Page 10 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
Anonymous. Safe. Two words that feel like luxuries these days.
I nod, even though unease coils low in my gut. Maybe it’s just the weight of everything pressing down. Or maybe it’s that echo, the nagging sense that Iron Stallion isn’t just some random ranch. But I push it aside. Because right now, survival trumps everything else.
Iron Stallion Ranch in Wrangler Creek, Texas, and whatever else waits for me there—here I come.
4
JACE
The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet, and already I’m behind. That’s the first thought that hits me every damn morning. The motor on my chair hums low as I roll across the gravel yard, coffee balanced in the holder bolted to the side. Steam curls into the chilly dawn air. Out here, the world’s quiet except for the low bellow of cattle in the pens and the creak of the windmill turning lazy circles.
Iron Stallion Ranch stretches out in every direction—miles of fencing, acres of pasture, the main barn standing like a sentinel in the half-light. This land has carried my family for generations, and now it’s mine to hold together. Between the cattle, the breeding stock, the rodeo program, and Morgan Enterprises breathing down my neck with contracts and logistics, I’ve gottoo many hats and not enough hours. Some days it feels like I’m running to catch up in a race I’ll never win.
The south gate comes into view, sensors blinking faintly in the dark. I stop, leaning forward to check the latch. Security’s supposed to be my thing—the Army made damn sure of that—but lately the tech side is moving faster than I can keep up. Last month’s hacking attempt was a warning shot. I need backup, which is why I’ve got a freelancer coming in today. It doesn’t sit right, handing over the reins to an outsider, but I don’t have the luxury of pride anymore.
“Daddy!”
The squeal cuts through the morning haze, high and bright. Daisy barrels out of the house in a tangle of braids and mismatched socks, a ball of boundless energy. She’s only seven but already fearless, sprinting across the porch happily. My chest tightens, same as it always does—pride mixed with the sharp ache of knowing I’m all she’s got for a parent since her mama is resting with the angels.
I angle my chair toward her and open my arms. She slams into me without slowing down, hugging my neck so tight my coffee nearly spills.
“You’re supposed to be inside getting ready for school,” I murmur against her hair. It smells like strawberries.
“I am ready.” She leans back and flashes me a grin, gap-toothed where her front tooth used to be. “See? Brushed. Twice.”
I cock a brow, glancing at her socked feet dangling above the dirt. “Shoes?”
She wiggles her toes, shrugs. “Shoes are overrated.”
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. Christ, she owns me. Always has, always will.
“Daisy!” Pops’s voice booms from the porch. My old man’s frame fills the doorway, silver hair catching the dim light. “Your bus will leave without you if you keep pestering your daddy.”
Daisy sticks out her tongue at him, then plants a quick kiss on my cheek before scampering back to the house.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Pops mutters, softer this time. His eyes crinkle as he watches her, then shift to me. “That consultant’s supposed to show today, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I answer, straightening in my chair. “We need it.”
Behind him, Zane and Beck emerge, already dressed for work. Zane smirks when he sees me. “Can’t wait to meet this cyber-genius you’re bringing in. Bet it’s some city kid who’s never seen dirt.”
Beck chuckles. “Or maybe Jace finally figured out he can’t do everything alone. Now that’d be the miracle.”
“Funny,” I mutter, but the back of my neck prickles. They’re not wrong. Outsiders don’t last here. And yet, this one has to.
By the time I get back inside, Daisy’s on her way to school with my old man, and my brothers are out in the yard bickering about fence repairs. I head for my office, which is tucked in the basement of the house. It’s wheelchair accessible via elevator. It’s lined wall-to-wall with old ledgers, cattle auction records, and the other part of my world—satellite feeds, digital security dashboards, and contracts stacked three deep. The chair hums as I angle behind the desk, fingers already flying over the keyboard.
The consultant’s résumé glares at me from the screen. Sienna Carter. Freelance cybersecurity, solid record, glowing reviews. Sienna. The name’s nothing to me, but the timing sits strangely in my chest. Six months ago, I was in D.C. for the cybersecurity conference, shaking hands with men who only saw the chair and not the soldier sitting in it. I told myself I was there for the business, to hear pitches, test products, maybe even drag Morgan Enterprises into the twenty-first century.
But that wasn’t the part that stuck.
What stuck was her.
Pink hair under the dim bar lights, a sharp tongue that matched the glint in her eyes. She didn’t care who I was or what I ran. She didn’t even flinch at the chair. Hell, she challenged me, thought I couldn’t keep up, and then found out just how wrong she was. One night, no names, no promises. Just fire, heat, her nails raking down my back, her voice breaking as she came.
And then she was gone.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, dragging myself back to the present. That night has stayed locked in my head for six months, sneaking up when I least expected it—a smell, a laugh, the ghost of her weight on my thighs. I told myself I’d never see her again, and I believed it.
