Page 79 of Knotting the Cowboys

"This one's been acting up," he says, handing me a wrench. "See if you can figure out why."

Another test. I crouch beside the pump, trying to remember anything useful from high school physics. Maverick leans against a post, watching with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. The pressure makes my hands shake slightly as I check connections, test moving parts, try to think like a machine.

"Take your time," he says when I fumble a bolt. "Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes here could mean flooded fields or dried crops."

No pressure then. I force myself to slow down, to really look at the mechanism. There—a worn gasket where water's been seeping, mineral deposits indicating a slow leak. I point it out, explaining my reasoning, and something shifts in Maverick's expression.

"Well, fuck," he says, but he's smiling—a real smile, not the sharp smirk from earlier. "Got it in one. Took River three days to diagnose that last month."

Pride blooms warm in my chest. "Really?"

"Really." He moves closer to inspect my find. "Good eye. Most people would have gone straight for the complex problems, missed the simple failure."

We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the small scars on his hands that his investigative work left behind. Close enough to notice how his presence makes the airfeel charged, dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with equipment.

"You're not what I expected," he says quietly. "When Cole brought you here, I thought... well, doesn't matter what I thought. You're tougher than you look."

"Have to be," I reply, meeting his intense gaze. "No one else is going to do the work for me, right?"

His smile turns sharp again, approving. "Now you're learning. Come on, one more thing to check before?—"

A metallic crash cuts him off. I spin toward the sound, but Maverick's already moving, putting himself between me and whatever made the noise. His hand shoots out, pressing me back against the shed wall as a piece of farming equipment I can't identify rolls past, clearly having broken free from its moorings.

"Stay," he orders, every line of his body tense as he assesses the threat. Only when he's certain it's just mechanical failure does he relax, but he doesn't move away. We're pressed close, his body shielding mine, and I can feel his heart racing under the calm exterior.

"Just equipment failure," I say, trying to lighten the moment. "Not an assassination attempt."

"This time," he mutters, finally stepping back. But his hand lingers on my arm, thumb brushing over the pulse point. "Can't be too careful. Not with..."

He doesn't finish, but I hear what he doesn't say. Not with you. Not with someone who matters. The intensity of his protection, the way he moved without thought to shield me, says more than words could.

"I should check that," he says, but doesn't move yet. "Make sure nothing else is loose."

"Maverick?" I touch his hand where it still rests on my arm. "Thank you. For the lessons. For..." I gesture at the space where he'd protected me.

His fingers tighten briefly, then release. "Just doing my job, Boss. Keeping everyone safe." But the look in his eyes says it's more than that. Says I'm more than just another responsibility to manage.

As he goes to secure the equipment, I lean against the shed wall, pulse still racing. Each man teaches differently, shares differently, but they all protect with the same fierce intensity. And despite every wall I've built, every promise to keep my distance, I'm starting to feel protected in return.

Starting to feel like I belong.

Cole stands in the middle of the pasture like he grew from the Montana soil itself. The afternoon sun backlights his broad shoulders, and even from a distance, I can see the easy authority in how he surveys the cattle. This is his domain—not just the ranch he manages but the land he reads like scripture, every ridge and water source memorized.

"Thought I'd find you out here," I call, climbing through the fence with more grace than I managed this morning. The success with Maverick's challenges has left me feeling bolder, more capable.

He turns, and for a moment something flashes in those storm-gray eyes—heat, memory, the ghost of yesterday's kiss. Then the careful distance slides back into place, professional masks we both wear like armor.

"Good timing," he says, voice neutral. "Need to check the eastern pasture rotation. You should see how this works."

I fall into step beside him, trying not to notice how his presence makes the air feel thinner. The field stretches before us, dotted with Black Angus cattle that watch our approach with mild interest. Cole moves through them without hesitation, one hand occasionally touching a flank or checking an ear tag.

"Rotation is everything," he begins, slipping into teaching mode. "Keep cattle in one spot too long, they'll graze it to dirt. Move them too often, the grass doesn't recover properly. It's about reading the land, understanding what it needs."

He points to a section where the grass grows shorter, paler. "See that? Three weeks ago, had twenty head here. Now it's resting, recovering. By the time we bring them back in six weeks, it'll be stronger than before."

His passion for the land threads through every word. This isn't just a job for him—it's a calling, a purpose that runs bone-deep. We walk the fence line while he explains water sources, drainage patterns, how weather affects every decision. His hands move as he talks, painting pictures of seasonal changes and growth cycles.

"You grew up doing this," I observe, watching him calculate herd positions with unconscious expertise.

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