8. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Maeve
The ache in my back is growing worse by the hour, but adrenaline and apprehension are doing their best impression of a painkiller. Only an hour to go until I land in Austin, and it still feels like a fever dream.
Less than twenty-four hours after my interview with Colt, I got an email confirming that I got the job. And by some divine act of cowboy Christ, the ranch has found the budget to cover my flight too.
I cried like a little bitch. After months of feeling like I was cursed with bad luck, like I was going to be stuck in the one place that had me feeling like an alien, maybe the universe is finally giving me a break. About bloody time.
Saying goodbye to Iris was the worst part.
It always is. She’s the only reason I return to London.
The only person who has ever truly loved me unconditionally—my soul sister.
Leaving her feels like leaving the one place where I actually fit, which is a lot of pressure to put on one person.
I know she can't exactly be glued to my side forever, regardless of much I'd love it.
So, we made a plan like we always do: weekly video calls, minimum; daily text updates, and must-have pictures. Keeping her fully updated on my ranch adventures, or as she's already called them, The Cowboy Chronicles.
Though in version of The Cowboy Chronicles, horses wouldn't be the only thing I'd be riding.
I laughed at the thought. I’m going to miss her crude mind.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint. I just genuinely can’t remember the last time I met a man who made me want to exert energy “riding” him, unless you count book boyfriends.
That’s a different story. One that stays between me, my Kindle, and my pink friend, safely stashed away in my suitcase—my most reliable companions.
That’s not to say I can't appreciate when a man is attractive. Take Colt, for example. With his blond hair, sun-kissed skin, and a kind smile softening the sharpness of his jaw, he was the definition of “boy next door.” But as attractive as he was, I have no urge to jump his bones.
Unfortunately, it’s not Colt’s sweet cowboy vibes that will be greeting me when I land in Austin.
Something I was only informed of through email ten minutes before my flight took off, as if it had been a rushed last-minute decision.
Instead, I'll be meeting his dad, Wade Carter—owner of the ranch and someone Colt diplomatically described as “a man of few words.”
Translation: full-time grump. One I get to spend over an hour trapped in a car with until we reach the small town of Wildbrook Hollow. Perfect.
The thought makes me sick with nerves. What if he doesn’t like me and finds me annoying?
It wouldn't exactly be the first time. He’s going to be my boss, after all, I want to make a good impression.
But at the same time, I didn’t fly all the way across the world just to walk on eggshells around people.
If that had been the case, I would’ve stayed in London, getting yelled at over lukewarm lattes.
I mentally map out a strategy to survive the car ride.
Surely, I can get him talking, right? Maybe I should ask about how he came to own the ranch, or the kind of work he does on it.
People usually love talking about their success.
At the very least, it might fill a decent chunk of the journey and show I am genuinely interested in this role.
Feeling a little more prepared, I grab my Kindle to kill the remaining time on this flight. The plan is loose—very loose. But it’s better than nothing. And it’s made me feel slightly more prepared.
Ok, so I wasn’t prepared.
I wasn’t ready for my boss to look like a cowboy god. The type I thought could exist in my smutty cowboy romances. And sure, I am not here for a man—absolutely not. But I'm also not blind.
The man holding a “Callaghan” sign in the arrivals area, scowling like it's his entire personality, can only be Wade Carter, and he looks nothing like the sweet-looking cowboy who interviewed me.
How the hell do they even share the same genes?
Where Colt is slim and toned with blond hair, Wade is big and broad, arms straining against the sleeves of his muscle-fit t-shirt, dark wavy hair brushing his shoulders. Even from a distance, the tattoos canvassing his forearms are impossible to miss.
All hard lines and rough edges, Wade is the kind of man you think twice about approaching. Yet, I do not have a choice in the matter. Forward it is.
I try to steady my breath, each step toward him tightening the coil of anxiety in my chest. My stomach is doing its own Olympic routine, all flips, twists, and nerves.
He lifts his head slightly. The brim of his hat tips back enough for me to catch a glimpse of piercing green eyes, and even from a distance, I can see there is something unreadable and unflinching in the way he holds himself. ,
I swallow hard, forcing my feet to keep moving.
“Hey! I am Maeve,” I blurt, sounding a bit too enthusiastic. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Carter.”
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity before grabbing my suitcase out of my grip with a grunt.
“Let’s get moving,” he commands, already striding away.
Charming.
I hurry after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides, the wheels of my abused suitcase rattling against the polished floor.
Outside, the heat hits me hard, and the sweat begins to trickle down my forehead by the time we reach a massive dust-covered truck.
Wade hoists my suitcase into the trunk like it weighs nothing.
He then plucks the holdall from my shoulder and tosses it in after it without a word.
I watch, momentarily caught up in trying to figure out this tall, brooding man. He is an enigma in comparison to Colt.
A loud, forced cough grabs my attention. Wade is standing there, holding the passenger door open, one hand resting on the roof of the truck. Waiting.
I’m caught off-guard by the juxtaposition of his gentlemanly actions and the sharpness of his attitude, paired with a complete lack of words.
I scramble into the seat, my legs already sticking to the warm leather seats, doing my best not to make eye contact.
He rounds the truck and slides into the driver’s seat. The silence is so thick it’s practically a third passenger.
“You know,” I blurt, unable to help myself, “you’re allowed to say more than three words to me. I am going to be your employee, after all. Not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon here.”
He just stares at me. Nothing.
I huff. “I’ll take that as a “I don’t give a shit” then.”
Still nothing.
And yet, here I am, opening my mouth again. “Well, fine. But just so you know, the silent treatment won’t scare me off. I have an annoying habit of oversharing during awkward silences. So, buckle up, cowboy. You’re in for an earful.”
Still nothing. Cool.
Rudeness is the fastest way to offset a good-looking face. And honestly, it's a good reminder—pretty faces often come with terrible personalities, at least in my experience. Wade Carter is just the latest exhibit.
Just as I shift my weight away from him, Wade leans across toward me, closing the distance so fast that I freeze.
His face is close enough to mine that I can feel the heat of his breath against my already rosy cheeks.
I catch the faint scent of cedar and something warm underneath it, and for a split second, my brain goes completely blank.
His eyes find mine and hold there. It feels so intense that neither of us moves for what feels like an eternity. “Reckon' you oughta be the one bucklin' up, angel,” he murmurs, low and unhurried, laced with a Texan drawl.
Then the seatbelt is pulled firmly across me and clicked into place. He leans back without another word.
The engine rumbles to life, and I'm left sitting there, cheeks warm and completely lost for words. Which, given how I was just running my mouth, is definitely not normal for me.
The rest of the drive unfolds in the same tense quiet.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the landscape shift from busy city streets to open country roads dotted with farmland.
The sky widens the further from the airport we get, and the heat seems to ease with it.
Guess that's what happens without the city pollution.
With every mile that passes, I fight the urge to steal glances at him. But once we pass a rustic hand-painted sign welcoming us into Wildbrook Hollow, I give in. As I do, his gaze flicks over to me, catching me in the act. A muscle ticks in his jaw before his eyes are back on the road.
Naturally, I open my mouth. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”
His thumb taps once against the steering wheel. “Not unless there’s something worth saying.”
I smirk despite myself. “Good to know I don't qualify for a full sentence.”
“Didn't say that.”
“Well,” I mutter, tilting my head as the small town edges into view, wildflowers dotting the landscape in little bursts of colour. “I'll take that as a promising sign. Maybe next week we'll crack two.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Don’t hold your breath,” he fires back.
The truck bumps over an uneven surface as we slowly descend a gravel driveway towards a large ranch house, the tyres crunching loudly in the quiet. Whatever I was about to say next dies on my tongue.
The breathtaking scenery is enough to distract me from the boiling frustration my new boss has stirred up.
The ranch house stands in the heart of what seems like endless acres of land.
Its weathered wooden beams show signs of age, but they also add to its rustic charm.
It has a wide porch wrapping around the front, with flowers neatly planted on either side of its steps.
In the distance, cattle roam the fields, you can even hear their bells chiming faintly.
Hills rise in the backdrop, dotted with the vibrant colour of wildflowers—bright blues, deep purples, burnt oranges, and soft yellows.
They spill across the land that hasn’t yet been touched by the hands of ranch architecture.
I roll down the window, inhaling fresh air tinged with the scent of grass and sweet flowers and mingled with the tang of hay.
The truck rumbles to a stop, gravel settling beneath the wheels. Wade climbs out, the door creaking softly as he closes it He circles around, boots crunching on the driveway, and pulls my door open. In the distance, a bird chirps once and goes quiet.
“Welcome to Meadow Bell Ranch, Maeve.” His voice is flat, his face unreadable.
Not a hint of warmth. Before I can manage a polite thank you, he's already striding toward the ranch house with my bags, leaving me and my jittering nerves alone.
I step out and stand there for a moment, just breathing it in.
The air, the quiet, the sheer openness of everything around me.
I take a deep breath and step out of the truck. As my feet hit the gravel, warmth settles somewhere deep inside me. A quiet feeling tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. This could be the place I’ve been searching for, despite the challenge of dealing with moody cowboys.