Page 80 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Family ranch about two hours north," he confirms. "Smaller operation, but same principles. Learned to read cattle before I could read books. Thought I'd take it over eventually, before..."

He stops, jaw tightening. I wait, letting the silence stretch until he's ready.

"Firefighting seemed like a calling," he continues eventually. "Saving lives, protecting communities. Noble work. Left the ranch at eighteen, sure I was meant for bigger things than cattle and grass."

"What changed?"

He pauses at a water trough, checking levels and flow rate. "Reality. Lost my parents five years ago. Car accident on blackice—nothing anyone could have done. Suddenly the ranch I'd walked away from was gone, sold to cover debts. Made me realize what I'd given up chasing glory."

The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to touch him, offer comfort, but the careful distance between us feels like a wall I can't breach.

"This place became home instead," he says, gesturing to the expanse of Cactus Rose. "Different land, but the same principles. Take care of it, and it takes care of you. Everything connected, everything in balance."

We continue walking, and he shows me how to spot overgrazing, how to identify good pasture from stressed land. His teaching style is systematic but not cold—he wants me to understand the why, not just the what. When we reach a section of fence that needs attention, he produces tools from his pocket like a magician.

"Hold this," he says, handing me wire while he works. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and that electric current from yesterday sparks to life. He freezes for just a moment, then continues working as if nothing happened.

But something has shifted. The air between us grows heavy with unspoken words, with the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair. I force myself to focus on the fence, on his instructions about tension and spacing, but my body remembers. My body wants.

"Boss! Cole!" Austin's voice carries across the field, urgent enough to break the spell. "Magnus is loose again!"

Cole curses under his breath, already moving. "Bull," he explains tersely. "Territorial as hell and too smart for his own good. Stay behind me."

I follow as he jogs toward the north pasture, and sure enough, a massive Angus bull stands in the middle of the path. Magnus is appropriately named—he's enormous, all muscleand attitude, pawing at the ground like something from a bullfighting poster.

"Easy, big guy," Cole murmurs, slowing his approach. "Just need you to move along."

Magnus snorts, lowering his head in clear threat. That's when I realize we're between him and his herd—the worst possible position. Cole realizes it too, his body shifting subtly to put himself between me and two thousand pounds of territorial beef.

"When I move, you go left," he says quietly. "Don't run, just walk steady to the fence."

"Cole—"

"Trust me."

And I do. Despite every instinct screaming at me to run from the advancing bull, I trust Cole's calm authority. He steps forward, arms spread wide, making himself the bigger target. Magnus focuses on him entirely, and I ease left as instructed, heart hammering against my ribs.

What happens next is like watching a dance. Cole doesn't challenge the bull directly—instead, he angles his body, redirects Magnus's attention, guides him with subtle movements until the animal is headed back toward his herd. It's masterful, the kind of skill that comes from a lifetime of understanding animals.

"Jesus," I breathe when Cole rejoins me at the fence. "That was?—"

"Stupid," he finishes, but he's grinning. "Magnus likes to test boundaries. Part of why he's such a good breeding bull—that attitude passes to strong calves."

We're both breathing hard from adrenaline, standing closer than necessary. His pine-leather scent wraps around me, intensified by exertion, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for him.

"Come on," he says, voice rougher than before. "Let me show you the property maps."

He leads me to a small outbuilding that serves as a field office. Inside, the walls are covered with topographical maps, precipitation charts, grazing schedules that look like military planning documents. Cole spreads a worn property map on the desk, and we bend over it together.

"Here's where we are," he says, pointing. "Eastern pasture. This section here is winter grazing, more sheltered. This is hay production..."

I try to focus on his words, but he's standing so close. Close enough that his arm brushes mine as he traces property lines. Close enough that his breath stirs my hair when he leans in to point out water sources. The proximity is torture, made worse by how natural it feels.

"The creek forms our eastern boundary," he continues, professional despite the tension. "Good year-round water, but we have to watch erosion during spring melt. See how the previous owners let cattle access it directly? We've had to fence it off, install water systems instead."

His hand covers mine on the map, guiding my finger along the creek line. The touch is meant to be instructional, but my body doesn't care about intentions. Heat floods through me from that simple contact, and I hear his breath catch.

"Everything's connected," he says, and I'm not sure if he's still talking about the ranch. "Water affects grass, grass affects cattle, cattle affect soil. Change one thing, everything shifts."

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