Page 8 of The Rancher's Runaway Bride
I stop mid-chew, heat rising to my cheeks. “Maybe I’m just distracting you.”
The men erupt into laughter, Ridge slapping the table. “She’s got you there, Cal.”
Cal shakes his head, chuckling. “We’ll see.”
When the hand ends, I win—more out of beginner’s luck than skill—but the look on Cal’s face is worth it. His eyes narrow, a mix of frustration and admiration. I grin, basking in the rare victory.
Later that evening, the group moves outside to a campfire. The stars are bright overhead, the air cool but not cold. I sit on a log, sipping a beer that Zane handed me earlier, while the men exchange stories about their ranching days and military adventures.
Cal stays mostly quiet, his gaze flicking to me every so often. It’s not until the conversation turns to the topic of mail-order brides that he speaks up.
“You know,” Ridge says, smirking at Cal. “I think you got the best deal, Cal. Layla here’s got spunk.”
“She’s got something, all right,” Cal mutters, taking a swig of his beer.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t strain yourself with the compliments.”
The men laugh, and Ridge adds, “Don’t let him fool you, Layla. Cal’s a softie underneath all that gruff.”
“Is that right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Cal.
He glares at Ridge. “You planning on shutting up anytime soon?”
“Not a chance.”
The banter continues, but I can’t help noticing the way Cal watches me, his expression softer than before. Maybe Ridge is onto something.
As the fire crackles and the night deepens, I realize something unexpected—I feel at home here, surrounded by these people and their warmth. It’s not what I expected when I showed up at Cal’s ranch, but maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what I needed.
Chapter Four
Cal
The barn is quiet except for the soft shuffle of hooves and the occasional huff of breath from the mustang in the stall. I crouch, steadying the horse’s leg with one hand while the other fumbles with the bandage. The gash isn’t deep, but the animal is skittish, flinching at every movement. I mutter under my breath, a low string of curses that don’t do a damn thing to calm either of us.
“Need a hand?” Layla’s voice cuts through the dim, and I flinch, nearly dropping the roll of bandages.
I glance over my shoulder to find her standing in the doorway, bathed in the soft golden glow of the overhead light. She’s barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing another one of my old flannels. It’s way too big on her, the sleeves rolled up, the hem brushing her thighs. My gut twists at the sight.
“No,” I reply quickly, too sharp, too fast. “Go back inside, you’ll catch a cold.”
She steps closer, undeterred. “You look like you’re about to lose a fight with that poor horse.”
The mustang tosses its head, jerking against my hold. I let out a frustrated breath. “He’s spooked. Needs someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Layla crouches beside me, her movements slow and deliberate. “Let me try.”
I want to tell her to leave, to stay out of it, but the horse has already stopped fidgeting. Layla’s hand brushes its side, her touch soft and sure, and I watch in stunned silence as the mustang stills under her gentle murmurs.
“There’s a good boy,” she whispers, her voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. Just a little scratch.”
My chest tightens. It’s not just the way she handles the horse—it’s the way she fits here, in my barn, in my world. Like she belongs, even if I’ve spent every damn day since she arrived convincing myself she doesn’t.
She glances at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Are you going to pass me that bandage, or are we waiting for this to heal itself?”
I grunt, handing it over without a word. Our hands brush, and the jolt of contact shoots straight through me. I pull back quickly, focusing on the task at hand, but my pulse is pounding too loud in my ears to ignore her presence.
Together, we work in silence, wrapping the bandage snugly around the mustang’s leg. Layla’s close enough that I catch the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla, her warmth brushing against me every time she shifts. It’s torture. Sweet, agonizing torture.
