Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
“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.”
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the praise. “Loving him’s the easy part.”
She smiles, soft and genuine, and for the first time since she showed up, I don’t feel the urge to push her away.
Later, as the sun dips lower on the horizon, I find Layla sitting on the porch swing, Duke sprawled at her feet. She looks up as I approach, her expression unreadable.
“Long day?” she asks.
“Always,” I reply, sinking into the swing beside her. The wood creaks under my weight.
We sit in silence for a while, the air between us heavy but not unpleasant. The sky turns shades of orange and pink, the kind of sunset you only get out here.
“You ever think about leaving?” she asks suddenly.
“Leaving what?”
“This. The ranch. The mountains.”
“No,” I say without hesitation. “This is home.”
She nods, but her gaze is distant. “Must be nice, knowing where you belong.”
The vulnerability in her voice tugs at something deep inside me. “You’ll figure it out,” I say gruffly.
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. “Maybe.”
And just like that, the walls between us crack, ever so slightly. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make me wonder if maybe—just maybe—this impulsive city girl might be exactly what this ranch needs.
And maybe what I need too.
Chapter Three
Layla
Adjusting to ranch life isn’t just harder than I expected—it’s downright humiliating. My feet slide in the muddy chicken coop as I chase a rogue hen with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. The basket in my hand tips precariously, eggs threatening to tumble out. The hen flaps its wings, squawking loudly, and I let out a frustrated shriek.
“Need some help there, kitten?” Cal’s deep drawl carries from the barn door. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Nope. I’ve got it,” I snap, clutching the basket like it holds the meaning of life.
The smirk widens. “Sure looks like it.”
The hen darts between my legs, and I lunge forward, nearly losing my balance. My knees hit the dirt, but I manage to grab the slippery bird. Triumph surges through me as I hold it up, feathers ruffled and glaring at me like I’m the villain in its story.
“See?” I huff, shooting Cal a glare. “Under control.”
He chuckles, low and deep, shaking his head. “Under control, huh? You’re covered in more dirt than the chickens.”
I glance down at my once-pristine leggings, now smeared with mud, and bite back a curse. “You’re welcome for the fresh eggs,” I retort, shoving past him toward the house.
“Don’t forget to wash off that city attitude while you’re at it,” he calls after me, laughing.
Later, in the kitchen, I’m attempting to cook breakfast for the second time this week. The first attempt ended with a smoke detector and a very unimpressed Cal. This time, I’m determined to get it right. Pancakes should be simple, right? Just mix, pour, flip.
Easy.
Except the batter is lumpy, the first pancake burns before I can flip it, and the second one oozes across the pan like a crime scene.
“You trying to set off the smoke alarm again?” Cal’s voice startles me, and I whirl around to see him leaning in the doorway, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.
“Don’t you have a horse to wrangle or something?” I snap, waving the spatula at him.
“This is much more entertaining.” He steps into the kitchen, sniffing the air. “Smells... unique.”