Chapter Five
Maeve
I’m no holy woman but, oh my sweet Jesus, this man is impossible.
Somewhere between the airport and here, I'd decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, set aside the few words and the grumpiness, and be more open-minded. Turns out, Wade Carter does not deserve the benefit of the doubt. What he deserves is a swift kick square in the shins. Repeatedly.
You’d think with all the cowboy smut I’ve read, I’d be better prepared for a brooding, emotionally stunted cowboy—it’s basically a genre staple.
But Wade Cater doesn’t just brood. He sulks, scowls, and seems allergic to full sentences.
I jokingly dubbed him Cowboy Batman earlier, and at this point, it feels less like a nickname and more like a clinical diagnosis.
Thankfully, Colt and the rest of the ranch crew couldn't have been more different. Friendly, easy-going, and most importantly, they speak in complete sentences. The contrast between them and their grumpy leader is night and day.
Colt’s arm rests over my shoulders, its weight heavy on my tired body, which has spent the day running on nerves and way too much caffeine. I start sinking into the chair, and my eyelids flicker, struggling to stay open.
“Let’s show you where you’ll be sleeping,” Colt’s voice snaps me upright. Judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he's already clocked that I was halfway to snoozeland.
“And where would that be?” Wade asks from across the kitchen, arms crossed, one boot propped against the counter, that scowl firmly in place on his annoyingly symmetrical face.
“She's not staying in the bunkhouse with these buffoons, surely.” He jerks his chin toward the ranch hands helping Mrs. Mae clear the table.
“I set her up in a room upstairs,” Colt says, a hint of caution threading through his voice. “Seemed like the best call. We've never needed a female bunkhouse, don't exactly hire many women around here.”
Mrs. Mae snorts, with a joking hint, “Yeah, well, maybe if you boys did, this place wouldn’t run like a half-broken tractor most of the time.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and sudden, catching even me off guard. Mrs. Mae grins, satisfied with herself.
“And that's my cue,” she announces, lifting a Tupperware container of pulled pork.
“Better get this home before my daughter does.” She turns to me and opens her arms, pulling me into another one of those hugs.
Warm and unhurried, like she has all the time in the world.
I lean in without thinking. “Thank you for being so welcoming, Mrs. Mae.”
“Oh, stop it, sweetie. You can call me Maggie. Have a good sleep, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow!”
After waving goodbye to the room, she’s out the door.
Wade pipes up again, this time with an icy edge. “So, the main house?”
Colt shrugs. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
Wade makes a sound under his breath I don’t quite catch, then turns on his heel and stalks out, the front door slamming behind him and sealing the dramatic exit. It’s hard not to roll my eyes at this grown man throwing a tantrum.
“Better get used to that,” Colt says, the easy grin still in place. There's a lightness to the way he carries himself, like he's used to being the counterbalance to his father's heaviness. “Full-time grumpy ranch owner is basically his official title.”
He throws me a playful wink, the kind that probably works on half the county. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me around.”
The contrast between him and Wade baffles me. It’s not just night and day—it’s storm clouds and sunrise.
I don’t say anything, but the smile that sneaks onto my face probably answers for me.
“Right,” he says, finally lifting his arm from my shoulders. “Let's show you your room.”
As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was gone. Apparently, the jet lag didn't get the memo. I blink at the harsh neon glow of the digital clock: 3:45 a.m. Great.
I lie there for a moment, willing sleep to take me back under. It doesn't. With a groan, I peel back the covers and accept my fate. Staying awake is the only way to beat jet lag, and I am going to need an irresponsible amount of coffee to do it.
The room they've put me in is nicer than I expected. Old farmhouse charm, creaky floorboards, mismatched tartan curtains, and a four-poster bed that could comfortably fit half the ranch hands.
I laugh at the thought. Now, that could be a book.
The quilt carries a faint hint of lavender, almost certainly the work of Maggie. Just thinking about her warms something in my chest. I've known her for less than twelve hours, and I already know she’s going to be one of my favourite people here.
Colt, too. Definitely the golden boy of Wildbrook Hollow.
He’s sweet and easy-going in a way that makes conversations with him feel comfortable, like he’s known you for years.
I didn't have to perform in front of him or edit myself down, even with the rest of the crew.
I could be my sarcastic, bantery self without feeling out of place.
I can't remember the last time I slotted into somewhere that quickly.
Which is exactly why Wade Carter irritates the ever-loving hell out of me.
He's the variable I can't make sense of.
Sharp and closed off in a way that makes me want to understand him, which is annoying, because the most sensible thing I could do is take him at face value and leave it alone.
He's my boss. He's made it clear he didn't want me here.
That should be the beginning and the end of it.
I pull on a hoodie over my pyjamas and tiptoe across the cold floorboards. The wooden steps down to the main hall are cold under my bare feet, every bump and groove sharp against my skin. The silence is thick, so different from the chaos of my arrival.
Colt had mentioned briefly that no one had lived in the house since his grandfather died.
Said it stays empty after dinner and until about 6:00 a.m. when the day kicks off.
I didn’t think to ask why, but now, in the stillness of the early morning, I can’t help but wonder.
Why leave a place this beautiful to be only used for work hours and spare bedrooms?
More questions about the Carter family swirl in my head, and I haven’t even been here a full day.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause, breathing in and letting the scent hit me.
A warm mix of sun-baked pine with a hint of leather, a faint trace of smoked wood, and that same soft lavender from my room.
I’m not sure what I expected ranch houses to smell like—maybe manure and hay— but definitely not this.
I turn left down the long hallway toward the kitchen, fingertips brushing the wall as I go.
I'm not sure how I missed the artwork yesterday.
I was probably too distracted and too tired.
But now, in the stillness of the early hours with nothing but moonlight slipping through the glass panel windows, they stop me in my tracks.
A whole lineup of ranch landscapes—rolling hills, barns at sunset, a stretch of wildflowers along a fence line—all signed Ruby Carter in a delicate script.
Every brushstroke feels like a love letter to this place, the kind that makes you want to go and stand in those exact spots yourself. I know I do.
I also want to know who Ruby Carter is.
I file it away and keep moving past the open oak doors, like the house is saying, “Nothing to hide here!”.
That seems to be the case when I am met with bare rooms with no real character other than the ranch’s main features.
Wooden beams, vintage furniture with modern elements like the industrial-looking hanging lights, and smart devices such as TVs and speakers.
They have a common room feel to them. I wonder if this is where the ranch hands hang out too, besides the kitchen.
At the end of the hall, I spot something that feels a little too deliberate. A closed door. It stands firm with its iron strap hinges on full display. Curiosity gets the better of me, as always, and I nudge it open.
The room on the other side is nothing like the rest of the house.
No, this one feels different. Warmer. Lived in.
The kind of space that holds echoes of birthdays, movie nights, and probably more than one Thanksgiving meltdown.
A stone fireplace sits at the centre, logs still stacked neatly like someone meant to light a fire and never did.
The sofas are draped in tartan blankets that match the curtains in my room, and there’s a softness here that the rest of the house doesn’t have.
In the corner sits an old bookcase shoved into a little alcove, absolutely cluttered with a variety of different-sized frames holding decades’ worth of family photos.
I drift closer, my eyes landing on a few faded, black-and-white snapshots, some even curling the corners.
A young couple outside this very ranch, scissors raised to cut an opening ribbon, faces lit with the joy of a fresh start.
The same man crouching beside a newborn calf, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
I scan the rest of the black-and-white moments, until I reach the last on the shelf.
It shows a woman in a sundress on a porch swing—the one I noticed on my way in, noting it as a great reading spot—smiling at whoever was behind the camera.
So much history and so much joy preserved in these photos.
I scan the rest of the shelves, coloured photos making an appearance.
The house looks closer to how it does now.
An elderly man next to a young man, and a baby in a new woman’s arms. I almost move past it before I catch a detail that stops me.
A rose tattoo on the young man’s hand. The same one I clocked when he grabbed my suitcase.
Wade. Young and beaming with happiness. The woman beside him has her head tilted toward his, soft-eyed, her whole body angled into him. His wife, presumably. And the baby must be Colt.