Page 19 of Mountain Rancher

My mind immediately supplies several inappropriate responses to that statement. I bite my lip to keep them contained.

The interior is even more impressive. It’s open and airy with vaulted ceilings and a stone fireplace. Modern amenities blend with rustic touches in a way that feels effortlessly masculine yet welcoming.

“I had no idea you were so good at this.” I run my finger along a beautifully crafted wooden shelf. “Engineering, design, craftsmanship. There’s a lot more to you than just ranch management, isn’t there?”

Something flickers in his eyes. “There’s a lot more to both of us than people usually see.”

The statement hangs between us, charged with meaning.

I clear my throat. “So, about those ranch improvement plans you wanted me to look at?”

Hunter chuckles, and his amber eyes warm as they meet mine. “Dinner first. I promised you a meal, and I’m a man of my word.” He guides me through the main room toward a kitchen that would make a professional chef jealous. Ingredients are already laid out on the counter. Steaks, fresh vegetables, a bottle of red wine breathing nearby.

To my surprise, Hunter places his hands on my waist and effortlessly lifts me to sit on the counter. The casual display of strength makes my stomach tighten.

“Best seat in the house,” he says with a wink, then steps between my knees to reach for a cutting board behind me. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his skin. Then he moves away, leaving me slightly breathless.

“Wine?” he asks, already reaching for glasses.

“Please.” I need something to occupy my hands.

He pours a generous amount into each glass and hands me one before turning to the vegetables. “So, Houston. Do you miss Wyoming when you’re there?”

It’s such a normal question, yet something about the way he asks it makes me feel like my answer matters.

“Sometimes. Usually when I’m stuck in traffic or when my apartment feels too small. I miss the space, the air. But I love my job too.”

“Tell me about it.” Remarkably, he seems genuinely interested.

As he moves confidently around the kitchen, our conversation flows easily. I tell him about my work in financialanalysis and the satisfaction of helping companies streamline their operations. He shares stories about ranch life. Some funny, some challenging. I find myself laughing more than I have in months as the tension between us transforms into something comfortable yet electric.

“My turn to ask questions,” I say as he plates our food. “Montana. Why’d you leave?”

His hands pause briefly. “It was a good job. Great cattle operation, decent pay. But it wasn’t...” He searches for the right word. “It wasn’t home.”

The simple honesty in his voice touches something deep inside me.

“And this is?” I ask softly.

His eyes meet mine. “Getting there.”

Once dinner is ready, Hunter surprises me again by taking our plates not to the dining table I’d noticed earlier, but out through glass doors to the back porch. The view that greets me steals my breath. Mountains stretch out before us, painted in the golden hues of sunset, with valleys and forests creating a landscape so beautiful it hardly seems real.

“Hunter,” I whisper, momentarily speechless. “This view is incredible.”

He sets our plates on a small table positioned perfectly to capture the panorama. “One of the reasons I took the job. Your brothers knew what they were doing when they offered me this place.”

As we eat on the porch, we share more of ourselves than I expected. I talk about my ambitions in finance and the pride I take in being independent while still contributing to the family legacy. Hunter shares stories about his time in Montana and his journey to becoming a respected ranch manager despite his unconventional background.

Darkness settles around us as we talk, and the temperature drops with the sun. Without interrupting our conversation, Hunter builds a fire in a stone pit on the edge of the porch. The flames cast a warm glow across his features as he returns to sit beside me after refilling our wine glasses.

We settle into cushioned chairs near the fire, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. And I do want to, with an intensity that should frighten me.

A comfortable silence falls between us, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the wilderness.

“So,” I say finally, swirling the wine in my glass. “Are we ever going to discuss those pasture improvement plans?”

Hunter’s laugh is low and rich in the firelight. When he turns to look at me, his expression has changed, all pretense gone.

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