Page 6 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

She won't know who.

That's fine. Better, even. Because the alternative is admitting that I walked across her yard in the dark to fix something that isn't mine for a woman I met twelve hours ago.

The alternative is admitting that the light in her kitchen window is the first thing I've noticed on the east view in three years that made me want to keep looking.

I don't admit that.

I ride home.

CHAPTER THREE

PIPER

Someone fixed my porch step.

I'm standing on it right now, coffee mug in both hands, staring down at lumber so new it's still pale against the weathered boards around it. Solid. Level. Nailed clean into the supports with the kind of precision that says whoever did this has been swinging a hammer since before they could drive.

No note. No text. No grumpy rancher on horseback waiting for a thank you.

Just a step that won't eat my ankle anymore.

I take a sip of coffee. Look east toward the Rawlins property. The sun's been up for an hour, painting the pasture gold, and I can see a figure on horseback moving along the far fence line. Too far to make out features. Close enough to know exactly who it is.

Tate Rawlins fixed my porch step. At some ungodly hour before sunrise. Without being asked. Without telling me.

And he's currently pretending he didn't by riding his fence line a quarter mile away without so much as a glance in my direction.

Infuriating man.

I've been in Grizzly Ridge for four days now. Got my workstation set up in the second bedroom, met Maggie at the diner in town who told me the pie is the best in three counties and she wasn't lying. Bought groceries from Hilda's General Store, where Hilda looked at my cart, looked at my face, and said "You're the one next to Tate Rawlins" with the tone of a woman settling in for entertainment.

Four days, and I haven't seen my neighbor once since the fence line standoff. His cattle haven't come back through. The fence gap is fixed, proper this time, with new wire stretched tight between posts that are actually standing upright.

Also him. Obviously.

My phone buzzes on the porch rail.

Mom:

How's mountain life? Made any friends? Met any bears?

Me:

No bears. One very grumpy cowboy. He fixed my porch step while I was sleeping like some kind of aggressive Cinderella.

Mom:

Is he cute?

Me:

Mom.

Mom:

I'll take that as a yes

I pocket the phone, finish my coffee, and go inside to work. Three logo concepts due by Friday for a brewery in Fort Collins. The remote contract with my Denver firm pays well enough to cover rent and groceries with some breathing room, and the work itself is good. Satisfying. Something that's mine.