Page 2 of Live, Ranch, Love

“Haha, no, but I’m here for a few weeks, so I wanted to make sure I had enough.”

Luke smiles and nods. “Well, if you ever need a cab into Willow Ridge, you got my number. Enjoy your stay, Miss Jones.”

“Thank you, Luke. Have a great rest of your day.”

I drag my suitcases out of the way and watch Luke drive off. Then, I turn to the dirt track ahead, inhaling deeply, readying myself to sweat profusely during the two minute trek to the house.

Thirty seconds in and I’m already out of breath. I might have been slacking on my usual fitness routine the last few weeks, despite posting old yoga videos I luckily had saved to pretend otherwise to my social media followers, but I am by no means unfit. The jetlag probably doesn’t help. Or it’s because I’ve just never learnt to pack lightly and now I’m suffering for it.

I stop for a quick breather and admire the house ahead—it’s all dark wood and long windows, thick wooden posts and stone chimneys, with a wraparound deck where my favourite porch swing sits hidden round the back. There was always something fashionably contrasting about Auntie Grace’s style—the perfect blend of rustic and modern. Even inside, the kitchen and living area is all open-plan, with a few little rooms for an office and cosy bar tucked away behind doors. Yet, she just crowded that airy atmosphere with mismatched Persian rugs, colourful embroidered cushions, and an obscene number of plants.

God, I’ve missed this place. I wish I’d made more of an effort recently to visit. Then at least I might have known she’d been sick.

I don’t know how I’m going to sell this place, seeing it again now. There’s so many heart-warming memories here and—

No, I have to sell it.

I can’t run a ranch from a different continent. Even if it would mean keeping a part of Auntie Grace going…

I will away the thought, letting my eyes trail along the porch, over the front door, which is opening and—

There’s a man walking out of Auntie Grace’s house… My house. And it’s not old Mr Hensley. What the hell?

That suddenly kicks me into action and I’m racing up the dirt path, ignoring the way my muscles are screaming at how quickly I’m trying to lug my suitcases over.

Given that I don’t really know anyone here, and we’re on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, I probably shouldn’t be thundering over to a strange man who may or may not have been trespassing in my house, but here I am.

The man notices me and leans against one of the posts beside the porch stairs, arms folded. He’s just watching me.

When I get closer, breath ragged and body slick with sweat, he descends the steps. Dark jeans hug his thick thighs, and an open red flannel shirt encases a white top underneath, set against his light-brown skin. A cowboy hat shadows over his face and just about hides most of his dark hair, though a few curls peek out beneath.

“Um, excuse me,” I barely get out as I try to catch my breath, bringing me and my suitcases to a halt. One of them immediately falls over and I drop my bag trying to pick it back up. “Shit.”

This is not the best start.

Just breathe, Rory.

After composing myself, and my suitcase, I turn back to the towering man, who’s still regarding me with folded arms and the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen.

God, now that I get a proper look at him, I’m stunned into speechlessness at how attractive he is—a wide angled jaw covered in dark stubble, high cheekbones, and a nose that tips up slightly. His shirt is barely containing his bulging biceps, the kind that could easily throw a girl about. Quiet, teenage me would’ve wanted to run away, and the impulse to do so is definitely stronger since my self-confidence was hit by the tall blonde woman whose legs I found wrapped around my ex-boyfriend.

The man can’t be any older than thirty, which would make him one of the ranch hands that work under Mr Hensley, and definitely gives him no right to be in the house. I almost feel like I recognise him.

He angles his head, giving me the once over, then says in a deep, faintly raspy voice with an evident country drawl, “Are you lost?”

I’m taken aback by the scowl he’s shooting my way, immediately breaking whatever enrapturement his beautifully carved face held over me. I scoff, hands flying to my hips. “I should ask you the same thing—what are you doing in my-my house?”

He lets out a breathy laugh and twists his face. One thick brow quirks as he scans my body again. “Your house? I’d say you’re a few thousand miles from home, darlin’.”

I narrow my eyes. I think I’m going to struggle being my usual positive self today. I understand that I don’t exactly fit in here—with my little lavender gym outfit topped with a white cardigan slung round my shoulders, and ginger waves pulled back into a high ponytail, as opposed to being clad in plaid and denim. But neither did my great aunt, and I doubt he had the audacity to question her.

“Yes, it belonged to my Auntie Grace. Is Mr Hensley about?”

“Wait.” His mouth pops open and his arms drop. “You’re Grace’s niece? I was expecting someone… older.” He wipes a hand over his face, mumbling, “Fuck my life.”

What a nice warm welcome. I always remembered the Americans here being friendlier than us Brits, but clearly there was an exception.

“Well, technically I’m her great niece. Look, I’m not sure why you were inside my house, but could you please tell me where I can find Mr Hensley?”