Wrangler Daddy (Timber Creek Daddies #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

FIONA

I’ve officially lost my mind.

That’s the only explanation for why I’m currently dragging two suitcases, a tote bag, and a cooler the size of a small coffin up a gravel mountain road in cowboy boots that were made for fashion, not function.

My bra strap has snapped, my hair looks like I stuck a fork in an electrical socket, and I’m sweating through my “Howdy Darlin’” T-shirt like I’m trying to rehydrate the entire state of Montana with my armpits.

“New beginnings,” I huff, wheezing as I yank my suitcase over a rock. “That’s what you wanted, Fiona.”

Fresh air. Clean slate. Country charm.

Less judgment. No cell service. Maybe fewer men who ghost after three dates and one very regrettable karaoke duet of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Instead, I have… ticks. A busted wheel. And a sign that says:

PRIVATE PROPERTY. HAVEN 7. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

Cute.

I blink at the sign, wondering if they mean shot metaphorically, like, with intense side-eye and sternly worded HOA notices. Then I spot the security camera tucked into the trees above it, and yeah—probably not metaphorical.

Still, this is the place.

This is where I’m supposed to be. Where my brother Gavin told me I’d find “the safest, most private haven in the mountains” to crash for a few months while I figured out my next move. A place with good people. A place to heal.

And maybe, just maybe, a place where I could finally breathe again.

I square my shoulders, hike up my tote bag (which is currently biting into my collarbone like an angry raccoon), and start marching up the road like I’m not silently dying inside.

“Gavin better have snacks,” I mutter. “And possibly a foot rub. Or a margarita. Or a margarita delivered by a shirtless cowboy with low standards.”

I’m halfway through a fantasy involving tequila and lasso skills when a low rumble starts behind me.

At first, I think it’s thunder. Or maybe one of those mountain lions everyone online said to “be aware of but not alarmed by,” which feels like a very tall order for a woman whose self-defense plan involves flailing and screaming “I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY, PROBABLY.”

But no. It’s worse.

It’s a truck.

A black, gleaming pickup with tires the size of hot tubs coming around the bend like it’s mad at the road. It skids slightly on the gravel, straightens out, and barrels toward me like I’m in some kind of country-western version of Fast and Furious: Mountain Drift.

I leap to the side, dragging my cooler with me. “Sweet baby armadillos!”

The truck brakes hard, dust exploding around it in a cloud that tastes like despair and regret. The door swings open, and out steps—Lord help me—a man straight off a ranch romance cover.

Tall. Broad. Cowboy hat slung low over his brow. Aviators. A button-down shirt with rolled sleeves and forearms that look like they’ve wrangled things. Big things. Dangerous things.

Like cows. Or existential crises.

“Ma’am?” His voice is a low, slow drawl that vibrates directly in my ovaries. “You lost?”

I gape. And then realize I’m still standing in a ditch like a hot mess Cinderella who missed her pumpkin Uber.

“I’m not lost,” I say, brushing gravel off my jeans. “I’m intentionally wandering. It’s called self-discovery. Very popular with women who recently found their ex in bed with a Zumba instructor named Trey.”

He blinks. “Right.”

I wave a dramatic hand. “Gavin Messer sent me. I’m Fiona. The baby sister. The artist. He said I could stay a while? Something about cabins and healing energy and mountain air.”

The cowboy blinks again. Then reaches up and lifts his sunglasses—and sweet mercy, those eyes. Moss green with flecks of gold and a permanent squint like he’s either laughing at you or trying to solve a mystery involving fence posts.

“I’m Chase,” he says slowly. “Gavin’s sister?”

I nod.

He crosses his arms. “And you walked up the access road with two suitcases, a cooler, and… is that a NutriBullet?”

“It has sentimental value.”

His mouth twitches.

I narrow my eyes. “Are you judging me?”

“No, ma’am. I’m just wondering how long it’ll take before that wheel falls off and you start cussing in Southern.”

As if on cue, the wheel of my suitcase gives a tragic little whimper and pops clean off.

“I hate this place,” I whisper.

Chase chuckles. “Come on. Load up. I’ll take you the rest of the way.”

“I don’t normally get into trucks with strange men.”

“I’m not a stranger. I’m your brother’s friend.”

“Friend, huh?” I smirk, then immediately regret it when his jaw flexes.

He picks up my suitcase like it weighs nothing and throws it in the bed of the truck. “Let’s go, Trouble.”

“Did you just give me a nickname?”

He slams the tailgate. “Fits, doesn’t it?”

It does.

But I don’t say that. I just climb into the cab, catching a whiff of leather, pine, and something dangerously masculine. Chase rounds the truck, hops in, and starts the engine with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift.

We start driving.

“So,” I say, to fill the silence, “do all the men at Haven 7 look like they were carved from mountain rock and dipped in testosterone? Or is it just you?”

He side-eyes me.

I grin. “Just asking. For my journal.”

He doesn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth lifts just a little, and I feel it like a jolt straight to my solar plexus.

Uh-oh.

I came to the mountains to heal. To reset. To find peace.

I didn’t come to get distracted by a cowboy with a smirk and a jawline that could slice salami.

And yet…

As we wind higher up the road, the forest thick around us and the peaks glowing golden in the late afternoon sun, I can’t help but think one very dangerous thought:

Maybe this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.