made her tea at 3 a.m. and didn't ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.

And through it all, I kept the ranch running. I managed the logistics. I ran interference. I showed up and handled things and held everyone together with both hands and sheer stubbornness.

I stood in that parking lot with my keys in my hand and the weight of everyone else's crises sitting heavy on my shoulders, and I made a decision.

I wasn't going home.

Not yet. Not tonight.

I needed one night—just one—where I wasn't Maggie Blackwood, fixer of all things. Where no one knew my name or needed anything from me. Where I could just... breathe.

I found a bar on the main drag called the Bull Pen. It was the kind of place with neon signs in the windows and trucks in the gravel lot and absolutely no one who would recognize the exhausted blonde woman walking through the door like she belonged there.

The noise hit me first. Voices layered over each other. The crack of pool balls from somewhere in the back. A mechanical bull in the back named Whiplash. The jukebox played my favorite song, Chris Stapleton's "Tennessee Whiskey.” It felt like a sign that coming here was the right choice.

I ordered a whiskey neat, then I found an empty spot at the bar and let myself settle.

Just one drink. That was the plan.

The plan lasted approximately four minutes.

Because that's when I saw him.

He was sitting at the far end of the bar, alone, a beer in front of him that looked like he'd been nursing it for a while.

There was a dog at his feet—a big German Shepherd with intelligent eyes, lying calm and watchful like a well-trained shadow.

One paw rested on the man's boot, casual and possessive, like he was keeping track.

But it was the man who caught my attention.

Jesus fucking Christ.

That was my first thought. Not clever. Not subtle. Just profanity and the abrupt evacuation of every sensible thought I'd been having up until that moment.

He was gorgeous.

Not pretty-boy gorgeous. Not polished or preened or trying too hard.

Just the kind of man who made your brain lose its place mid-thought and never quite recover.

Dark hair cut short enough to make me wonder if he was military.

A jaw that looked like it could end arguments.

Shoulders stretching his shirt like they'd been earned the hard way—not mirrors and machines, but work. Real work.

And his forearms—damn.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, casual like he didn't know what kind of damage that did. Strong, corded, veins faintly raised beneath tanned skin, flexed every time he lifted his beer.

My stomach dipped. My pulse kicked low.

Those were hands that knew how to fix things. Build things. Hold things steady.

Do things.

I shifted on my stool, suddenly far too aware of my body and absolutely furious with it for reacting like this to a man I hadn't even spoken to yet.

But my eyes betrayed me, drifting back to those forearms like they had their own gravity.

He wasn't loud. Wasn't scanning the room for attention or performing for anyone watching. He was just... still. Settled. Grounded in a way that pulled at something in my chest I didn't have a name for.

He must have felt me staring because he looked up, And when our eyes met across the bar, he didn't look away.

Most men would have. Most would have glanced, assessed, and made a decision one way or the other.

But this guy just held my gaze like he had all the time in the world.

Like the noise and the chaos and the dozen other people in that bar had faded into background static, and I was the only thing worth paying attention to.

He didn't smile like he'd won something. He didn't leer or preen or do any of the things men do when they think they've caught a woman's interest.

He just looked.

Calm. Patient. Curious.

I should have looked away. Should have turned back to my whiskey and stuck to the plan I'd made when I walked in here about one drink and one hour and nothing else.

Instead, I picked up my glass and walked toward him.

The dog lifted his head as I approached, assessing me with sharp eyes before settling back down, uninterested. Hopefully, I'd get a better response from his owner.

"This seat taken?" I asked.

He glanced at the empty stool, then back at me. Slow. Unhurried.

"It isn't," he said. "But I was hoping someone interesting would sit there."

"Well." I slid onto the stool. "You're in luck. Here I am."

The corner of his mouth tipped up. "Bold."

"Tired," I corrected. "Bold comes later."

He huffed a quiet laugh and lifted his beer. "Jack."

"Maggie."

Just first names. No qualifiers. I liked that.

The dog at his feet sat up and looked at me like he was deciding whether I was a threat or a snack.

I held still. "I feel like I'm being judged."

"You are."

"Fair." I appreciated the bluntness. “What’s his name?”

“Sully,” he replied before patting his head.

“Hi, Sully,” I said, tempted to pet him myself, but didn’t want to overstep. A second later, he settled back on the floor, resting his chin on his paws.

"Congrats," Jack said. "You passed."

I chuckled once. “I've always had a way with men."

His whiskey-colored eyes flicked to my mouth. Back up. "I noticed."

I took a sip of my whiskey. "So. You always sit at the quiet end of the bar with a guard dog, or is tonight special?"

"Depends who's asking."

"Let's say someone curious."

"Then yeah," he said easily. "I like to see what comes to me."

"That sounds dangerously philosophical for a Tuesday night."

He smiled then—slow, amused, like he was enjoying this more than he'd expected.

"I'm a people-watcher," he added. "Best seat in the house if you don't want to be part of the circus."

My mouth curved. "Same. Though I take it a step further."

His brows raised a fraction. "Oh?"

"I assign backstories.” I gave him a nonchalant shrug. “It's a hobby."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Should I be concerned?"

"Probably." I tipped my glass toward the room. "Couple by the dartboard—first date. They met on Hinge. He said he loves deep, philosophical talks and watches The Bachelor. He absolutely does not."

Jack snorted. "Harsh."

"I give it six weeks before she realizes and pretends it doesn't bother her."

He laughed then, low and surprised. "You're ruthless."

I shrugged. "I have a great imagination."

He glanced around the room, then back to me. "So what's my story?"

I smiled sweetly. "Quiet guy. A traveling man. Likes long walks on the beach and letting people think they've figured him out."

His eyes warmed. "Not wrong."

I tipped my chin to his feet, gesturing to his companion. It surprised me how calm he was for a bar this busy. “And Sully?"

His mouth curved into a smile. "Clearly the brains of the operation."

"Obviously." I paused. "Also, the better judge of character."