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I gawk as the horse and rider come barreling toward me across the field, having obviously seen me and probably wondered what the hell a woman with a suitcase is doing in the middle of the road. As he nears, the horse slows, and he brings it up to the side of the fencing.

“Hi!” I call, taking a step toward him. “I’m supposed to be meeting Theresa Thatcher? My aunt,” I say.

He gives me a quizzical look under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. “Theresa?” he repeats.

I nod.

He scrunches up his face, seemingly lost for what to do with me. He glances around, but there’s nothing but cows out here. Nowhere to pass the buck.

He turns back to me. “Keep heading up this road,” he says, pointing, and I can feel my initialexcitement draining. I see there’ll be no chivalry from this cowboy. “Walk over to the barn and ask for Cruz. He’ll help you.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Satisfied, the cowboy gives a curt nod and turns his horse, heading back out to the field. I watch him go in slight incredulity at his lack of helpfulness. But that seems to be the pattern of the day.

Grabbing my suitcase, I continue my trek.

By the time the first building comes into view, my feet are tired, my arms are sore, and I’m sweating more than I’d like to admit. Apparently, Pilates doesn’t prepare one for carting a suitcase through the dirt for miles on end.

The building is most definitely a barn. At least it looks like a barn. There are a few trucks parked outside as well, so I assume someone’s around here somewhere. After taking a short moment to catch my breath, suitcase in hand, I make my way toward the large, already-open barn doors.

“I can’t believe this,” I mutter quietly to myself as I step inside, rounding the corner and nearly running straight into someone.

I shriek in surprise, taking a quick step back.

The man before me seems utterly unphased. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, tan muscles glistening with sweat because … holy shit, he’sshirtless.

I feel my cheeks redden ever so slightly.

The man huffs, setting down the bale of hay he’d being carrying—carrying. I guess that’s what cowboys do. He looks me up and down, and I feel myself bristling slightly.

He cocks his head. “You’re either lost … or filming a country music video.” He inclines his head toward my fashionable, pink, now-very-dusty western boots. They felt like an appropriate fit this morning, but now I only feel silly in them.

I suck in a breath. “I’m not lost. I’m your boss’s niece.”

He nods. “Ah. Definitelylost, then.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m at Thatcher Ranch, aren’t I?”

The hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “You’re in a barn, Princess. The Thatchers live on the other side of the property.”

My eyes widen slightly at the usage of the word “princess.” Patronizing, rude, and …demeaning. I take a deep breath. I knew that Uber driver had taken me to the wrong entrance. “Excuse me?” I ask.

“I said you’re on the wrong side of the property,” he repeats.

I roll my eyes. “I heard that. I was referring to theprincesspart.”

He wipes his hands on his dusty jeans with a smirk. “You sure look like a princess to me.”

Irritation washes over me for seemingly the thousandth time today, but I feel like arguing with this stranger isn’t going to get me anywhere.

“Are you Cruz?” I ask simply.

Surprise flickers across his face.

I wave it off. “Some guy on a horse told me to ask for you. I was told you could help with my bags.”

He snorts. “I doubt he said anything about bags.”