Page 9 of Wrangled Love

Briar: The cottage is a dump compared to whatever fancy penthouse he lives in.

Briar: He probably has multiple.

Charlie: The cottage is charming.

Briar: Yeah, if you look past the creaky floors, drafty windows, and the ancient appliances. He can’t stay here.

Charlie: Alright, fine. He can stay with me if he must.

Briar: You live in a studio apartment.

Charlie: Your point being…

Briar: Where exactly do you plan on putting him? The cereal shelf?

Charlie: Please, I have standards. He gets the closet. It’s private and cozy. Total upgrade.

Charlie: But seriously, if you need anything from the shop or a hand with getting the cottage ready, let me know.

Briar: Thanks. Love you!

Charlie: Love you more!

I remind myself that when Jensen comes to Bluebell, it won’t be for a vacation. His life has been flipped upside down after finding out he’s a dad, and his main focus will be on Caleb, not on the condition of my house or what kind of bed he sleeps in.

Despite my initial hesitation about them staying here, my priority is to make sure they feel welcome when they arrive and to create a space where Caleb feels at ease. He lost his mom andjustmet his dad. This additional change could be overwhelming for the little guy, and I want the transition to be as smooth as possible.

Afew days after my conversation with Julie, Caleb and I are in the only taxi in Bluebell on our way to Silver Saddle Ranch. It’s early June, and summer is in full swing around here, with a bright blue sky and fields of gold and green stretching in every direction.

“Jensen Harding. A face I never thought I’d see in these parts again,” Earl remarks from the front seat. “I heard you made a fortune selling gadgets to protect rich folks’ homes. Don’t reckon we have much use for that kinda thing around here.” He motions to the surrounding countryside, the car veering off the road when he does.

My fingers curl around the door handle. “It’s not that kind of security,” I mutter.

Heath had to bail on airport pickup duty because a calf arrived ahead of schedule, and the vet couldn’t get there fast enough. I called Julie, but she was tied up at the school, leaving me with one option—Earl Barnard.

He’s been Bluebell’s taxi driver for the past forty years andoften drives guests to Silver Saddle Ranch, since it’s the only tourist destination in town. The trouble is he drives like he’s racing a tornado and also has advanced cataracts in his left eye. Heath told me that the town council decided to look the other way last year when he ran over the mayor’s prized rose bushes. Despite his tendency to confuse the gas pedal with the brake, he’s a fixture in Bluebell.

Growing up, Julie’s marigolds at the ranch entrance never made it through the season with Earl’s station wagon making a habit of turning them into mulch every spring. Seems some things never change.

“You and the tater tot staying at the ranch house?” Earl asks, glancing over his shoulder at us crammed in the back seat.

“No. The cottage.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Well, now, I didn’t see that coming. You and Briar a couple?”

“Nope,” I say, trying to end the conversation so Earl will focus on the road and not town gossip.

“That won’t stop the ladies at the diner from talkin’ about this for weeks,” he says, wagging his finger.

“I have no doubt,” I mutter under my breath.

If Bluebell’s residents love one thing, it’s a good rumor. And the kid from the trailer park, coming back after fourteen years with a five-year-old son,andmoving in with his best friend’s little sister? The whole town will buzz over coffee and lemon meringue pie at the Prickly Pear Diner for at least a week.

Earl swerves sharply, nearly taking out a mailbox. I instinctively wrap an arm around Caleb, bracing him against me until the car straightens out. When I pull back, I glance down to find his gaze fixed out the window, unfazed by the abrupt movement.

“By golly, them mailboxes must be gettin’ closer to the road these days.” Earl chuckles, shaking his head.

“It’s definitely the mailboxes moving and not your steering,” I deadpan under my breath.

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