Page 10 of Mountain Rancher

Hunter Thomas is my brother’s best friend. Our ranch manager. The guy who’s been around since we were kids. The very last person I should be watching with this level of intensity.

But I can’t tear my eyes away when his jeans pull tight across his thighs as he climbs back up the ladder. The muscles in his back shift beneath his t-shirt as he reaches up to secure the chandelier. There’s something mesmerizing about the control in his movements, the efficiency. Hunter never wastes motion, never fumbles. Every action is deliberate, confident.

My mouth goes dry as I imagine those hands, those deliberate movements, on my skin.

Hunter descends the ladder and steps back, evaluating his work.

The chandelier hangs perfectly centered in what will be the main area for the shower. The combination of wrought iron and soft Edison bulbs transforms the utilitarian space into something elegant yet still authentically ranch.

“What do you think?” He turns toward me. A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin glow in the filtered barn light. A smudge of dust cuts across one cheekbone.

“It’s perfect.”

And I don’t just mean the chandelier.

He nods, satisfied, then crosses to where I sit, crouching down to eye level. “Let me see that ankle.”

Before I can protest, his hands are gently lifting my leg, fingers probing with clinical precision around the swollen joint. Each touch sends jolts up my leg that have nothing to do with pain.

“Still pretty swollen. You’re pushing it too hard.”

“I’m just sitting here. Barely moving. Doctor’s orders.”

His amber eyes flick up to meet mine, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Ranch manager’s orders are to keep restingit. I’ve seen enough sprains to know when someone’s rushing recovery.”

His hands remain on my ankle, thumbs tracing small circles that are somehow both soothing and electric. I fight to keep my breathing steady.

“I’m only here for a week. I don’t have time to sit around with my foot up.”

“And if you push it, you’ll be limping through your brother’s wedding next month.” His voice drops a notch. “I could carry you back to the house.”

The image of being in Hunter’s arms sends a flush of heat from my neck to my cheeks. I remember the solid wall of his chest against my back as he helped me navigate the trail the other day.

“I’m fine right here,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

His eyes search mine for a moment too long before he nods and stands. “Break time. Want some water?”

“Has it been that long?” I glance at my watch, surprised. Time has slipped away as I’ve been watching him work, lost in thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

Hunter walks to the small cooler in the corner and pulls out two bottles of water. He crosses back and hands one to me, then lowers himself to sit beside me against the beam. His shoulder brushes mine as he settles, sending a wave of awareness through my entire body.

“So,” he says after taking a long drink, “how long are you going to pretend coming back here doesn’t mess with your head?”

The question catches me off guard. I turn to find his profile beside me, eyes fixed ahead on the barn doors, jaw set in that determined way I’ve always found maddeningly attractive.

And suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about the ranch, my family, or him.

Coming back does mess with my head. But what messes with it more is sitting this close to him, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulder against mine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a sip of water to hide whatever my face might be revealing.

He laughs, low and deep.

“Sure you do.” His shoulder shifts against mine as he turns slightly my way. “You’ve been avoiding me since you nearly fell off the mountain.”

“I’ve been here three days, Hunter. And I’m sitting right next to you. Not exactly avoidance tactics.”

“You didn’t come to dinner at the house last night.”

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