Page 16 of Untaming the Cowboy
“Yeah, I saw.” Beau took a sip from his chipped mug and winced. “Christ, Luc. Why’re we still brewing that tar you call coffee down there?”
The corner of Luc’s mouth twitched. “Puts hair on your chest.”
“Or raises the dead,” Beau chuckled. “Speaking of which, daylight’s burning.”
Luc surveyed the debris-scattered yard. “Take the crew, clear the main drive. I’ll handle the north pasture.”
Beau was already waving over the ranch hands as they filed out of the bunker. Dahlia’s lilting drawl floated after them, all Georgia honey as she volunteered to launder their mud-caked clothes and tend to the animals in the side pens. The crew’s faces softened at the offer, one small mercy before the backbreaking work ahead.
Beau tipped his hat her way. “Appreciate it, DeeDee. That’d be a help.”
Luc grunted into his mug, wincing at bitter sludge that could’ve stripped paint off a tractor. Better they blame his grimace on the taste than to know that the sound of her voice had become the best part of waking up.
By noon, sunlight broke through the haze and spilled across puddled pastures. After hours of hauling branches, righting feed troughs, and setting fresh posts, mud caked his jeans and sweat plastered his shirt to his back. His muscles screamed, but Blaze Haven stood intact. That counted for something.
“Go eat, grab what you need,” Luc said when Beau called for a break. “I’m checking the south line before the afternoon front.”
He trudged across the far pasture with Wynn at his heels, boots squelching in the sodden earth. Cedar and rain scented the air as he walked the perimeter, wet grass whipping against his legs. When he circled back, the clouds had thinned to pale strips and a few meadowlarks were perched along the wire, proof the worst had passed.
An hour later, Luc pushed open his front door and stopped dead. His house no longer smelled like his. The potent, foreign scent ambushed him at the threshold. It coiled around him, something earthy and sweet that clung to the walls. He swiped at the air, nostrils flaring, and bellowed, “What in God’s name is that smell?”
Her honey-smooth voice floated from the kitchen. “That’s sage and sweetgrass, cowboy. Protection and peace. Your house was drowning in bad juju. I rescued it.”
He moved forward, torn between annoyance and intrigue. “You did what exactly?”
“Smudged,” she called back. “Can’t be living in all this negative energy.”
But you don’t live here.Luc thought, jaw clenched as he tracked her voice to the heart of his house—and froze again.
His ranch hands crowded his table, plates stacked high, forks moving between laughter. Beau leaned against the counter, nursing a steaming mug. And there stood Dahlia—bare toes curling against his hardwood floor, messy bun bobbing as she moved, his old flannel knotted at her waist barely covering the curve where her jeans hugged low—stirring something that smelled like heaven after hell had nearly blown through twelve hours ago.
Luc blinked. “What’re y’all doin’ in here?”
Mara glanced up mid-bite. “Dahlia invited us in. Said since we’re all stuck here till the roads clear . . .”
The crew shifted in their seats, eyes darting between him and the woman who claimed his kitchen like she’d always belonged there.
“They earned it,” Dahlia kept stirring, back still to him. “They deserve hot food. And you said ‘grab something to eat.’ Nobody faces a day of cleanup with nothing but coffee in their belly.”
Beau’s smile crept above his cup. “Told you this place needed a woman’s touch.”
Luc shot him a look then surveyed the invasion of his private domain. Someone’s phone played Ella Langley’s “Country Boy’s Dream Girl,” all twang and honey about wild women who make men better just by being near. His table—his goddamn table—looked like his grandma’s after church. The aroma of crispychicken skin, slow-cooked greens and golden cornbread hung so thick he could almost chew it. Something squeezed beneath his ribs, and he wasn’t sure if it was his empty stomach or something else pressing there.
She gave the pot one last stir before turning to face him, wooden spoon in hand. “You eatin’, cowboy? Or is that sludge you called coffee still cleanin’ out your bowels?”
The crew burst into laughter. Beau nearly spit his drink. Luc’s brow lifted, gaze cutting through them until the noise died down, a half-smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Funny,” he said dryly. “Real funny. Guess I’ll see if you can cook better than you run your mouth.”
Another round of chuckles followed as Luc stepped forward, dragged out the chair at the head of the table and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. Every set of eyes turned toward him, expectant.
He met their stares with a dry look. “Y’all just gonna watch me eat?”
Mara grinned. “We wanna see if she passes the test.”
Luc grunted, grabbed a plate, and scooped a bit of everything. The first bite nearly undid him. Cornbread—sweet, tender, with edges crisp enough to bite back—and greens cooked slow and deep. He chewed slow, the taste lingering long after the swallow. It settled somewhere beneath his ribs, too close to something he didn’t want to name.
Dahlia giggled. “I heard that moan, cowboy. It’s good, ain’t it?”
