Chapter 2
STEVIE
At twenty-two years of age, Stephanie Everhart – Stevie to her friends – had never in her life seen anything as wild and untamed as what she’d just witnessed.
And it was not the furious horse that held her attention.
Born and bred in Boston into comfortable wealth, she was more silver spoon, private girls’ school, vacations at Martha’s Vineyard than dude ranch.
But she could not take her eyes off the cowboy who had just tamed an angry, bucking horse into submission.
When the horse had reared, she’d half expected a bolt of jagged white light to strike from the sky ahead, but this cowboy hadn’t flinched; he’d just held on and her pulse was still racing from the exhilarating display.
From the absolute calm and control the cowboy had exhibited in the face of such feral fury. Like he was used to being in command.
Used to bending things to his will.
She’d held her breath for what felt like the entire display of dominance, her breathing erratic now as it tried to catch up.
What must it feel like to be so… in control?
So damn… sure of yourself? Because this guy, this cowboy, oozed confidence from every pore of his body and she’d never seen anything so magnificent in all her days.
Stevie held her breath again as he removed his hat to reveal sweat-slicked hair plastered on his forehead but falling free and wild behind into a dark, shaggy tangle of untamed curls brushing at the collar of his plaid shirt.
His stare caught hers across the distance and the electricity in his liquid amber depths – like lightning in whisky – almost caused her to startle.
Her eyes widened as she exhaled in a husky rush.
The low rise of his hat and the wild gesticulations of the horse had hidden his features from full view until now.
Now, as he stared at her – as she stared at him – his electric gaze bold in a way that was just as commanding as his horse skills, Stevie could make out every one of his features even through the film of disappearing dust.
His mouth was a grim slash in a face that could have been hewn from the mountains behind him – hard and craggy, beautiful but foreboding.
His jawline, although hidden beneath whiskers as dark and feral as his hair, was set as hard as the stony peaks rising into the sky, and his cheekbones were as prominent as the rocky shelves jutting from the flat, vertical walls.
Still unable to look away, Stevie absently chewed at her bottom lip as her eyes wandered lower.
To the way his plaid flannel shirt opened at the neck to expose the bronzed column of his throat and how it fit across his chest and was rolled to his elbows showcasing his forearms. Ropey forearms that had flexed and tensed, dancing beneath the casing of his flesh as he’d held the reins tight.
His faded blue jeans were dusty and looked old and soft and worn and so very, very tactile.
Stevie tangled her fingers together to stop the ridiculous urge to reach out.
Boots peeped out from the hem of his jeans, sitting commandingly in the stirrups.
As worn and dusty as his jeans, there was nothing fancy about them – they were working boots.
Everything about him, from his face to his clothes to the way he held himself on the horse, spoke of a man more sure of himself every minute of every day than Stevie had felt in the entirety of her life.
And damn if that wasn’t the most compelling thing of all.
She hadn’t known what to expect from this Wyoming dude ranch her record label had banished her to – so she could get some country in her – but it had not been this man. This man who was still staring, grim-faced, but seemingly just as reluctant to break eye contact.
Stevie wasn’t used to men like this. The men in her world were capable and accomplished but in a very different way.
Like her father. They ran companies and sat on boards and donated to charities and political parties.
They drove expensive cars that were polished until they gleamed and wore Armani suits and ties and expensive Italian leather shoes.
Maybe loafers on the weekend at the country club or on their yachts.
They went to church every Sunday with their wives and children.
This man looked like he’d never set foot in a church in his life.
Or if he did it would be sure to collapse around those big broad shoulders.
He looked like an unapologetic sinner, from the mane of curly hair to the pointy toes of his dusty work boots, and she had no idea why that set her body humming but it abso-freaking-lutely did.
Of course, now there were different men in her world but still nothing like the cowboy. Record label people. Hollywood types. Agents. Who didn’t always wear suits and ties but still smelled like money. Who all had opinions on her next step after she’d taken home that shiny Grammy.
Opinions on how to make her rich and famous.
Thankfully, with her mother as her manager, there was a buffer between her and them – something every people-pleaser needed. A person to save them from themselves. Because, truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted this for her as much as everyone else wanted it for her.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be doing this all with Yolanda. The older, outgoing sister. The curvy, gregarious, extroverted front singer who took every song Stevie wrote and spun it into magic.
Sure, Stevie could sing too – they’d both been blessed in that department – but that wasn’t her grand passion. She was the writer, Yolly was the songbird.
But Yolanda had passed and the song Stevie had written about her sister – ‘Forever Without You’ – and had posted to their YouTube channel as an act of dedication had been picked up and used in the biggest movie of last year.
And won her a Grammy for the best country song along with a dream contract to write more of the music she loved.
The treadmill ever since had been relentless.
And not just from industry executives who insisted she also sing and tour but from fans and her mom, too.
Sure, her mother had her back but since Yolly’s passing her entire life had become dedicated to honouring her eldest daughter, and Stevie couldn’t say no to that.
A national tour! This was Yolly’s dream. Do it for your sister.
So here she was living her sister’s life, still unsure about this path and everything on it. Unsure what she wanted other than the opportunity to write the country songs she’d been inspired to write since she’d first heard Miley Cyrus sing ‘The Climb’ when she’d been six.
Unsure until now, that was.
Because standing here, staring at this cowboy, Stevie knew she also wanted him.
She didn’t understand how that was possible just from eyes meeting across a dusty arena even though she wrote songs about it.
She didn’t know what it meant in reality.
She didn’t know how to make it happen. Or whether she even should.
She just knew, as her fingers smoothed over the slim band of the purity ring gracing her left hand, that it was so.
Taking the pledge at sixteen with a bunch of other teens in her church hadn’t been much of a deal.
After Yolly had refused – that hurdle having already been knocked over three years prior – it had been important to her mom and the idea of waiting for the right person hadn’t been as abhorrent to Stevie as it had been to her sister.
She’d like the idea of her first time being with someone special – not necessarily a husband despite what her mother thought – but not just any guy who came along, either.
And looking at this man, she got it now. She really got it.
A brief incline of his head in her direction had Stevie sucking in a quick breath, a hot jolt of embarrassment punching her in the chest as she took an involuntary step back.
Had he read her mind? Could he see the fevered swirl of images in her brain?
She hoped not because while she may be a virgin, she was no ingenue.
Thanks to Yolly’s penchant for spicy, definitely not-suitable-for-work romance novels, she had a very fertile imagination.
‘Stephanie?’
Turning wildly to face her mother, hoping that the heat in her cheeks could be blamed on the sun riding high overhead, Stevie forced a bright smile. ‘Hey.’ Her voice was bright too, probably overly so.
Nothing to see here. Definitely not thinking about mystery cowboy shirtless.
‘I got the keys and directions to the cabin.’
Her mom jingled the key that was attached to a keychain sporting a round logo in the form of a cattle brand with the letters RVR.
Redemption Valley Ranch.
In the other hand she held a flyer-sized map. ‘We’ve got the day to ourselves, get the lay of the land. There’s plenty to explore before the cookout tonight.’
Her mother consulted the map in full organisational mode.
Cindy Everhart, still rocking a California-girl youth, loved a plan.
Always had. But since Yolly had died two years ago, she’d become a little OCD about them.
Stevie understood that it was her mom’s way of controlling things in a world that had been completely knocked off its axis so she didn’t object.
In fact, she completely understood the feeling of being unmoored since Yolly had gone.
After her initial, all-consuming grief, her mom had spent the next two years keeping it all together, carrying on for her and her dad, keeping occupied.
Keeping busy. And Stevie knew that with this new career opportunity as her manager came an opportunity for her mom.
Another way to keep busy while staying connected to her daughter.
‘We can also go into Redemption.’ She pointed to the closest town on the map that had a population of three thousand.
‘It’s not big but it looked pretty enough when we passed through it, don’t you think?
’ The question was rhetorical and Stevie didn’t bother answering.
‘That saloon looked the real deal and there’s apparently a strip of arts and crafts and clothing stores.
Your first riding lesson is after breakfast tomorrow, we could see if they have those authentic fringed cowgirl shirts. ’
Her mom smiled, clearly enamoured at the prospect, and Stevie returned the smile. ‘Sounds good.’
She was looking forward to it. Not the fringed shirt bit – the ranch experience.
This whole month in Wyoming might have been her record label’s idea but Stevie had come willingly.
Having written over a hundred songs about mud, boots, pickup trucks and heartache, she was excited to be here, to really experience the life beyond a movie screen or a Google search.
Sure, they’d been to Nashville once or twice and she’d been to see all her favourite country music artists whenever they’d toured in Boston, but this was the real deal. As real as a certain man who had stolen her breath.
And if her mom wanted to dress her up like Cowgirl Barbie, then so be it.
Jingling the keys again in excitement, her mother beamed and said, ‘Alrighty then,’ apparently already getting into the lingo.
She turned away, heading for their rental BMW sitting out front of a building that boasted hitching posts as well as parking spaces. Stevie followed but not before glancing over her shoulder absently.
The dust had completely gone now – as had the cowboy.
But that image of him, astride the bucking horse? That was going to stay with her forever.