Sawyer
The lone bulb in the stable threw thin shadows across the hay. Grace shifted in her stall as I brushed her flank, steady as ever after carrying me through another night chasing ghosts. Horses didn’t care about failed missions or women who slipped away—they only asked for a loosened cinch and a rubdown.
Bruce slapped dust from his gloves, leaning on the stall door. “We’ll get those damned poachers sometime.” He shrugged. “For now? Roper’s. Steak, whiskey, maybe some Texas Hold ’Em something next week.”
I set the brush back on its hook, running my palm once more down Grace’s warm hide.
“You trying to distract me, or yourself?” I asked.
“Both.” Bruce clapped me on the back. “June asked about you. Tried to sound casual, but I know better.”
I snorted. “She asks about every man with a wallet and a pulse that shows up at the bar.”
“Maybe. But her eyes lit up at your name.”
I tipped my hat, hiding my face. “Not interested.”
Bruce shook his head, grinning. “One day you’ll figure out solitude’s not a trait—it’s a habit.”
“Maybe..”
Grace nudged me, and I let her.
His truck door creaked, the engine coughing to life before fading into the distance. The stable quieted, leaving only the soft shuffle of hooves and the smell of hay and leather.
The yard went still, only the pines whispering overhead, when I slipped through the mudroom door of the house. I kicked off my boots, lined them on the mat, and that’s when it hit me—something that didn’t belong.
Not hay. Not mud. Not woodsmoke.
Perfume.
Warm, soft, threaded with vanilla and something darker I couldn’t name. My chest cinched before my head caught up.
Lilly.
The same scent that had clung to my skin after Hawaii, sinking into me so completely that even the ocean couldn’t wash it away.
I froze, every sense on alert. The house had always been my fortress, a place I’d kept sealed off from everyone. No woman I slept with ever crossed the threshold.
Not once.
The kitchen was dark, but not untouched. A half-full wineglass waited on the counter, the bottle beside it capped with a crooked cork. A lipstick smear glowed faintly on the rim, intimate as a fingerprint.
Instead of anger, heat rolled through me, low and steady. My mouth curved before I could stop it.
Lilly was here. And she wanted me to know it.
My hand brushed the banister as I started up the stairs, every tread groaning under my weight.
By the time I reached the landing, I knew where she was.
Up there. In my room.
Instead of bracing for a fight, I felt a sharp and undeniable rush of anticipation spark in my veins.
The bedroom door stood half-open, moonlight silvering the quilt I’d left neat that morning. Only it wasn’t neat now. A shape shifted beneath it—her shape—blond hair spilled across my pillow like it belonged there.
Lilly shoved the blanket down, silk clinging to her curves, pink and naughty. She grinned, eyes daring. “Welcome home, cowboy.”
