Chapter 4 Maggie
Maggie
I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror at five a.m.
"You are a professional," I told my reflection. "You run operations for one of the most successful ranches in the county. You manage men, money, livestock, and chaos like it's a sport. You do not get rattled."
My reflection looked rested. Glowy, even. Which felt suspicious.
"You slept with him once," I continued. "Once. A deliberate, adult, extremely satisfying decision. You went in tense, wound tight, carrying everyone else's shit—and you walked out the next morning loose, calm, and smiling like you'd just won something."
Because I had.
"Do not," I warned myself, pointing at the mirror, "romanticize it."
My brain immediately did the opposite.
The memory came back sharp and hot—the way my body had finally gone slack, the way I'd stopped bracing, stopped holding, stopped being responsible for anyone but myself. The way I'd felt afterward: spent, satisfied, gloriously empty of everyone else's demands.
God. It had been... magnificent.
I exhaled slowly. "That," I said firmly, "was a pressure valve. A release. A very necessary service rendered to your nervous system."
My reflection smirked. Traitorous.
"You are not going to spiral," I went on. "You are not going to pine. You are not going to pretend that night was anything other than what it was—two adults choosing pleasure, and you choosing it unapologetically."
I smiled despite myself. "Okay. Fine. It was excellent."
I splashed cold water on my face, still smiling, and got dressed in my most no-nonsense work clothes—broken-in Ariats, dark jeans, the belt with the tarnished brass buckle I'd won at my first team roping event at sixteen. The kind of outfit that reminded the world I was in charge.
He was already at the barn when I arrived.
Of course he was. Because God forbid I have five minutes to compose myself before facing the man whose hands I could still feel on my skin if I thought about it too hard, which I was absolutely not doing.
Jack was brushing down one of the mares—Bella, a sweet-tempered bay who usually took weeks to warm up to new handlers. She was leaning into his touch like they'd known each other for years, her eyes half-closed in equine bliss.
So much for loyalty.
Sully was sprawled nearby, watching the barn with that quiet alertness I was beginning to recognize as his default state. His tail thumped once when he saw me, and I tried not to feel irrationally pleased that the dog remembered me.
"Morning," Jack said without turning around.
How he knew I was there, I had no idea. The man had ears like a bat—or maybe he'd just been expecting me. Either way, it irritated me.
"Mr. Remington."
Now he turned. Slowly. And there it was—the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. Not a full smile. Just enough to say he'd caught the tone. His gaze warm and unreadable, giving nothing away.
"We're going with Mr. Remington?" he asked with a hint of amusement.
"We're going with professional."
"Professional." He rolled the word around like he was tasting it, then nodded once. "Alright. Whatever you need, ma'am."
Ma'am.
He said it the same way he had yesterday—polite, respectful, perfectly controlled. Like the man who'd had me coming apart under his hands a week ago didn't exist.
It should have been exactly what I wanted.
Instead, it made my teeth itch.
I stepped closer, deliberately, and immediately regretted it.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows again—because apparently the man was committed to ruining my concentration—and I caught his scent too.
Clean skin, sun, something warm and unmistakably him.
My body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
Traitor.
"I'll be showing you the horse operation today," I said, snapping my clipboard up between us like a shield. "That's where my dad’s placed you, so that's where we'll focus."
He didn't interrupt. Didn't smile. Just watched me with that calm, infuriating focus, like he was taking my measure and finding it... interesting.
"Understood," he said.
That was it. No challenge. No flirtation. No crack in the armor.
Which, for reasons I deeply resented, made my skin feel like it was sizzling.
I tightened my grip on the clipboard and reminded myself that this was a workday, not a replay. His attention lowered to where my knuckles had whitened before meeting my stare again as if I were any other person.
God help me, I had the distinct feeling he knew exactly what he was doing.
"We'll start with the main paddocks, then move to the training facilities, then discuss the breeding program—such as it is."
"Sounds good."
"Any questions?"
He studied me for a moment, that steady gaze seeing way too much for my comfort. "Just one."
“What?" I replied too urgently, already more on edge from this brief interaction than I’d been in months. There was no telling what he could ask. Anything from ‘when’s lunch?’ to ‘do you miss the way my mouth feels between your legs?’
"Did you sleep okay?"
The question caught me so off-guard that I actually sputtered. "I— what— that's not—"
"You look tired." His voice was mild. Genuinely concerned. Like he wasn't fully aware that he was the reason I'd spent half the night staring at my ceiling and the other half having dreams I was absolutely not going to think about. "Long day yesterday. Rodeos take it out of you."
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he messing with me? Testing me? Or was he really just asking a normal, human question about my sleep patterns?
With Jack, I genuinely couldn't tell.
"I slept fine," I said shortly. "Let's get started."
The tour began well enough.
I started with the big picture—because that's how I think, how I've always thought. Blackwood Ranch isn't just horses or just cattle. It's a living organism, and I'm the one who keeps all the pieces moving.
"I run operations for the entire ranch," I explained as we walked. "Cattle, horses, expansion projects, logistics, staffing—all of it flows through me. Wyatt's the ranch manager, handles the big-picture strategy with our dad, but the day-to-day? That's mine."
Jack nodded, taking this in. "That's a lot of ground to cover."
"I like it that way. Keeps me busy." Keeps me indispensable, I didn't say. Keeps me too needed to be ignored.
We started with the cattle operation because that's where the money was—Ivy's breeding program, the expansion plans, the infrastructure that was eating most of our budget.
I walked him through the numbers, the timelines, the contractors I was juggling.
Jack asked smart questions about herd management and grazing rotation, proving he wasn't just a horse guy.
Then we moved to the horses.
This was smaller, more modest—twelve working horses, four broodmares, a handful of yearlings in various stages of training.
But as I explained our current stock, my voice softened, became more animated.
This was the part of the operation that was mine in a different way. Not just managed, but loved.
Jack noticed. Of course he did.
"This is where your heart is," he said. Not a question.
I didn't answer. Didn't have to.
"The bay mare in the far paddock," he said as we walked the fence line. "She's favoring her left foreleg slightly. Old injury?"
I blinked. "How did you—" I'd been watching that mare for three days, trying to decide if the slight hitch in her gait warranted a vet call. It was subtle enough that most people missed it entirely. "Yes. Tendon issue from two years ago. It flares up sometimes."
"You might try adjusting her shoeing. Slight lift on the right side can compensate for the weakness, take some pressure off."
"I— huh." That was actually a good suggestion. One I hadn't considered. "I'll talk to the farrier."
Jack nodded and kept walking, like he hadn't just casually demonstrated more equine expertise in thirty seconds than some hands showed in a month.
This was going to be a problem.
We moved through the breeding stock next, and that's where things got really unfair.
Because Jack didn't just understand horses—he understood breeding.
When I talked about the bloodlines we were working with, he asked about temperament inheritance.
When I mentioned our goals for the program, he brought up specific sire lines from Montana that would complement our mares' strengths.
"The Raven Spur line out of Bozeman," he said, examining one of our best mares with that steady, assessing gaze. "They produce horses with good bone and better sense. Calm under pressure. The kind of temperament you want for working stock."
"You know that line?"
Something flickered across his face—there and gone so fast I almost missed it. "My family bred from it. Before."
Before. The word hung in the air, heavy with things unsaid. I wanted to ask. Wanted to push. But something in his expression told me not to.
"The stallion auctions in Fort Worth next month," I said instead. "There's supposed to be a Raven-Spur-line stud on the block. Good papers, solid temperament reports."
Jack's eyes sharpened with interest. "You've been researching."
"I've been dreaming," I corrected, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"The horse program has been my first love since I was a kid.
But I run operations for the whole ranch, and that means making hard choices about where resources go.
The cattle expansion is what's going to secure our future—Ivy's breeding program is going to put Blackwood beef on the map.
So that's where I've been directing investment.
" I heard the frustration creep into my voice despite my best efforts.
"But horses... horses are what I'd build if I could build anything. "
"Horses are your passion," Jack finished quietly.
I looked away, a small lump in my throat forming. "Something like that."
"There's nothing wrong with having passion, Maggie."