Page 5 of The Rancher's Runaway Bride
I almost admire her nerve—almost. “Fine. Start with the hay bales. They don’t stack themselves.”
Her nose scrunches as she glances at the heavy bales, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she walks over, grabs one, and immediately stumbles under the weight.
I chuckle, low and deep. “Careful, kitten. Don’t break a nail.”
“Don’t worry about my nails,” she shoots back, adjusting her grip and hoisting the bale up with sheer determination. Her form is all wrong, but she’s too stubborn to ask for help.
I lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching her struggle. Her face flushes with effort, and for some reason, Ican’t take my eyes off her. Damn woman has a way of holding my attention, even when I don’t want her to.
“Are you going to stare all day, or are you going to show me how to do it right?” she huffs.
“Thought you didn’t need my help,” I reply, smirking.
Her glare could cut steel. “Did I say that?”
With a shake of my head, I step forward, grabbing the bale from her hands like it weighs nothing. Her eyes widen, but she masks it with another glare.
“Bend your knees, not your back,” I say, demonstrating the proper technique. “Unless you want to be walking like an old lady by next week.”
She watches me intently, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. There’s something about the way her eyes soften, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that makes the barn feel a hell of a lot smaller.
“Got it,” she says, her voice quieter than before.
I step back, clearing my throat. “Good.”
When she’s finished, Layla wipes her hands on her leggings, her chest rising and falling with exertion. She’s trying, I’ll give her that.
“You’re not bad at this,” I admit grudgingly.
Her lips twitch. “Was that… a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
She leans against the stall, her gaze sweeping over the horses. “They’re beautiful,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softening despite myself. “They are.”
For a moment, the tension between us eases. But then she asks the question I knew was coming.
“Carson,” she says, her tone careful. “He’s not… yours, is he?”
I stiffen, my jaw tightening. “He’s mine where it counts.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t push. “What happened to his mom?”
I glance at her, debating whether to tell her. But something about the way she looks at me—earnest and unguarded—makes the words come easier than I expect.
“She was my sister,” I say finally. “She got into a car accident when Carson was two. Hurt her back bad. The pain meds they gave her… she got hooked. Couldn’t shake it. One day, she didn’t wake up.”
Layla’s hand flies to her mouth. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”
I shrug, but the weight of the memory presses down on me. “Carson’s dad ran off before he was born. Useless piece of shit. So I stepped up. Been raising him ever since.”
She steps closer, her eyes shimmering. “You’re an incredible father. You were born to be his dad.”
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“No,” she says firmly. “It’s more than that. You love him. Anyone can see that.”
