Chapter 3
THREE
JOVIE
I have made a lot of questionable choices in my life.
The bangs I cut myself at fifteen.
The year I treated cheetah print as a neutral.
The time I tried to carry a rocking chair I found on the curb up three flights of stairs after four margaritas.
But climbing into a stranger’s truck to head out to a remote ranch during a snowstorm might actually top the list.
Even if the stranger is a sexy as can be cowboy.
Rhodes.
The name fits him better now that I’ve spoken it out loud. Rugged. Stubborn.
He holds the passenger door open and steps back, making room for me. Snowflakes cling to the dark strands of his hair and melt under his hat brim. People say “tall, dark, and handsome” like it’s a cliché. This man makes it look like a biography.
My pulse thumps once. Hard.
“Get in,” he says again, low and steady.
His voice is rough in a warm way. Something about it curls around my spine.
“This is not how I expected today to go,” I mutter.
“Most things up here aren’t,” he says. “Mountain’s got its own plan.”
That almost sounds like a warning. Or a promise.
I climb up into the truck, sliding across the cracked vinyl seat. It smells like hay and pine and something warm and clean that has to be him.
He closes the door, then jogs around the front. Snow swirls around him. By the time he drops into the driver’s seat, a light dusting has gathered on his shoulders.
He shuts the door with a solid thud. The world outside becomes muffled. Intimate.
He turns on the heat and glances at me.
“You buckled?”
“Not yet,” I say, reaching for the belt.
His hand shoots out gently, stopping me. “Hold up.”
“What?” I ask.
“Shake the snow out of your hair. You’ll melt all over the seat.”
I blink. “Are you lecturing me on proper truck etiquette?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m trying to keep you from freezing.”
Something fizzy flares in my chest.
“How thoughtful,” I say. “Not every cowboy would offer hair-drying advice.”
“I’m not every cowboy,” he says.
There is zero reason for that line to hit the way it does.
I shake out my hair like he said. Snowflakes fall onto the floor mat. When I buckle in, he finally puts the truck in gear.
We pull away from the curb. The Mercantile glows behind us through the falling snow. The store owner stands in the doorway with a mug in hand. I swear she smirks when she sees us drive off together.
Great. This town is too small. They’re all going to assume something is happening here.
Which… it is not.
We are two adults with a mutual goal. A professional arrangement. That is it.
Totally it.
A particularly large gust of wind slaps the truck, and I grip the door handle.
“Does it get worse than this?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But this storm looks like more bark than bite. Windy. High drifts. Low visibility. Roads get slick. You shouldn’t be on them.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “Thank you, by the way.”
He nods once. No fuss. No dramatics.
We drive in silence for a minute. The heater hums. Snow whips past the windshield in frantic white streaks.
“So,” I try. “You do this often?”
“Do what?”
“Rescue random women from storms.”
His eyes flick toward me. They’re a dark, warm green that sees more than they say.
“No,” he says. “Just you.”
There is no reason that should make my stomach flip.
I look straight ahead before he can see the warmth creeping into my cheeks. “Good to know I’m special.”
“You’re something,” he says.
I cannot tell if he means that as a compliment.
We leave the main street and head toward the edge of town. Houses get farther apart. Lights grow softer. Snow falls thicker now, swirling under the headlights.
“You said you need to talk,” he says finally. “About your dad.”
I nod. “Yeah. I wasn’t exaggerating. He’s been dreaming of a ranch since before I was born. He used to tell me stories at bedtime about horses he would ride if he ever owned one. Ranch hands we’d hire. Big family dinners around long wooden tables. The whole thing.”
“You ever want that for yourself?” he asks.
I laugh softly. “I wanted whatever would make him happy. He never got the chance to chase his dream. He chose stability. Responsibility. He chose me.”
Rhodes looks at me again. Just a glance. But something shifts in his expression. Something softer.
“And he still could chase it,” I say. “Sort of. If I can plan something real.”
I can feel him trying to puzzle me out. His jaw works a little. His hands are steady on the wheel.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asks quietly.
Nothing about the question is rude. It’s careful. It’s honest. He is someone who likes facts.
“He has a heart condition,” I say. “Not life-ending. Just… limiting. Travel is okay, but nothing extreme. Nothing risky.”
“And you think a spring ranch stay would be safe?”
“That’s why I need you,” I say. “I want someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who won’t fake things for Instagram. Someone who doesn’t cut corners.”
He looks at me again. Longer this time.
“You don’t seem like the type who cares about fake,” he says.
I don’t know how he can tell that from two conversations, but it lands.
“I care about doing things right,” I say. “And I care about my dad. If this is the last adventure he gets, I want it to be the one he always imagined.”
The truck fills with a thick, quiet warmth.
He lets out a slow breath.
“You could have gone anywhere,” he says. “There are ranches that advertise this stuff. Big companies that run it like a machine.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” I say. “I don’t want him on a conveyor belt experience. I want him to feel the real thing. Honest work. Real land. Actual care.”
He stares ahead for a beat.
“So why me?” he asks.
It is the first question that sounds like it matters to him.
“Because Greer said you’re the real deal,” I say.
He does not react, but I can feel the ripple in the air.
“And because,” I add, “you’re the only one who doesn’t sound like a tourist trap.”
He huffs out something close to a laugh. A breath that almost turns into sound. It’s subtle, but I catch it.
“Those places aren’t all bad,” he says. “Just not my thing.”
“Mine either,” I admit. “And definitely not my dad’s.”
We pass a stretch of woods that looks like a scene from an old Christmas postcard. Snow-laden branches. Black bark. A faint glow through the trees from some cabin far off the road.
The wind rattles the truck again. Rhodes leans forward a little, squinting at the road.
“How far is your ranch?” I ask.
“Ten minutes,” he says. “If the roads don’t get worse.”
“Do they… often get worse?”
He grunts. “Up here? Always.”
The wind howls again as if to prove his point.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s comforting.”
“You want comforting or honest?”
“Both,” I say. “In that order.”
He finally gives a real laugh. It fills the cab like he’s kicked on another heater.
Holy crap.
That laugh could melt frost off windows.
The kind of laugh a woman could fall into if she isn’t careful.
Focus, Jovie.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask. “We get to the ranch, talk through spring options, and I’m out of your hair by morning?”
He shoots me a look.
“We’ll talk,” he says. “But you’re not leaving in the morning if the storm hits the way it looks.”
My stomach dips. “How long are we talking?”
“Couple days, maybe.”
“Days?” My voice jumps an octave. “As in plural days?”
“Probably.”
“That’s not good,” I say. “I have to be home by Christmas Eve.”
“I know,” he says calmly. “And you’ll get there. The mountain’s just being loud tonight.”
“Loud?”
He nods. “It’s a Wilder Mountain thing. Storms talk before they hit. You’ll see.”
The wind slams into us again.
“Is it talking now?” I ask.
“Yelling,” he says.
I swallow.
The snow thickens until the road nearly disappears. The world narrows to two white lines and the cone of light from the headlights.
Rhodes slows the truck.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
“Good,” I say. “Because I don’t want to die before my dad gets his dream.”
“You’re not dying,” he says. “Not on my watch.”
His voice is steady. Sure. A verbal hand on my spine.
Warmth spreads through me, even as anxiety curls tight in my stomach.
And then the truck crests a hill.
And I see it.
His ranch.
A long split-rail fence. A warm glow from the barn windows. Smoke rising from a chimney. Snow swirling around everything like it’s been choreographed.
It is exactly what my dad always described.
It is exactly what I always wanted for him.
My breath catches.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Rhodes cuts the engine and looks at me.
“This,” he says, “is where we talk.”
I turn toward him.
Before I can say a word, the wind screams again.
A sharp crack echoes behind us.
Rhodes stiffens.
Then he says the last thing I expect.
“Stay here.”
He throws open his door and jumps out into the storm.
I have no idea what just broke out there. Or what he thinks he’s walking straight into.