Page 5 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

That shoulder. That bare, golden shoulder where the flannel slipped down while she stood there arguing with me about property lines. I saw it. She saw me see it. Something passed between us in that half-second, fast and unwelcome, before I shut it down and got back on my horse.

I take a long pull of beer and stare at the mountains until the stars start showing.

Five-thirty comes the way it always does. Dark, cold, unwelcome. My body doesn't care. It stopped caring about preferences around the time Dad had his stroke and I learned that cattle don't wait for you to feel ready.

Coffee first. Black, strong, in the same blue mug I've been using for a decade. Then boots, jacket, hat. The morning routine is a machine, and I'm the only moving part.

I'm halfway through the east pasture check when I see it.

The porch step.

Her cabin's porch step, the one that's been cracked since before Dale moved in. I noticed it yesterday, noticed her stepping around it carefully when she went back inside. One wrong foot and she'll go straight through the rotted wood. Ankle. Maybe knee.

I keep riding.

Get about forty yards past her property line before I pull Bucky up.

She's not my problem. Her porch isn't my problem. Her ankle isn't my problem.

That's what I tell myself while I'm tying Bucky to the fence post and pulling the tool bag off the saddle. That's what I keep telling myself while I walk across her yard in the blue predawn dark with a hammer, a pry bar, and two lengths of treated lumber I had in the barn from last month's fence repair.

Her kitchen light is off. Bedroom curtain drawn. She's asleep.

Good.

The old step comes up easy. Rotted clear through, splintered at the supports. I measure by eye, cut the lumber with a hand saw I do my best to keep quiet, and nail the new boards into place. Takes twenty minutes. The new step is solid. Level. Won't crack under weight or weather for a good decade.

I gather my tools. Stand up. Look at the door.

Go home, Rawlins.

I go home.

The sun's coming up by the time I finish the east pasture check. Golden light spilling over the Bitterroots, catching the frost on the grass. Beautiful morning. I don't stop to admire it because I've seen ten thousand of them, and not one has ever fixed a fence or fed a cow.

But I keep looking east. Toward the cabin. Toward the porch with the new step she hasn't seen yet.

My phone buzzes.

Jace Callahan:

Truck's done. Come get it before I sell it to someone who actually changes their oil.

Me:

Be there by noon.

Callahan's Auto Repair is on Main Street, across from the McKenna Building. Jace is a good mechanic. Doesn't talk much, which I appreciate. Charges fair, which I appreciate more.

I'll pick up the truck. Grab supplies from Hilda's. Come back, fix the fence properly, move the cattle to the west rotation until this blows over.

That's the plan.

Plans don't account for women with blue eyes who argue about water rights in bare feet.

I mount up, turn Bucky toward the barn, and ride.

Behind me, the new porch step sits in the early light, solid and clean against the weathered boards around it. She'll see it when she steps outside with her morning coffee. She'll know someone was here.