Lyle snorted, shaking his head. But as he turned his attention back to the training course and toward Charlotte, who was delicately positioning Pudge in a basket Heather had set up for the kitten, Mike’s words hung in the air like dust kicked up by a galloping horse. Unsettling. Persistent.
That evening, Heather sat in her cozy little cabin, the flicker of soft lamplight casting shadows across the wooden walls while her computer screen glowed back at her. Biscuit was sprawled on a thick rug by the fireplace, fast asleep.
She was scrolling through emails, skimming over inquiries from prospective clients, when a familiar number flashed on her phone’s screen. She hesitated for a beat before answering.
“Frank,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Let me guess. This is about tomorrow night.”
“What can I say? I’m a project man, and you’re my favorite project,” her brother teased on the other end of the line.
Heather rolled her eyes even though a small smile touched her lips. “Frank, I’ve told you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Oh, come on! I talked to Lori, and she’s got a great guy lined up. Super nice, loves dogs, even said he likes country music. He’s the whole package.”
“I’m not interested in any packages,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t do packages anymore.”
Frank’s voice softened. He didn’t know the details of her failed marriage, but he’d been there for her when she’d fled home. “Heather, I’m just saying you deserve more. You’ve spent so much of your life giving, and it’s about time someone gave back to you. That’s not a bad thing, you know.”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Is this really about me, or are you just trying to get out of a lifetime of wingman duties?”
Frank laughed. “Fine. You caught me. But seriously, sis, you’ve got to let somebody in eventually. Why not take another chance?”
Heather let the silence linger for a moment, her gaze drifting to the picture on her shelf—a younger version of herself, her parents, and Frank on a summer family camping trip. She felt that familiar ache of both loss and longing before speaking again. Youth and family summers were long gone.
“Look, I appreciate your concern, Frank. But I’m not ready. If I ever trust myself to go down that road again…” Her voice faltered, but she quickly steadied it. “It’ll be on my terms—and I’ll do the choosing.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said easily, though she could hear the faint disappointment in his tone. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find us tomorrow at Cooter’s.”
Heather rolled her eyes again. “Goodnight, Frank.”
“Night, kiddo.”
She ended the call and stared at her computer for a while longer, but her focus was gone. Her thoughts flickered back to Lyle—his crooked smile, the protective undercurrent in his voice when Darren Richards had shown up, the gentleness he showed with Charlotte, the sexy tilt of his cowboy hat shielding those vivid blue eyes.
“Trouble,” she murmured under her breath, though whether she meant him or herself, she wasn’t quite sure.
Sliding her chair back, she closed her laptop, picked up Biscuit, and headed for the small bedroom.
Heather was up early the next morning as usual, moving methodically through her pre-dawn routine of feeding, walking and prepping her dogs for their training. But no amount of busyness could shake the tension simmering in the back of her mind. She’d spent a restless night with a certain sexy veterinarian occupying way too many of her thoughts.
And no matter how many times she told herself that Lyle Watkins didn’t matter—that he couldn’t matter—the truth was something more complicated.
And more dangerous.
My gosh, her thoughts about the man were becoming downright obsessive. And it needed to stop.
Realizing she was out of coffee, she made her way to the main house, sure that Mike would have a pot brewing. She’d noticed more guests showing up this past week. At least two couples.
She knocked on the back door of the kitchen, then let herself in when Mike hollered, “It’s open. For crying out loud, don’t act like company!”
Heather laughed and pushed through the door. “I came to beg a cup of coffee.”
He pointed to the pot. “Help yourself.”
She moved to the side counter, glancing out the window over the sink. Outside, the ranch buzzed with activity—ranch hands mending fences, horses milling in the pastures, and the Watkins brothers moving with the efficiency of men who had lived and breathed ranch life for decades.
“I see you’re getting a few more guests,” she commented, leaning against the counter as Mike expertly flipped pancakes on the griddle. The smell of fresh bacon and butter filled the air, grounding her in a way that felt good.
Mike turned, his grin as wide as the Texas sky. “Joe’s been doing some advertising. Seems to be working.”
