Page 3 of Cowboy's Healing Heart

She rolls her eyes, already turning back to the tractor. “And don’t call me ma’am. It’s KD or nothing.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Noted. I’ll get out of your hair then, KD.”

Walking toward the corral, those fierce brown eyes linger in my mind. Her voice, warm and gentle when she talked to her daughter, surprised me. But as I stop in front of the fence posts, I prepare to work.

The posts stand tall and sturdy, weathered by time but still holding their ground. I take a moment to survey the nearby supplies: a pile of fresh wood, a toolbox filled with various tools, and a sturdy hammer waiting for a hand.

I roll my sleeves back to my elbows, feeling the sun’s warmth on my forearms. It’s mindless, physical labor—exactly what I need to quiet the noise in my head. With each post I mend, I feel a little of the tension from that phone call with my father melting away.

I grab the first post and start working, the repetitive motion grounding me. I silently follow Krystal’s earlier instructions, testing my competence as I hammer nails into place. Each hammer swing feels satisfying, a distraction from the expectations that await me at home.

Every time I glance up, I find Krystal watching from a distance. Her presence is magnetic, and I can’t shake the zap of energy that courses through me at each glance.

The denim hugs her curves just right, and her work boots are scuffed but solid. There’s a smear of grease on her cheek, and for a moment, I wonder how a simple mark can make her look even more attractive.

I tell myself it’s just the long day getting to me, but I can’t help letting my gaze slide back to her. Each time I do, it takes longer to focus on my task.

I lose track of time and focus on the rhythm of the work. Only when I notice the lengthening shadows do I realize how long I’ve been at it. I straighten, wiping the sweat from my brow, and that’s when I catch sight of Krystal.

Her expression is unreadable, but there’s a hint of surprise in her eyes as she takes in the pile of repaired fence posts. After a while, I hear her footsteps approaching and brace myself. She inspects my progress, her expression shifting from frustration to appraisal.

“You’re getting there,” she says, her tone clipped but fair. “Just make sure the posts are level. We can’t have any sagging after the next storm.”

I nod, keeping my response brief. “Got it.”

“Not bad, city boy,” she calls out, her tone grudgingly approving. “Looks like you might not be completely useless after all.”

I grin, unable to resist the urge to tease her a little. “High praise indeed. Should I expect a gold star?”

Krystal rolls her eyes, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t push your luck, Kennedy. There’s plenty more work where that came from.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it.

Krystal studies me for a moment longer, her gaze intense. I meet her eyes, feeling a spark of... something... pass between us. It’s gone in an instant as she turns away, calling over her shoulder, “Get cleaned up. Dinner’s in an hour in the main house.”

She turns to leave, and I catch myself watching her go. There’s a sharpness to her movements, a no-nonsense attitude that makes it hard to look away.

As I head towards the bunkhouse to clean up, I feel lighter than I have in months. With its open spaces and honest work, the ranch already feels more like home than the gilded cage I left behind. And Krystal, with her sharp tongue and hidden depths, presents a challenge I’m eager to take on.

For the first time since leaving the Marines, I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be.

The main house is a weathered two-story structure, its wraparound porch dotted with mismatched rocking chairs. As I approach, the smell of home-cooked food makes my stomach growl. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now.

I hesitate at the door, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look. While dirty from work, my clothes are still a far cry from the worn jeans and flannel shirts I see through the window. Taking a deep breath, I push aside my doubts and step inside.

The kitchen is warm and inviting, filled with the chatter of ranch hands gathering for dinner. Andy, a burly man with kind eyes, spots me and waves me over.

“Shane! Glad you made it,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “How was your first day?”

I smile, genuinely pleased to see him. “Good. Busy. Thanks again for inviting me and giving me a chance, Andy.”

He waves off my gratitude. “Any friend of Jake’s is welcome here. Besides, from what I hear, you’ve already made yourself useful.”

I look around the dining room, searching for Krystal. She’s not here. Something in my chest tightens, but I ignore it. I fill my plate with pot roast and potatoes, focusing on the task at hand.

“She doesn’t eat with us,” Andy says, appearing at my side.

I keep my face neutral. “Who?”

---