We eat on the tailgate of his truck because the porch feels too intimate. The sun drops behind the mountains, paintingeverything gold then pink then purple. Hank collapses at my feet. Dolly stays near Tucker because Dolly's loyalty is absolute.
"Show me something," I say between bites.
"What?"
"Something about the ranch. Something you love that nobody else would notice."
He chews slowly. Thinking. Then he sets down his sandwich, wipes his hands on his jeans, slides off the tailgate. Holds out a hand to help me down. Rough fingers wrap around mine, warm. He lets go the second my boots hit the ground.
The walk takes ten minutes through the east pasture. The cows are settled for the evening, dark shapes against darker grass. Tucker stops at a fence line near the creek and points.
"My dad built this section by hand. Wouldn't let the crew touch it." His voice is quiet. "See how the posts sit? Closer together than the rest. He said if you build it tight here, the water can't undercut the base in spring."
Running my fingers along the weathered wood, I feel where the posts meet the rails. Tight. Precise. The work of a man who cared about things lasting.
"He sounds like you."
"He was better at it."
"At ranching?"
"At everything."
Turning to face him, I lean against the fence. "Tucker, this ranch is thriving. Eight hundred cows, six hundred acres, and you run it practically alone. Your dad would be proud of that."
His jaw tightens. The hazel eyes go bright in the fading light, and he looks at me for a long moment. Really looks. Past the camera bag, past the sundresses. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Say things that make me want to keep you."
My breath catches. He steps closer. One boot, then the other, until he's standing right in front of me with his hands on the fence rails on either side of my hips. Caging me in without touching me.
"Your one day is up," I whisper.
"I know."
"Did you think about it?"
"Haven't stopped." His forehead drops to mine. "All day. Checking the herd, fixing fence, doing the feed run. Couldn't stop thinking about your mouth."
"Just my mouth?"
His hands leave the fence rails. One slides into my hair, the other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him. The kiss is nothing like the creek. The creek was slow, careful. Exploratory.
This is hungry.
His tongue pushes past my lips. My back presses against the fence post. Both my hands fist his shirt, dragging him closer, and the sound he makes against my mouth, low and rough, sends heat straight through me. My hips rock forward into his. He's hard against my stomach.
"Come inside," he says against my jaw, his mouth trailing down my neck.
"The house?"
"Yeah."
The walk back takes forever. His hand on the small of my back, firm, guiding. Both dogs trot ahead like they know where we're going. Through the kitchen door. He kicks off his boots. I kick off mine. Down the hallway. His bedroom.
The room is simple. Big bed with a dark quilt, wood headboard, a lamp on the nightstand that throws warm light when he flips it on. Nothing on the walls. Nothing extra.
