Page 11 of Swift and Saddled

Once inside, I took a look around. For some reason, I thought it would feel more like a business, but I was immediately struck by how cozy it felt.

This was a home.

There was a place for coats and shoes near the front door. There were even special hooks for cowboy hats.

The entry was open, and I could see down a wide hallway to a living room and kitchen. The house smelled like pie crust, cedar, and leather conditioner—not a combination that I would ever put together, but in here it was perfect. If they ever wanted to sell this, they wouldn’t have to use the cookies-in-the-oven trick because this place smelled like home all on its own.

“My dad is waiting for us in the kitchen.” His voice came from behind me. I knew he was close. The same electricity that surrounded us in the bar was humming now. It almost distracted me from what he said.

His dad?

That explained why he was so comfortable. His dad was Weston, the owner of the ranch. I groaned inwardly. Hopefully his son didn’t have much—if anything—to do with the project.

The Cowboy Heir walked past me and down the hallway, and I followed—trying to pull myself together and slip on the mask of professionalism that was normally a permanent fixture on my face—especially in situations like this.

I didn’t like that this man had unnerved me—made meunsteady. I didn’t want anyone to have the power to do that anymore, let alone a stranger.

A very nice stranger who’d left me alone when I needed to work and kissed the hell out of me afterward, but a stranger nonetheless.

When I walked into the kitchen, there was an older man—probably in his midsixties—doing a newspaper crossword puzzle at the long oak table. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I could see faded tattoos, but I couldn’t tell what they were.

His salt-and-pepper hair was longish—it curled at his neck—and it matched his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He looked up at us, and it was obvious that he was related to my mystery cowboy. They didn’t look very much alike—just enough that you knew they belonged in the same family tree. When I saw him, I felt…calm, like I’d just found shelter from a storm.

All right, Ada. Get your game face on.

The man stood up and said, “You must be Ada Hart. We’re happy to have you.” He stretched out his hand, and I took it.

“Thank you so much for having me. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ryder,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and failing not to think about the fact that I could feel someone else’s eyes on me.

“Call me Amos, please.” Amos? Who the hell was Amos? Where was Weston?

I paused for just a beat too long. “It—it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I stammered. Great first impression, Ada. “Sorry, I was just expecting to meet Weston, since we’ve been incontact.” Amos’s eyes shifted to the cowboy behind me, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows.

Was he confused? Well, that made two of us.

The cowboy behind me cleared his throat. “I’m Weston,” he said.

Had I heard him right? No. No. No. Absolutely not. This could not be happening to me.

“But most people call me Wes.”

Chapter 6

Wes

Holy shit. The woman from the bar was standing in my house. Not only that, she also happened to be the woman I’d been waiting for all winter—the one who was going to turn my dream into a reality.

Holyshit.

“I’m Weston,” I said—just then realizing that I hadn’t introduced myself earlier. I didn’t know why. Maybe I just felt like she already knew me. “But most people call me Wes.”

I would say that it was a hell of a coincidence, but I didn’t really believe in those.

I’d thought she was a stunner in the Devil’s Boot, and I thought she was a stunner now. Her wavy black hair hit just above her collarbone. She was wearing loose black jeans and a tight long-sleeved black T-shirt—which was way too thin for April in the mountains—and her brown eyes were looking everywhere but at me.

I didn’t know how to process the fact that I wanted her to look at me. I wanted to hold her gaze again, like I did at thebar, until we ended up in the same place we were last night—caught up in each other.

“I’m sorry my son has bad manners, Miss Hart.” My dad’s voice cut through my thoughts. “But we’re thrilled to have you here.” He shot a pointed look at me as if to sayThis isyourthing, Weston. Pull your weight.

---