Chapter 7 Lucas
LUCAS
Luc pushed against the storm shelter door at first light, metal hinges groaning as he stepped into morning’s exhale.
The derecho had left its mark on Blaze Haven.
Trees snapped mid-trunk, roofing tin impaled in pasture grass, fence posts surrendering under branches and brush.
The smell of rain-soaked soil mingling with spilled fuel, drenched alfalfa, and the plaintive calls of cattle searching for each other across divided pastures.
He squinted toward the horizon. The damage wasn’t as bad as the storm from two years back, but it was bad enough.
Branches cluttered the entrance road, the south boundary lay crushed flat, and power lines sagged dangerously over the east hill, weighted with storm remnants.
The equipment shed gaped open where half its covering had peeled away.
Near the henhouse, one stubborn rooster crowed his survival, the only celebration in sight.
After such violence came this hush, as though the very fields had paused to recover their breath.
He hadn’t closed his eyes for more than ten minutes at a stretch all night, his mind replaying the same footage on loop.
Dahlia Childs.
He couldn’t scrub away the imprint of her body against his, couldn’t clear his senses of her cherry-vanilla sweetness that somehow outlasted the storm itself.
He’d tried to dismiss it as exhaustion, the kind that blurs want with weakness.
That excuse rang hollow event to his own ears.
She’d gotten into his head, and no amount of discipline could shake her out.
Even now, her chili burned pleasantly on his palate—spicy, complex, much like the woman who’d stood stirring it, hip cocked against his counter, that half-smile curving her mouth while thunder rattled above.
Other women had fed him before, but none had served up meals punctuated by that smoky laugh like hers.
None had made him hungry for something that had nothing to do with food.
“Damn woman only been here one day,” he muttered, swiping his palm over his face, shaking his head side to side as if to physically dislodge her. How had she infiltrated his thoughts so fast?
Boots scraped behind him. Beau emerged from the shelter, coffee steaming in his grip, hat pushed back. “Could’ve been worse. Animals made it through. That generator held strong too.”
Luc jerked his chin toward the far enclosure. “She handled the smaller stock. Probably why we didn’t lose any.”
“Yeah, I saw.” Beau took a sip from his chipped mug and winced. “Christ, Luc. Why’re we still brewing that tar you call coffee down there?”
The corner of Luc’s mouth twitched. “Puts hair on your chest.”
“Or raises the dead,” Beau chuckled. “Speaking of which, daylight’s burning.”
Luc surveyed the debris-scattered yard. “Take the crew, clear the main drive. I’ll handle the north pasture.”
Beau was already waving over the ranch hands as they filed out of the bunker.
Dahlia’s lilting drawl floated after them, all Georgia honey as she volunteered to launder their mud-caked clothes and tend to the animals in the side pens.
The crew’s faces softened at the offer, one small mercy before the backbreaking work ahead.
Beau tipped his hat her way. “Appreciate it, DeeDee. That’d be a help.”
Luc grunted into his mug, wincing at bitter sludge that could’ve stripped paint off a tractor. Better they blame his grimace on the taste than to know that the sound of her voice had become the best part of waking up.
By noon, sunlight broke through the haze and spilled across puddled pastures.
After hours of hauling branches, righting feed troughs, and setting fresh posts, mud caked his jeans and sweat plastered his shirt to his back.
His muscles screamed, but Blaze Haven stood intact. That counted for something.
“Go eat, grab what you need,” Luc said when Beau called for a break. “I’m checking the south line before the afternoon front.”
He trudged across the far pasture with Wynn at his heels, boots squelching in the sodden earth.
Cedar and rain scented the air as he walked the perimeter, wet grass whipping against his legs.
When he circled back, the clouds had thinned to pale strips and a few meadowlarks were perched along the wire, proof the worst had passed.
An hour later, Luc pushed open his front door and stopped dead.
His house no longer smelled like his. The potent, foreign scent ambushed him at the threshold.
It coiled around him, something earthy and sweet that clung to the walls.
He swiped at the air, nostrils flaring, and bellowed, “What in God’s name is that smell? ”
Her honey-smooth voice floated from the kitchen. “That’s sage and sweetgrass, cowboy. Protection and peace. Your house was drowning in bad juju. I rescued it.”
He moved forward, torn between annoyance and intrigue. “You did what exactly?”
“Smudged,” she called back. “Can’t be living in all this negative energy.”
But you don’t live here. Luc thought, jaw clenched as he tracked her voice to the heart of his house—and froze again.
His ranch hands crowded his table, plates stacked high, forks moving between laughter.
Beau leaned against the counter, nursing a steaming mug.
And there stood Dahlia—bare toes curling against his hardwood floor, messy bun bobbing as she moved, his old flannel knotted at her waist barely covering the curve where her jeans hugged low—stirring something that smelled like heaven after hell had nearly blown through twelve hours ago.
Luc blinked. “What’re y’all doin’ in here?”
Mara glanced up mid-bite. “Dahlia invited us in. Said since we’re all stuck here till the roads clear . . .”
The crew shifted in their seats, eyes darting between him and the woman who claimed his kitchen like she’d always belonged there.
“They earned it,” Dahlia kept stirring, back still to him. “They deserve hot food. And you said ‘grab something to eat.’ Nobody faces a day of cleanup with nothing but coffee in their belly.”
Beau’s smile crept above his cup. “Told you this place needed a woman’s touch.”
Luc shot him a look then surveyed the invasion of his private domain.
Someone’s phone played Ella Langley’s “Country Boy’s Dream Girl,” all twang and honey about wild women who make men better just by being near.
His table—his goddamn table—looked like his grandma’s after church.
The aroma of crispy chicken skin, slow-cooked greens and golden cornbread hung so thick he could almost chew it.
Something squeezed beneath his ribs, and he wasn’t sure if it was his empty stomach or something else pressing there.
She gave the pot one last stir before turning to face him, wooden spoon in hand. “You eatin’, cowboy? Or is that sludge you called coffee still cleanin’ out your bowels?”
The crew burst into laughter. Beau nearly spit his drink. Luc’s brow lifted, gaze cutting through them until the noise died down, a half-smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Funny,” he said dryly. “Real funny. Guess I’ll see if you can cook better than you run your mouth.”
Another round of chuckles followed as Luc stepped forward, dragged out the chair at the head of the table and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. Every set of eyes turned toward him, expectant.
He met their stares with a dry look. “Y’all just gonna watch me eat?”
Mara grinned. “We wanna see if she passes the test.”
Luc grunted, grabbed a plate, and scooped a bit of everything.
The first bite nearly undid him. Cornbread—sweet, tender, with edges crisp enough to bite back—and greens cooked slow and deep.
He chewed slow, the taste lingering long after the swallow.
It settled somewhere beneath his ribs, too close to something he didn’t want to name.
Dahlia giggled. “I heard that moan, cowboy. It’s good, ain’t it?”
“It’s just food,” he muttered.
Yet, with the next four bites, he couldn’t help the sounds coming from his chest. This was one of the best home-cooked meals he’d had.
Beau chuckled. “You sure?”
Luc glared, but his heart wasn’t in it. He just shrugged it off and focused on the corner of collards waiting for him to devour them.
At the counter, Dahlia turned her back to him, reaching for a knife. He watched as she cut into a small pie cooling beside the stove. She turned, holding out a thick slice. “Want a piece? I found some green apples and couldn’t resist makin’ a small one.”
He should’ve said no. Should’ve stood his ground and remembered why having her here was already a mistake. Instead, he took the dessert plate. Their fingers brushed, barely, and that single touch sparked through him like a live wire. Luc quickly set it down and went back to finishing his meal.
But Dahlia didn’t move. He looked up. Her dark brown, expectant gaze pinned him where he sat.
It became clear what she wanted—his reaction.
After moving his empty dish to the side, he slid the wedge in front of him, apple filling oozing from the crust. His fork sank into the flaky layers, the scent of apples and spices flooding his senses.
Luc didn’t waste another second stuffing the caramelized treat into his mouth.
He looked away first, the taste of sugar and cinnamon on his tongue, and a thought he didn’t dare speak circling low and dangerous in his mind.
His mama’s cooking could fill his stomach, sure. But it wouldn’t keep him warm at night.
The muffled sound that slipped out, Luc couldn’t deny was a moan, had Dahlia bouncing on her toes and clapping with delight. “I knew you’d like it!” she beamed.
Now, he hated how much he did.
Chairs scraped across the floor as boots thumped against worn wood planks.
The hot meal had revived them, and within minutes, his crew filed outside to finish what daylight allowed.
As the sun sank toward the ridge, the yard stood nearly recognizable again—fallen limbs cleared, debris piled, animals accounted for.
Work done, the hands retreated to the bunkhouse that stood beyond the main barn—near enough to answer morning’s call but distant enough to give Luc and Beau their space. Pickup engines growled down the lane, their rumble mixing with evening cattle calls and birdsong.
Luc and Beau lingered alone, surveying the massive oak that had fallen near the house—and at the problem that waited on the porch.
Dahlia.
She sat on the steps, legs crossed, her hair catching what little breeze the late day offered. The setting sun broke through the thinning clouds, painting her skin in warm gold. Wynn had flopped himself down beside her, tail thumping against her boot. Already showing signs of being a traitor.
Luc rubbed across the three days of stubble. “Told you this was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. We run a ranch, not a damn bed-and-breakfast.”
Beau slanted him a look. “She wouldn’t be here if somebody hadn’t damn near T-boned her rental, remember?”
Luc’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The truth of it stung. He scowled. “I already said I’d pay for the repairs.”
“Money don’t fix washed-out roads or closed shops. She’s stuck till they open again.” Beau kicked at the dirt. “Besides, she pulled her weight during the storm. That gotta count for somethin’.”
Luc’s gaze drifted back to her. Must’ve felt his stare, because she rose to her feet, dusting off her jeans. “If y’all are done talkin’ about me, maybe one of you can point me toward a bed that doesn’t come with thunder and flying debris.”
Beau smirked. “See? She’s practical.”
“She’s trouble,” Luc muttered.
“Then give the trouble somewhere to sleep before she finds it herself,” Beau said easily. “Offer her the guest room.”
Luc hesitated, jaw working. Every instinct told him no, but guilt outweighed pride. “Fine.” He raised his voice. “There’s a room down the hall from the kitchen. You can use it till the power’s back and roads clear.”
She blinked, then nodded once. “Okay, I appreciate it. Beau—you stayin’ too, right?”
He tipped his hat, “I’ll be back at sunrise.”
The way she’d asked Beau, not him, twisted something low in his chest. It shouldn’t have gotten to him.
But it did. Jealousy wasn’t a feeling he recognized anymore, not since Stacie.
Yet, there it was, burning through him like bourbon hitting his gut.
He shoved it down quick, and let out a rough scoff, the sound rasping in his chest.
“Then you handle getting her settled.”
He stalked away before either of them could answer, Wynn trotting close at his heel as he crossed the yard.
“Guess that means good night, cowboy.” Her voice floated after him.
Luc didn’t look back. He just kept walking, telling himself it was better this way.
Still, he couldn’t outpace the faint trace of sage and her cooking drifted from the porch.
Not interested. Not her. Not now. He reminded himself of that, but something about her was already under his skin.
One thing was certain . . . the air at Blaze Haven carried a different note.