Page 65 of Dirty Cowboy

I may not know how to cook, but I can follow instructions. Right now, I need an anchor, and baking is it.

The process soothes me. The rhythm of slicing apples, the warm scent of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the kitchen. The golden topping crisps in the oven, the scent curling into somethinghomey. Something that feelsright.

The timer's chime signals and the crumble is ready. As I carefully extract the golden, bubbling dish and set it on the cooling rack, a sudden, loud neigh pierces the air. The sharp sound sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body.

I freeze, straining to listen as another urgent neigh echoes, its insistence slicing through the stillness. My stomach twists. I scribble a hasty note to Eric, slip on Annabelle’s boots, and hurry toward the stables.

Ilean back against the bakery’s yellow brick façade, arms crossed, scanning the quiet street. Late mornings in Lords Valley carry that teasing hint of autumn’s balmy air with a whisper of winter’s chill, but by noon, the sun reigns supreme in the sky, leaving a trail of sweat trickling down my spine. I peel off my sweater, rolling my shoulders as the heat settles in.

A deep, familiar rumble moves through town, a sound etched in my memory. My heart stutters. Around the corner, Grandpa Albert rolls up in an old turquoise truck, its sputtering engine chugging along like a relic refusing to be forgotten. A plume of dust rises in his wake, settling like an earthy halo around him as he parks outside the bakery.

I shake my head and walk over. "Where did you dig this thing up?"

Grandpa grins, patting the truck’s rusted hood with affection. "You don’t recognize her?"

I do, now that I’m up close. "Is that?—?"

"Suzy," he confirms with pride. "Been gathering dust in the Fields' garage. Derek finally got her running again. Your grandmother and I used to drive Suzy all over town."

A warmth spreads through me at the thought of Grandma Estonia riding shotgun, probably ordering Grandpa around.

"I remember the truck," I say, "but I didn’t know younamedher."

"Not me. Your grandmother did."

"And you just went with it?"

His brow arches, a soft smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Happy wife, happy life, son. When you love someone, and something as simple as naming a car brings them joy, why not?"

Considering my lack of experience with relationships, I’m guessing he’s right.

He switches off the engine and steps out, his frame still sturdy despite the years. I wrap my arms around him, squeezing a little tighter than usual. The extra inches he’s packed on from my mother’s cooking and his indulgence in Aruba haven’t slowed him down. His doctor would have a fit.

"It’s good to see you, Grandpa. Sorry I missed breakfast."

He waves it off. "Gave me time to chat with Emma." His smile stretches wide. "She’s a fine young lady, Eric. She’ll make a good wife."

She would if she were my real fiancee. I swallow down the guilt threatening to rise.

Pretend. Just pretend.

"I think so too."

Grandpa claps my shoulder. "Let’s grab some lunch."

Inside the bakery, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hangs in the air, wrapping around me like a memory. We find a spot by the window and take our seats. The comforting rhythm of small-town life settles my nerves—until Grandpa orders a heart attack on a plate.

"Bacon and eggs Benedict for me," he tells the waitress, grinning. "With extra sausage. And french toast on the side."

I groan. "You’re going against doctor’s orders again."

He shrugs. "I can’t indulge after I’m dead, can I?"

I shake my head, exasperated. "Don’t you want to meet your great-grandchildren?"

His eyes gleam. "Is Emma pregnant?"

I nearly choke on my coffee. "No.No, she’s not."

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