Willow Ranch Cowboys (Colter Creek #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Abilene

Saturday

“Good morning, everyone! Welcome to Sweet Haven Honey!”

I wave enthusiastically as I settle behind my counter, trying to shake off the jitters. The market’s busier than usual today, with families and tourists milling about, drawn in by the honey-sweet scent of my booth.

I take a deep breath, pushing the nerves down. It’s fine. I’ve done this a hundred times before.

I’ve got my display, jars of honey lined up in neat rows, each one lovingly labeled with names such as Golden Meadow, Morning Sun, and Wildfire Bloom. Each one tells a little story, and I’m more than happy to share them with anyone who asks.

I spot a couple walking toward my table.

“Have you tried our signature honey? Golden Meadow is a personal favorite. It’s perfect for tea or just drizzling over fresh fruit.”

The woman picks up a jar and inspects the label.

“It sounds lovely,” she says, but her attention shifts to her phone, and she walks away without another word.

I glance over at the next customer, who’s half-eyeing the beeswax candles. Maybe he’s more interested in the soaps.

I start to tell him all about my handcrafted products, but whoops, I knock over a jar of Morning Sun thanks to my need to talk with my hands.

The glass hits the edge of the table and wobbles, then topples right off.

Time slows as I watch it fall.

Oh no.

Not again.

In a panic, I reach for it, but too late. The jar drops, and I cringe, waiting for the inevitable smash.

Except… it doesn’t come.

Instead, a pair of strong hands swoops in and catches the jar just inches from the ground.

“Whoa. Close one!”

Jesse Murphy’s voice is calm. His smile is the kind that makes my heart do an extra beat, like it’s an accident… but the kind of accident you secretly hope for.

“Thanks,” I breathe, blinking at him.

His hands are steady as he sets the jar back on the table. He’s not even fazed.

“No problem.” Jesse grins, and I feel a little heat rise in my cheeks.

He’s my neighbor, always showing up and making me blush. And today is no exception.

He’s tall, built like someone who spends all day working with his hands, which he does on Willow Ranch. The only thing more charming than his smile is the way he makes everything look effortless.

“You know,” he continues, leaning in a little closer. “They say honey is a natural mood booster. But I didn’t know it was gravity-defying too.”

I blink, unsure if I’m still hearing him right. “What?”

Jesse flashes a grin. “I mean, look at that jar. That was some serious superhero stuff. What’s next? Will it fly?”

I laugh, a little too loudly, and quickly cover my mouth, embarrassed. “I, uh, I wish it could. But no, it’s not that magic.”

“Fair enough,” he says, giving me that smile. “I’ll take a jar of Morning Sun.”

“One Morning Sun for the local hero,” I say, and reach for a paper bag before I can overthink it.

I try to ignore the way my fingers tremble just a little as I pull the jar toward me.

“Local hero, huh? Gonna have to add that to my résumé. Single dad, ranch hand, occasional honey catcher.”

“Very impressive skill set. Should open a LinkedIn account.”

“Is that the website with all the people in suits?” He shudders theatrically. “Nah. I’ll stick to flannel and fixing fences.”

I can’t help but smile. “Good. Colter Creek would riot if you showed up in a suit.”

He leans his elbows on the table, far too close for my heart’s safety. His eyes flick across my display, taking in the candles, soaps, and honey sticks with a kind of quiet pride that makes my chest ache.

“You added new ones,” he says. “Didn’t see these last weekend.”

I brighten. This is territory I understand. “Oh. Yeah. Those are Forest Dawn and Creekside Bloom. New infusions. I, um… I used blackberry blossoms and a little wild mint in the steep for the Creekside Bloom. Smells a bit like standing by the river in early spring.”

His gaze comes back to me. “You always make it sound more than honey.”

I shrug, suddenly shy. “It’s… memories. In jars, I guess.”

He looks like he might say more, but a shrill, excited voice pierces the air.

“Daddy! Daddy, look! They blew it up!”

We both turn. Eliza and Caleb are weaving through the crowd toward us, identical grins practically splitting their faces. They skid to a stop beside Jesse, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“The bounce house is open!” Caleb announces, practically vibrating. “It’s a dragon this time!”

“It roars,” Eliza adds seriously. “Like this…”

She makes a tiny, ferocious growling sound that would be terrifying if she weren’t six and missing her two front teeth.

Jesse chuckles, ruffling her hair. “That so? Dragon bounce house, huh? That explains the screaming I heard.”

“It’s not screaming,” Caleb insists. “It’s battle cries.”

“Right, my mistake.” Jesse turns back to me, tipping his chin toward the far end of the market where the bright inflatable bobs above the crowd. “You see what I’m up against? Impossible to resist the call of the dragon.”

I smile at the twins. “Sounds very serious. Warriors need their energy, you know.”

Both sets of blue eyes swing to me. I’m being pinned by twin sweetness.

“We have honey sticks,” I tell them, pulling open the small wooden crate by the side of the stall. “One per warrior, or the dragon might get jealous.”

Eliza gasps. “Dragons like honey?”

“Everyone likes honey,” I say solemnly. “Even dragons.”

Caleb bounces on his toes, peering into the crate. “Can I have the purple one?”

“Lavender,” I tell him, handing it over. “Helps you stay calm in battle.”

“And I want the yellow,” Eliza says, pointing decisively.

“Lemon,” I say, passing it to her. “For bravery.”

They stare at their honey sticks as if I’ve handed them magic wands. Jesse watches me do it, smiling lightly as he does.

“You don’t have to keep feeding them every week, you know,” he says quietly. “They’re gonna start thinking you’re a fairy godmother.”

I duck my head, tucking a strand of hair back under my hat. “It’s just honey.”

“Hey,” he counters. “Nothing is ‘just honey’ when it comes from you.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast I’m surprised my labels don’t catch fire.

Eliza tugs on his sleeve. “Daddy, can we go now? Pleeease?”

“In a second, butterfly.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and looks at me again. “How much do I owe you, honey queen?”

“Oh, um.” I fluster, almost dropping the little chalkboard price list. “For the jar? Ten, please.”

He raises his brows, pretending to be scandalized. “Ten whole dollars? That better be the best mood of my life in there.”

“It will be,” I say, before I can stop myself. “If you let it.”

His gaze snags on mine, and for a moment, everything goes quiet, market noise fading to a dull hum. His smile shifts, less teasing, more… intense.

It stirs a flutter deep in my chest.

“Guess I’d be a fool not to,” he says softly.

He hands over the money, brushing his fingers against my palm in a way that feels suspiciously like it wasn’t an accident at all. My skin tingles.

“Daddy,” Caleb huffs, exasperated. “The dragon is going to be boring by the time we get there.”

Jesse laughs, stepping back. “Fine, fine. Warriors, move out.” He lifts the bag with the honey jar in a little salute, then tips his chin at me. “Thanks, Abilene.”

“For the mood, or the honey?” I ask, because apparently my mouth has decided it wants to die of embarrassment today.

This time, his grin is slow and wicked and far too charming. “Both.”

I forget how to breathe.

Then he turns, herding the twins toward the bounce house. Eliza skips ahead, waving her honey stick, and Caleb hops along at his father’s side, head tilted back as he chatters about dragon roars and battle cries.

I watch them go until they disappear behind a wall of people, Jesse’s broad shoulders the last thing I see before the crowd swallows him up.

I just stand there, fingers curled around the edge of my table. My heart is racing like I’ve run a mile, not stood in one place and talked about honey, same as always.

“Pull it together,” I murmur under my breath, giving myself a tiny shake. “He’s your neighbor, not a… not a rom-com hero.”

Still, my pulse refuses to settle.

The breeze shifts, carrying the mingled scents of kettle corn, grilled sausages, and fresh bread down the line of stalls. Children shriek and laugh from the bounce house, someone’s dog barks, and a fiddle starts up at the far end of the market where a busker plays under the shade of a pine tree.

With a smile, I straighten the jars I nearly sent tumbling, and tuck a stray tag back under a ribbon. I know what to do with my hands here.

I know how to line up labels and talk about bees and pretend my heart isn’t still doing jump rope tricks in my chest.

“Excuse me?”

I look up to find an older woman at my booth, hair in a neat gray bun, eyes crinkled at the corners. She’s holding one of my beeswax candles, the one molded in the shape of a little beehive.

“These smell wonderful,” she says. “What’s this one called? I can’t quite read the tag without my glasses.”

“Oh.” I brighten, reaching for the small label tied around the wick with twine. “That one’s Hearthlight. It’s a blend of honey, vanilla, and a little hint of cedar. I thought it smelled of… coming home after being out in the cold.”

Her expression softens. “That’s exactly what it smells like.”

Warmth creeps in where the Jesse-induced flutters had been. This part I understand, too.

“And these?” another voice asks, and suddenly there are three people in front of my stall, fingers reaching for jars, candles, soaps.

Questions come faster than my nerves can keep up with, but I slip into the familiar rhythm of market days.

I talk about my bees, how they travel miles across wildflower fields, bringing back tiny fragments of the valley to tuck into their honeycombs. I chat about the difference between spring honey and late summer honey.

I explain how I pour each candle myself, how the soaps are made with leftover beeswax and honey and coconut oil, how nothing goes to waste. My hands move by habit, bagging jars, making change, looping twine around handles.

By the time the rush slows, my throat is dry, and my cheeks are flushed, a mix of warmth and embarrassment, and the lingering memory of Jesse’s fingers brushing my palm. I finally have a chance to take a sip of water and tilt my face to the sky.

The sun sits high and hot above the pine peaks, the kind of heat that’s sitting on the valley instead of just passing through. The air tastes a little too dry for my liking, even with the breeze.

I file that away in a quiet corner of my mind, the beekeeper part of me already making notes.

“Afternoon, Abilene!”

I look up to see Maeve Dunmoore, the market manager, striding past with her clipboard, her sharp gaze sweeping over my display.

“Booth looks beautiful,” she declares. “Smells even better. You’re going to sell out before the end of the day at this rate.”

I duck my head. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She winks. “Neither would I. Happy vendors, happy market. Keep it up, sweetheart.”

As she moves on to the next stall, I glance down the aisle again, watching the swell and shift of the crowd, the way people move around each other as a slow tide.

My pulse finally starts to settle, the roar of earlier nerves fading into a gentle hum that matches the soft buzz in my chest.

I smooth my hands over the front of my apron, adjust one last jar so its label faces perfectly forward, and lift my chin.

“Good morning,” I say to the next person who steps up, my voice still even if my heart still remembers strong hands catching glass and a grin that promises trouble. “Welcome to Sweet Haven Honey. How can I sweeten your day?”