Page 4 of An Angel for the Cowboy
Anita Sanchez.
I roll her name around in my head like I've been doing for the past two weeks, since Mel put that photo on the fridge and I couldn't stop looking at it. The image didn't do her justice.
She's curvier than the picture showed, and Lord help me, those curves are going to be my undoing. The way her jeans hugged her hips and the swell of her breasts under that sweater made me hard. I'm a grown man, but I nearly swallowed my tongue like an innocent teenager when she stepped out of that taxi.
What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to this?
A woman I don't know living in my house for a year. Sleeping under my roof. Eating at my table. Working beside me on the ranch.
But I know of her, don't I? Mel told me she’s twenty-six, loves horses and works for a big company in Garnet City. I spent a long time staring at her picture without even realizing what Mel was doing. And when I saw her standing there in the flesh, I felt something I hadn’t felt in over a decade. Recognition. Like I'd been waiting for her without knowing it.
That terrifies me more than anything.
I shove the covers back and pad to the window. The moon is bright enough to see the barn, the pastures and the mountains beyond. My land. My responsibility. The weight I've been carrying alone for too long.
My ex-wife, Jane, left twelve years ago. Took my heart, trust, belief in love and crushed them all to dust. I swore I'd never let another woman get close enough to do that again. I built walls so high and thick that nothing could get through.
Until Mel played matchmaker, and now there's a beautiful woman sleeping down the hall who makes my body come alive with a single glance.
I need to get a grip.
Thinking about Mel and the ranch will help. I’ve done everything to convince my daughter that her mother left because of her own problems, but Mel still feels guilty about the divorce. Maybe Anita staying will help ease her feelings of guilt. The ranch needs more help. Granny Tallulah and her family have been matching couples for generations, with a hundred percent success. If they vouch for Anita, she must be a good woman.
Anita staying has nothing to do with me.
Dawnbreaksearlyasit always does on the ranch, and I drag myself out of bed. My body feels heavy, like I've been working cattle all night instead of lying awake wrestling with my thoughts. But work won't wait. It never does.
I head downstairs, already planning my morning. Feed the horses, check the fence line in the south pasture, call the vet about Duke's shoes—
I stop dead in the kitchen doorway.
She's already here.
Anita stands at the stove, her long raven hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing worn jeans that hug every curve and a flannel shirt that should not look as good as it does on her. The coffee maker gurgles, and the smell of bacon fills the air.
She looks as if she belongs in my kitchen.
That thought sends a spike of panic through my chest, but before I can retreat, she turns and sees me.
"Good morning." Her smile is tentative. "I hope you don't mind. I'm an early riser, and I thought I'd make breakfast."
"You don't have to do that." My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"I want to earn my keep." She turns back to the stove, flipping bacon. "Besides, I enjoy cooking."
I don't know what to do with myself. It's been so long since I've had to navigate small talk with a woman in my space. My mom used to make breakfast. After she died, it was just me and Mel. Usually cereal or toast. Quick and efficient.
This feels domestic. Intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I pour myself coffee and lean against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen. She's efficient in her movements as she softly a tune I don’t recognize under her breath. I find myself caught by the sound.
"So," she says without turning around. "Tell me about your routine. What needs doing?"
Right. Business. I can do business.
I walk her through the feeding schedule, pasture rotation, the bookkeeping that's piled up since Mom died eight years ago. Shepulls out a notepad and pen, jotting down notes. I notice the way she bites her lip when she's concentrating; the way her nose scrunches up slightly when she's thinking.
I need to stop noticing things like that.
