I grabbed my coat and opened the door, bundling myself up and waiting for him to reach me as a blast of freezing air hit me full in the face.
“Barrett?” the cowboy asked, his voice flat and edged with irritation, not a greeting so much as an accusation. He frowned at me, gaze sharp and assessing, as if I were already a problem he hadn’t asked for.
“Lucas Barrett, yes.” I extended my hand, and he stepped closer to shake it, the grip firm and unapologetic, his palm warm despite the cold, callused from work done outdoors. The contrast between the heat of his skin and mine, the solid confidence of the handshake, caught me off guard. He released me first, already withdrawing, already done.
“Jesse Knox,” he spat after a pause.
Ah, the man I needed to sweet-talk into accepting all the good things that come with being rich. “It’s good to meet you, Jesse?—”
“You can stop there,” he snapped, his jaw tightening as he looked past me at the car, then back at my face. “Before you get too comfortable,” he said, his voice low and flat. “If you think I’ll agree to sell the ranch, you’re wrong. I won’t sell. Not now. Not ever.”
Chapter 2
Jesse
Iwon’t sell. Not now. Not ever.
The words came out hard, but they carried the weight of a day already wrung dry—too much pressure, too little sleep, and no patience left to spare. And I hated that my first clear thought hadn’t been about the land at all, but about the warmth of his hand in mine, and how wrong it felt to notice that when everything was already under threat.
“I’m sorry?” Lucas said, as if I’d confused him.
I’d had a shit morning, the kind that started in the dark, boots crunching over frozen ground, coffee burned down to grit, my limbs heavy and moving on muscle memory alone, and a dull ache already drilling in behind my eyes before the sun was even up. An early wake-up call when a first-calf heifer went down in the south pasture, left me donning long gloves and dealing with a panicking cow, mud slick under my knees, steam rising from her flanks into the cold air, my arm muscles burning as I went in shoulder-deep trying toturn a calf that didn’t want to move, and the sickening stretch of minutes where no one knew if we were going to lose one or both. Followed by an emergency call from Olivia that Dad had walked out of his place and driven off, and then a full-blown argument with the man himself when he’d turned up at the ranch, in front of everyone, where exhaustion stripped my filter clean, and I said things I’d usually choke back.
And to top it all off, when I opened the mail, there it was—another envelope stuffed with heavy paper from Lowstat-Meyer, a Denver real estate firm I’d never heard of, talking about land value, development potential, and confidential expressions of interest. Not the ranch. Never the ranch. Just the land. As if Snow Creek could be peeled apart and sold off in parcels, as if grass and water rights and history were numbers on a spreadsheet.
Andhisname was all over it—no secret to anyone on the ranch. Walter’s will, the grandson inheriting most of the place, was all common knowledge. What wasn’t was intent.
Lucas freaking Barrett. A liability with paperwork and a deadline for selling Snow Creek, although no one but me knew that yet. To the rest of the ranch, he was Walter’s grandson. Printed all neat and formal at the top of the page, referenced again and again—as discussed with Mr. Barrett,subject to Mr. Barrett’s approval. I hadn’t seen the letter they were replying to, but I didn’t need to. The language was polished, confident, already halfway to a deal. Whatever that asshole had sent them had been sufficient to make them think this land was available.
It’s not.
And now he was here.
Lucas was short, barely at five-nine or ten, certainly way less than my six-three, plus he was fifty pounds lighter, with curly blond hair and a face all sharp lines and pretty-boy bone structure. Nothing like his grandpa, and hell, he didn’t look as if he belonged anywhere near a calving pasture. He wore city boots that had never seen mud, and a coat that probably cost more than my truck payments. Seventy-five percent owner of this place, and he didn’t even look around with respect at the land, the fences, the cattle—just stared behind me at the buildings, and I could imagine he was calculating resale value. I hated him for that—a hard, territorial kind of hate, born of fear and the instinct to protect what was already under threat.
“I said I’m not selling.”
“I haven’t?—”
“Real estate assholes are sending me letters, all mentioning you’re already out there selling what isn’t yours!”
“I’m evaluating,” he said evenly, smoothing the hand I’d shaken down his coat, then pulling the collar up. I knew he was lying—he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“That’s bullshit,” I snapped. “I’ve gotten letters with your name all over them.”
He exhaled as if he were choosing his words rather than reacting to me, and I hated that he had that control when I had none.
“I only had a preliminary discussion?—”
“They’re replying to somethingyousent, and from where I’m standing, you’re figuring outhow fast you can turn your inheritance into cash. I’ll tell you this for nothing, I have a quarter of this ranch and the land, I can veto everything, so do your six months, inherit your part, but we won’t be selling.”
“Maybe we can talk later?—”
“There’ll be no talking.”
The poison pixie looked stricken then, and bit his lip, uncertain. “Uhm… okay… can you maybe show me inside where it’s warm?” he asked.
I thumbed behind me at the big house, aka the house Walter used to live in, and that I now owned one-quarter of. “Front door’s unlocked, up the stairs, second door on the left, don’t touch anything electrical.”
